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Fuck what I said to Camden in the coffeeshop. I won’t rock the boat, I'll sink it.
When my gaze lands on the attractive brick security post of Camden’s gated neighborhood in the distance, I smile. After wiping my eyes, I put on a fresh coat of lip gloss and attempt to freshen my face. Last stretch.
My feet are dirty, blistered, and bleeding. When I get about fifty feet away, I slip the heels back on so I can get by the security guard without looking suspicious or in need of medical care. I just want to be alone. I got this far, I can take myself the rest of the way.
I made up some bullshit story to the attendant and showed him my ID. The gate closes behind me, and I smile.
“You badass bitch. You fuckin’ did it.” I start laughing, which turns into frenzied cackling. As soon as I tap the code into Cam’s gate, I feel like a powerful goddess.
“Your days are numbered, Bryan.” I took back my independence today. I didn’t give up. That has to count for something.
As suspected, Cam isn’t home. I hobble into the mud room and throw one of my legs over the edge of the utility sink.
“Ow, ow, ow!” Wincing when the water hits my open wounds, I brush away the caked dirt and dried blood. I repeat it with the other foot. The first cabinet I open has a pile of cleaning rags, so I wrap my feet in them and limp to the stairs. The extra padding feels like I’m walking on a cloud. As soon as I’m in the safety of my own space, I exhale.
In the bathroom, I strip off my clothes and let them land wherever. My second shower of the day is much longer than the first. I sit on my ass while I tend to my feet again. Sitting for a while, I let the water wash away the dark thoughts.For now. After I get out, I put on some workout shorts and a sports bra and enter Cam’s room. I find the first aid kit and wrap up my injuries, then dig through his closet to steal a shirt and the thickest pair of socks I can find.
“Poor little rich girl had to take public transportation and walk in her heels,” I mutter. “And she's got twelve whole cents leftover. Book the cruise.” I have no idea how to fix my life. It’s a festering, flaming shitfest. However, I know where I’m gonna start:brownies.
15
Ishoot a puck into the sideboards as hard as I can. This is so fucked. We need to switch the lineup. Our next games are against teams who are dominating this season. As of today’s practice, there’s no way we’ll walk away without getting destroyed next week. The coaches are equally frustrated, but they won’t listen to me. Their pride is ridiculous. I’m annoyed and sick of their shit.
“Banksy, you coming?” Jonesy calls from the tunnel.
I shake my head. “No. I gotta skate.” Really, I’m trying to kill some time and gear up for my fight with the coaches after the guys have left the locker room. We can’t go into our next game like this.
The defense coordinator put our defensemen Dean Burmeister and Cory Dopson together in the lineup, and it’s been a nightmare since. Cory and Dean couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag if they relied on each other. We’ve tried teambuilding shit, but some guys don’t play well together, and you can’t force it.
I bag skate back and forth, angrily slapping more pucks into the boards. It’s been about a half hour since practiceended, and the longer I skate, the worse I feel. They don’t trust the captain to know his own guys, and it pisses me off.
When I stomp off the ice, I smash my stick into the wall, breaking it in half. There. That feels a little better.
I remove my pads and skates in the locker room. Under the shower spray, I play out my argument, anticipating what he will say. I enjoy my shower fights; they always go in my favor. After I towel off and throw my gear in my bag, I stalk down the admin hall to the head coach’s office.
I knock on the open door, and the defense coach is leaning against the wall, chatting with him. He pushes off it and stands when I walk in. Good, they’re both here.
“Look, I know you’re sick of seeing my face. I’m sick of seeing yours too. But we gotta talk about the defense line.”
Coach sighs. “Teller. Here to bust my balls again?”
“Hey, if you didn’t want me to care, you should’ve given mehisjob instead of captain.” I nod to the assistant coach.
“First off, you need to take it down a notch. You’re coming in real hot, and I’m not above swapping captains if you can’t keep this attitude in check?—”
“Do it. I dare you.”
He rolls his eyes. He’s used to my bullshit. If it were anyone else, he’d probably can their ass on the spot. “... Second, we have coaches who measure skill sets, they have it down to a science. What makes you think you’re smarter than them, Teller? Huh? I get you’re a fucking hotshot out there, but you still need to respect the role you’re in and respect the roles of the rest of the organization.”
The defense coach crosses his arm over his chest, getting comfy now that the head coach covered his ass.
“You can measure data all you want, but I’m the one on the ice with them. I’m the one at the bars after the game with them. I’m the one sitting on the plane next to them. I knowthem better than youoryour fucking coaches.” I point to the secondary coach without looking at him. I want to punch him. He switched up the line so he could try to flaunt his bullshit numbers. Yes, on paper Burmeister and Dopson should work, but it doesn’t translate on the ice. “Burmeister needs to defend with Paek.”
“And what about Cory?” the other coach interrupts.
I throw my hands up in the air and look back and forth between them.Seriously?“Cory Dopson and Elsworth played in college together!” I bark out. “They can read each other like a book!”
Coach hangs his head between his shoulders before looking up at me and rubbing his brow. “Teller,” he says, exasperated.
