Page 50 of Beyond the Lines
Maine drags himself up next to me, his tall frame slumped in exhaustion. “Is it just me,” he pants, “or does Coach seem extra pissed today?”
“It’s not you.” I push myself to keep pace. “He’s definitely channeling his inner drill sergeant.”
“Well, someone fucked up, and in war that shit gets you killed.” Maine gives me a pointed look. “And it wasn’t me.”
“Subtle, Maine.” I sigh. “Real subtle.”
“What happened out there last night, man?” He wipes sweat from his forehead. “You were killing it, and then suddenly you… weren’t.”
I debate what to tell him. The truth is that I got distracted by the girl who tore into me in art class, who happens to be my teammate’s sister, who also happens to be the only person who’s made me feel something real in longer than I can remember.
Yeah, that’ll go over well.
“Just lost focus,” I mutter instead.
“Well, whatever it was, fix it.” Maine’s breathing is labored, and he falls behind.
I’m glad he can’t keep up with me, because I don’t want to continue the conversation. And as we finish the final lap, Coach Barrett stands at the finish line with his armscrossed and legs planted, his face set in that particular grimace that means someone’s about to take a shot.
And I’m pretty sure I know who that someone is.
The team collapses onto the grass in various states of agony. Mike drops to his knees, sucking in air like he’s just been rescued from drowning. Rook lies flat on his back, arms spread-eagle. Linc doubles over, hands on his thighs, looking like he might vomit. The others are wiped.
I remain standing.
Might as well face the firing squad on my feet.
Coach’s gaze finds me immediately. “Andrews!” His voice cuts through the morning air like a bullwhip. “Care to explain what the hell happened last night?”
Exhausted eyes shift to me, including Mike’s. His expression is unreadable, but the rigid set of his shoulders tells me everything I need to know about where we stand. Since that day in the hallway of his building, things have been tense, and at the end of the game…
…well, he was pissed, let’s leave it at that.
“I lost focus, Coach.” My voice comes out raspy from exertion as I repeat the half-assed excuse I gave Maine. “It won’t happen again.”
“Damn right it won’t.” Coach steps closer. “You know what I saw last night? I saw a leader on this team playing like he’d rather be anywhere else.”
My teammates watch in silence. Public floggings aren’t Coach’s usual style; he typically saves his most cutting observations for the privacy of his office. But he keeps this treatment in reserve for special occasions, and apparently, I’ve earned it.
He continues, his voice rising. “You think NHL scouts aregoing to waste their time on a player who zones out in the middle of a game?”
“No, Sir,” I manage.
“This team depends on you, Andrews.” He jabs a finger at me. “Every guy here depends on you. So whatever’s distracting you. Fix it. Now.”
“Yes, Sir.”
No one says anything as we watch Coach stalk off toward the athletic center, leaving us in a cloud of collective misery. Then Maine groans theatrically as he rolls onto his side. A few halfhearted chuckles break the tension as guys begin dragging themselves to their feet.
But Mike doesn’t join in.
He stands abruptly and walks off without a word or a glance in my direction.
And that silence hurts worse than Coach’s public dressing down.
“Dude,” Linc appears at my side. “That was brutal.”
“I deserved it,” I say flatly.
