Page 46 of Playing for Keeps

"Not now, man." I focus on my gear.

"Just saying, if you can't handle the pressure, maybe you should step back. Let someone more...professional take the net."

My brothers tense, but I keep my voice steady. "My game speaks for itself."

"Does it?" Grentley pushes off his locker. "Because all I'm hearing is drama about you and Weber. Real professional, going after a married woman?—"

Tucker lunges, but I grab his arm. "He's not worth it."

"Listen to your brother, little Stag," Grentley smirks. "Wouldn't want any more bad press.”

I can’t take his shit for another second, but I know I can’t lay a hand on him like I typically would if another hockey player pissed me off. Not under this kind of scrutiny. “What the hell’s your problem, man? We’re on the same team.”

He huffs, a derisive, sarcastic sound. “You’re like a fart, Stag. Wafting in, causing chaos. Gone a few minutes later.” He bangs his stick on the ground for emphasis and stalks out of the locker room.

Practice is brutal. Every save feels like warfare, and every missed shot feels like failure. Not to mention, each time Grentley and I switch off, he either spits at me or mutters shit about me having a wandering dick. Coach's whistle finally ends the torture, and then Brian's waiting by my locker.

"We need to talk." He jerks his head toward the office. "Coach wants to meet."

I strip off my gear in silence while Brian paces. "Look, kid. This could go either way. Coach might bench you to avoid drama, or?—"

"I don't care." The words surprise us both. "I mean, I care about hockey. But Emerson matters more."

Brian studies me. "You really love her, don't you?"

"Yeah." I finish taking off my pads. "I do."

Brian sniffs. “I wasn’t expecting that, kid.” He sniffs again. “I think you have to shower, G Stag. Hop to it. I’ll work on some shit while you’re in there.” He shakes his phone at me and starts tapping away at the screen. I hurry to scrub myself off and then yank on some team sweats.

Brian slides his phone back in his pocket, and we make our way to Coach’s office.

When we enter, the massive, balding man is behind his desk, looking grim. "Sit down, Stag."

I do. Brian hovers by the door—coach grunts.

"Here's the thing." Coach leans forward. "You're playing solid hockey. Better than I've seen. But this press shit? It's fuckingwith my strategy. I can't have my goalies distracted by tabloid drama."

"I understand, sir."

"Do you? Because I want to keep starting you. I want this rotation to be a permanent thing. But I need the drama to stop."

I meet his eyes. "With all due respect, sir, my marriage isn't negotiable. If that costs me ice time?—"

"Jesus, kid." Coach actually laughs. "I'm not asking you to leave your wife. I'm asking you to help me manage this circus.” I squint, still not quite understanding.

“I swear to you, I’m keeping my head down off the ice. It’s just that my wife has people out to get her…”

Coach crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, we have to get in front of those people so they stop impacting my people. Got me?”

I nod, feeling miserable. The press and their projected image of me has dictated a lot about my life for the past month. It’s exhausting. I don’t want to do it anymore. I want to play hockey, make love to my wife, and maybe cuddle some damn dogs. I listen as Coach reiterates that I need to focus on my mental game, especially if I want to maintain this tandem goalie rotation. He says, “Brian has some ideas about getting ahead of the story. Are you in?"

I think of Emerson, alone and hurting, and of my brothers, ready to fight for me. My mother is probably making Emerson tea right now and sharing war stories about hockey culture.

"I'm in. But Emerson comes first."

Coach nods. "That's fine. Now let's figure out how to shut these vultures up so I can focus on winning some damn games."

Brian cracks his knuckles and steps forward but doesn’t sit. "First step is getting in front of this. The milk campaign is actually perfect timing."

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