Page 90 of Must Love Dogs… and Hockey

He makes a noise of disagreement. “I fucked up. I shouldn’t have done it in front of the whole team. Coach is pissed and I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“He can’t fire you.”

“He can trade me. Again.” Easton’s jaw tightens and he doesn’t meet my eyes. “But he can also make it so that nobody else wants me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Other teams can see what a great player you are.”

His lips quirk, even though his eyes are still dark with worry. “I appreciate your faith in me.”

“You should have faith in yourself.” I touch his cheek. “You did the right thing.”

“It’s not going to change anything.” His tone is laced with bitterness. “He’s still going to be an asshole.”

I nod slowly. “Maybe calling him on the racist bullshit will make him think.”

“I doubt it.” He sighs. “I expect I’ll find out what’s in store for me tomorrow, now we’re home.”

Worry dries up my mouth. But I really do have faith in him. I believe in him and his talent and his honor and integrity. “It’ll be fine.” I kiss him again. “You’ll be fine. But what about Jamal?”

He closes his eyes. “He says he’s fine. He’s used to it.”

I sigh. “You have to report him, Easton.”

His eyes fly open. “What? Report him? To who?”

“I don’t know. The manager of the team? You said that’s his boss, right? Nobody can say things like that in the workplace. Not to mention actually physically attacking someone. God!” I put both my hands to my head. “I thoughtIwas dealing with unethical crap at Lexington, but at least people weren’t kicking each other!”

“I can’t do that. I can’t go over his head.”

“But why?” I throw my hands up, my temples pulsing. “Why can’t you? Someone has to.”

His jaw tightens, his lips thinning. “No, Lilly. I can’t.”

I stare at him. “I don’t understand,” I whisper.

“I guess I’m not that big of a person.”

He is, though. I just don’t get it. But what do I know about the world of professional sports? Nothing, that’s what. Easton knows better than I do, so I let it go.

Easton

I arrive at the arena at my usual time, around four o’clock. I stick to my routine, warming up on the bike, stretching, playing some soccer with the other guys. But when I walk into the dressing room in my shorts and sandals, I stop short at seeing my stall empty. There’s no jersey hanging there like there is in the other stalls, everything lined up perfectly.

What. The. Fuck.

I can’t move for a moment, frozen in place. Then heat blasts through me like an inferno. I spin and stalk into the players’ lounge, heading to Coach’s office, but then I stop short. My breath is coming fast, my hands curled into fists. I have to calm down. I have to handle this right. There’s no fucking way he’s scratching me tonight. Is there?

What other explanation is there for no jersey hanging in my stall?

“What up, Mills?” Russ asks, sitting on a couch with a bowl of yogurt and granola.

I’m standing there like an idiot, clenching and unclenching my hands. I turn to him and give him a blank look. “I don’t know.”

“Huh?” His eyebrows pull down over his nose.

Taking a deep breath, I walk to Coach’s office and stand in the door. “Hey, Coach.”

He looks up. “Millar. Glad you’re here. You’re out tonight.”

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