Page 5 of The Home Grown
“You okay, mate?” he says, pulling off his helmet.
I don’t answer him straight away, opting to skim through the post one more time instead, letting myself get angrier by the second. Because this is not cool. This issonot cool, and I don’t know what the hell to do to fix it.
I’m supposed to be riding on the high of not only advancing to the Challenge Cup finals, but also getting a shot at Team GB.
Instead, I’m seeing shit posted online by my ex. Pure slander.
And I’m livid.
“Here,” I say, holding my phone out to Danny, “read this.”
He’s gloveless already but wipes his palms against his jersey before taking it.
I sit down at my cubby and begin to remove my gear at speed.
My instinct is to drive over to Rochelle’s place, demand answers, maybe throw a few choice words in her direction too … but deep down, I know that would do more damage than good.
“When did she post this?” Danny asks, running his finger along the screen as he scrolls. “Because?—”
I wave him off, already in defensive mode.
“I didn’t. You know I didn’t, right?”
Danny passes my phone back, then walks across the dressing room to start his own de-kitting routine.
“I know you didn’t mate,” he says, sitting. “But I hope it doesn’t cause any dramas for you with the roster.”
Shit.
Fuck.
And another shit.
Danny’s another Team GB hopeful, getting named on the preliminary roster like me. But preliminary is the key word here. We’re still only potentials. It’s not over until we’ve done training camp and the coaching staff make their picks.
What if this blast on the fan forum is enough to make the general manager of the national team change his mind about me? Because I know I’m not the only eligible defenceman in the league.
“Fuck. Honestly, if this … I’ll kill her.” I tug my jersey over my head, rolling it into a ball and throwing it so hard at the laundry bin, it wobbles on impact.
“Who are you killing?” Johnny says, striding in from the open door. He stops at his cubby, the one directly next to mine and slumps down in his seat.
“Look at this,” I say, reaching for my phone and shoving it into Johnny’s still-gloved hand.
He tucks his left glove under his arm and switches hands, eyes locked on the screen as he reads.
I watch him carefully—though I’m shit at reading his expression. Always have been. He’s one of these ‘heart-on-my-sleeve-in-a-locked-wardrobe’ guys.
Johnny frowns, scoffs, then makes a choking sound that has me edging closer to him.
“You’re kidding, right?” he says finally. “When was this posted?”
“I wish I was. It went up last night and one of the boys I played with in juniors sent me the link … along with about five others. People are fucking commenting on it too, Cap. What the hell do I do?”
The thing about British Hockey is, it’s a tiny world. And all us Brits know each other. Either from junior hockey or playing on the same team at some point or from a party. And when Greer, from my junior team, sent me the link … and I’m not so naive to think he only forwarded it to me. It’s likely sitting on every single group chat of every single team in the league by now.
Johnny glares at me. For a second, I expect him to say something about me calling him ‘Cap’ since technically, he’s not our captain at the moment—even if everyone’s still treating him like he is—but he doesn’t. He just frowns and hands me back my phone.
“I’ll speak with Vicky. See if she can get it taken down.”
