Page 15 of The Puck Daddy

Do as Coach says?

Adrian

Racing to the coach’s office before practice is absolutely crazy, but then again, so is kissing his intoxicated eighteen-year-old son—not that I had a choice in that kiss. One minute, I’m thinking about my best strategy of approaching Theo at the bar again, the next, Guy is enthusiastically kissing me.

By the time I make it across campus, a part of me is proud of the fact I sprinted here in six minutes. This trek is normally a relaxed twenty-minute stroll. I don’t think I’ve ever moved so fast before. Not even on the ice.

“Better get in there, kid,” Assistant Coach Jeffries says as soon as I make into the locker room. “You’re late, and Coach is in a mood today.”

Assistant Coach Hoots shakes his head and joins Jefferies. “Don’t know what you did, DeLuca, but Wilson’s pissed.”

Since I can barely breathe, I don’t bother greeting either assistant coach as I make my way past the lockers. Only a few of my teammates are sitting around chatting. I send up a little prayer that most of the team isn’t here to see my execution. Not that it won’t stop them from gossiping.

Lightly knocking on Coach’s door, I wait for his usual grunt before entering. Coach Wilson’s office is a large room filled with trophies and plaques. On one side of his office, there’s a wall made of corkboard with photos pinned to the wall. On the opposite side, there’s a large oak shelf that matches his desk. The shelf has all kinds of books, from past plays to different types of diets for various hockey players.

“Sit!” Coach barks. “You’re late.”

I practically fall into the seat across from Coach, my body reacting to the command, rather than thinking. Images of last night flicker across my brain, reminding me I only delivered Guy to his doorstep mere hours ago. Coach Wilson’s face is beet red, either from anger, embarrassment, or both. I can’t really tell.

“Sorry, sir. I just got out of my Finance 3B class. We had an exam this morning. I left as soon as I was finished.”

“I don’t need a bunch of excuses, DeLuca. If you knew you had an early morning exam, you probably shouldn’t have been getting drunk at a bar with my son.”

I sputter, my mouth falling open. “Sir, I didn’t know your son would be there. It’s not like I met him at the bar on purpose. I promise, I don’t even know him. And I didn’t get drunk.” I swallow hard, steeling myself for the backlash of what I’m about to say, but I feel like I should at least defend myself. I was trying to do the right thing by bringing him home. “No offense, but Guy’s actions shouldn’t affect me.”

“And yet, they do.” Coach flips his cell phone around and slides it across his desk to me. Practically slapping me in the face is a photo of me. With Guy in my lap. With Guy kissing me.

Oh fuck.

While I’m sure Coach can imagine what we’ve been up to, seeing his son’s picture in a make-out session as the college gossip blog’s headline is probably where he draws the line.

“Coach,” I whisper, letting my shoulders sag in defeat. What do I even say to this? “I’m sorry, sir. I never meant to let you down.” A shaky breath leaves my lips. I’m trying hard to keep it together, but ever since Mom passed, Coach Wilson has been the only parental figure in my life. Well, he and Professor Higgens. To see strong emotions like anger and disappointment flicker across his face makes me feel like a little child.

For the past several years, I’ve had to be the one to take care of my younger brother. Even though I wasn’t exactly ready, life forced me to take a parental role. So, to see one of the few men I look up to hurt by my actions makes guilt swirl in my stomach.

As if reading my thoughts, Coach’s face softens. He pushes his chair back and walks across the office.

“See this board over here?” He waves at the wall made of corkboard. It’s littered with photos. I never really paid too much attention to it since I haven’t had much of an opportunity to study it, but I know it’s photos of the players he’s proud of. It’s considered a huge honor to be on this wall and in Coach Wilson’s good graces.

I nod.

“Come over here. I want you to tell me what you see.”

I scan the various images of hockey players. Some are on the ice doing drills, others are playing a game on home ice, others are portraits of faces I recognize—some famous, some from previous school years. It’s a beautiful board filled with history and pride.

My heart skips a beat when I see a photo of Theo in his NHL jersey, arm slung over Coach Wilson’s shoulder. If I’m not mistaken, I’m pretty sure that had to have been the day I saw him visit the campus all those years ago.

He looks so damn young. Despite his age, though, he’s buffer than he is today. He might be just as handsome back then, butI think I prefer his toned bad boy look he’s sporting now. I continue to scan the photos, my eyes constantly trailing back to the photo of Theo, until something catches my eye. The number four. My jersey number. The guy is skating across the ice, hockey stick hugging the puck, a moment frozen in time. I almost expect it to be a hockey player from a previous year, but I’m shocked when I realize it’s me.

I gasp. “I made it onto your board?”

“Of course you did, son. You’re the most talented player I’ve had the pleasure of coaching. But it’s more than that. You’re smart, loyal—to a fault, and determined as fuck. You’re the first of my players to get drafted so high, and I couldn’t have been prouder.” Coach’s fingers clasp my shoulder in a comforting grip.

Suddenly, tears burn the back of my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.

“We’ve worked hard together to hone your skills, DeLuca, and you have kicked ass doing it. But with all this amazing talent and attention, the vultures will eat it up. They’ll twist things around. It’s on you to stay ahead of it. When you go to the NHL, you’ll have a PR manager to help you. But you don’t want to screw things up before the Wyverns even offer you a contract. Stay focused, keep your grades up, play hard, and get signed. For now, all you have to focus on are me, your actions, and your performance on the ice. Don’t give them anything to talk about but your game and how well you play.”

It’s as if Coach’s speech has lit a fire in my heart. I want to make us both proud. “Yes, sir!” My mind races for solutions, ways to stay out of the media, ways to get away from all the parties and temptation.

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