Page 116 of Snow, Ice, and Spice
Just then one of the refs comes up to me and my teammates back away. I don’t hear a single word he says because my heart is pounding a deafening beat in my ears. I just nod when he points to the penalty box.
As I make my way there, my entire body throbs. It feels like I dove into a trash compactor. I catch a few horrified looks from fans in the stands. A woman reaches down and covers her little son’s eyes with her hand. Guilt throttles me. This isn’t the kind of player I ever wanted to be—a loose cannon who gets violent at the drop of a hat.
I clock Coach Porter glowering at me, arms crossed, as I settle into the penalty box. My stomach drops. I hunch over and rest my elbows on my knees and cradle my throbbing head in my hands.
Hockey is the last thing that means anything to me—the last thing I’ve got. I’m about to lose that too. Fuck.
Chapter40
Theo
Ifly across the ice, every muscle in my body aching.
“Damn, man. You’re kicking ass today,” Isaac says as he catches up to me. “Yo, Dylan! You owe me twenty bucks! Theo here kept up no problem. Told you he wouldn’t let that fight slow him down.”
Isaac laughs and smacks my shoulder. I grunt, too exhausted to speak actual words. Well, that and the fact that my entire body feels like someone shoved a battering ram through it.
It’s been a couple of days since our loss to the Wolves and I’ve been a tense wreck ever since. I expected Coach Porter to pull me aside after that game, rip me a new asshole, maybe even suspend me from the team. But he didn’t say a word.
So I fully expect him to do that at some point today, probably after practice since we’re nearly done.
I sprint through the last of the drills Coach is running us through. I’m the first to finish. I hunch over, gasping to catch my breath.
“Nice work,” Coach Porter mutters as he frowns at something on his clipboard.
I straighten up, shocked. “Um, thanks.”
“Solid work today, gentlemen. Hit the showers,” Coach Porter hollers at us.
I start to make my way out, but he stops me.
“Except you, Thompson. We need to talk about your performance last game.”
Dread singes the pit of my stomach. I swallow back the ball of nerves that’s suddenly rocketed up my chest to my throat. I nod.
I’m quiet as I wait for him to set his clipboard aside and look at me. He crosses his arms and his eyebrows crash together, like he’s annoyed and pissed and disappointed all at once.
“I’ve never seen you fight like that before. What happened?”
“He shoved me first,” I say. On the inside, I roll my eyes at myself. I sound like a little kid.
“You’ve been shoved plenty of times before. You never reacted like that. What’s going on with you, Thompson? Is this a new persona you’ve adopted?”
I shake my head as I panic on the inside. “No way, Coach. It was just an off night, I swear.”
He purses his lips, studying me. I hold my breath, wondering if he’s going to call me on my bullshit.
“It was a hell of a departure from the way you were your first game back. That was an impressive showing. You were laser-focused and energized. Your head was in the game, I could tell. I could also tell you were happy to be back on the ice.”
“I was. I mean, I definitely am happy to be back,” I say, hoping to convince him.
He goes quiet as he keeps his hard, unrelenting stare trained on me. “I’m just trying to figure out which player you are now. The one who loves the game and who plays his heart out, or the one who’s a hothead that’s gonna get into fights all the time.”
“I’m not a hothead. I swear.”
He sighs. Even though he’s still in that tall power stance, his shoulders lower the slightest bit, like he’s easing up.
“Look, I’m not naïve. I know fights are a part of the game. I got into my fair share back in the day when I played,” he says. “You can fight, Thompson. Just don’t make it a habit, okay?”
