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“She’s my girlfriend,” I growl at Jake. “Stay the fuck away from her.”
Brennan looks shocked, and Collins and Sampson appear just as taken aback.
Then they all straighten in unison, looking behind me.
And I know, without turning around, who’s standing there.
“Get. On. The. Bus,” Coach Keller barks.
Hunter lets go of my coat, following Brennan, Collins, and Sampson as they all speed walk toward the automatic doors that lead outside.
I hoist my bag on my shoulder to follow them.
“Not you, Phillips.”
Hunter glances back, an annoyed, concerned expression on his face. The rest of the guys keep walking. Jake is gloating, I’m sure.
I spin around slowly.
Coach’s expression is stony. I’m guessing he heard the girlfriend comment. Even if he didn’t, he knows I spent the night in his daughter’s bed.
“If it wouldn’t make winning today harder for every player on this team—guys who’ve worked hard all season and who deserve this trophy and who bothered to obey the room assignments last night—you’d be warming the bench today.”
I swallow. I wasn’t the only one who switched rooms, but I was the only one who got caught.
And there’s thewhereI got caught, which I know is what Coach is really bothered by. If Sampson and I had switched, I doubt Coach would care I bunked with Hart.
“I’m disappointed in you, Phillips.” That’s all he says, and it’s all he has to.
I’ve heard that a hundred times from my father, and it stings every time. And not only is this coming from my coach, it’s my girlfriend’s dad saying this to me.
An anvil of guilt lands in my gut. “It’s not what you think,” I manage to say.
“I think you spent the night before the biggest hockey game of your life somewhere you shouldn’t have been. In a room I paid for with my daughter, who didn’t use to lie to me.”
Okay, so it’s what he thinks.
“It’s not just fuc—fooling around. I care about her.”
I love her.
But I haven’t told Rylan that. Not while she’s been conscious, anyway. I’m not saying it to her dad first, even if it means he thinks I snuck into her room just to get laid last night.
Nothing in Coach’s expression softens. “Get on the damn bus, Phillips.”
As soon as I step on board, all the chatter dies down. No one will make direct eye contact with me.
Not Hunter, sitting in the second row.
Not Willis, whose knee starts bouncing faster when I pass.
The only one who meets my gaze is Hart, and I wish he hadn’t.
He’s sitting halfway back, his flinty glare more painful than a puck to the face.
Deliberately, Conor turns his head away to look out the window right before I pass. Giving me the cold shoulder.
I flinch, then keep walking toward a seat in the back of the bus.
