Page 91 of Must Love Dogs… and Hockey

My gut cramps up. “Why?”

He frowns. “Coach’s decision.”

I step inside his office and close the sliding door behind me. The room becomes private and soundproof. “Look, I apologize for saying what I did the other night in front of the guys.”

He arches an eyebrow.

“I should have waited and had the conversation in private.”

His eyebrow dips and joins the other over his nose.

“You kicked him,” I say quietly, holding his gaze. “That’s abuse.”

“Toughen up, buttercup.”

My fingers curl against my palms, my blood heating. “And the racial slur. That’s fucked up.”

“I told you, this isn’t your problem. You’re not playing tonight.”

I consider arguing more. For a moment, I don’t move, then I give a tight nod, turn, and leave.

In the change room, I slam open my locker door, then sit, slouched, on the bench.

I was a healthy scratch once in Vancouver, but I deserved it. I hadn’t had a point in ten games after returning from a shoulder injury. The coach scratched me to send me a message—I needed to shape up. Of course they need the players who are producing to be the ones playing.

But this? This is fucking bullshit.

I take off my T-shirt and shorts and grab my dress shirt.

“What are you doing?” Cookie joins me, wiping sweat from his face with a towel.

“Coach scratched me tonight.”

“Fuck no.” He drops to the bench, staring at me.

“Yep.” I shove my arms into the sleeves of the shirt and yank it closed around me. This is embarrassing. Frustrating. I hate feeling helpless like this, like I’m not in control of my own life. My career.

Cookie shakes his head, muttering under his breath.

I have to hold my head up, though. I haven’t done anything wrong. Other than I probably shouldn’t have confronted Coach in front of the whole team. If I was going to say something, I should have waited and done it in private. He’s the kind of guy who can’t handle any hint of challenge to his authority. That was my mistake. I don’t regret doing it, though.

Dressed in my suit, I take the elevator to the press box level along with Goose, who’s out with a strained hamstring, and Larry, who’s kind of getting dicked around—he’s been up from the AHL but hasn’t cracked the lineup yet, only they know they’ll lose him to waivers if they send him back down to the farm team, so he’s spent the last month as a healthy scratch. He’s too good for that. Another team would take him in a heartbeat.

We watch the game from up here. I hate it. I hate watching the game, not contributing. But I keep a smile on my face because I don’t want the media writing stories about me having a temper tantrum or some horseshit. You never know, and I have enough problems.

After the game, I head out right away. Cookie and JBo are going to meet me at the Hive, a tiny dive bar that won’t have a lot of fans. I need booze and lots of it.

I’ve had two whiskeys by the time they show up. I’ve shed my tie and suit jacket, since that doesn’t exactly fit in here, and they quickly do the same and order shots.

“What the fuck, man?” JBo says, draping his jacket over the back of the stool.

“I know.” I shake my head and turn the glass in my hand. “I am so fucking pissed right now.”

“Thanks for telling us that,” Cookie says.

I give him a sharp look. Is he being sarcastic?

“No, really,” he says quietly. “It would be more like you to pretend you don’t give a shit.”

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