Page 85 of Frozen Hearts
I have no choice but to go.
Gritting my teeth, I let the locker room door slam shut behind me as I head toward Coach’s office.
“Are you trying to fuck up your career before it even begins?” he practically yells the second my ass hits the seat. He’s standing behind his desk, hands on his hips as he glares down at me, his anger seeping out to fill the small space.
“No.”
He scoffs. “Well, it sure as fuck looks that way. You think that you can stop putting in the effort just because the scouts came to see you play? In case you’ve forgotten, Astor, there is still no offer on the table. No signed contract.”
I haven’t. How the fuck could I?
I’m used to Coach’s tirades by now, though, so I know he isn’t looking for a response from me. A fact that is confirmed when he continues with his rant.
“You're the team captain. That means you’re responsible for more than just yourself. If you play like shit, your team does too.Myteam does. I don’t give a fuck about you.Ihave worked too damn hard to not make it to the Frozen Four for the fourth consecutive year.”
Blowing out a breath, his anger deflates as he collapses into his chair, eyes raking over me. “I’m retiring at the end of this season.”
He’s what? I’d hazard a guess that Coach is in his mid-fifties. No spring chicken, but I didn’t think he’d be retiring for another few years yet… if ever. Honestly, I kinda pictured Coach dying in this office. Hockey—the team—is his life.
“The wife has been nagging at me for years to step back. She wants us to spend more time together. Go on a cruise. I dunno.”
“Coach, you can’t quit,” I splutter. “Youarethis team.”
“I’ve already submitted the paperwork. It’s a done deal. I figured with four Championship years under my belt, it was wise to quit while I was ahead.”
Well, fuck. Now I’m not only fucking it up for myself but for Coach.
He pierces me with a stern look. “Don’t make me regret not filling out the paperwork last year.”
“No pressure,” I grumble.
“Pressure is exactly what you need,” Coach states sternly as he smacks his palm against the desk. “A reminder that it’s more than your own career you’re fucking up here. However, it isyourcareer that I’m concerned with. If you don’t pull your head out of your ass and put it in the game, you’ll lose everything you’ve worked toward. You’re this close, Logan. Don’t fuck it up now in the final period.”
* * *
Coach's words are playing on repeat as I pull into the parking lot of Lux. My phone pings on the seat beside me, another message from the guys wondering where I am. I left Coach’s office hours ago. Still I needed time alone to think, so I went to the weight room and worked out, losing myself in the mechanical motion of exercise as I processed everything Coach said.
As tempting as getting drunk sounds, it isn’t a permanent solution to my problem. I can’t keep letting Riley get to me like this. I need to get my head in the game and focus. This is supposed to bemyyear. Coach’s year. He’s been there for me since freshman year—pushing, encouraging, yelling.
I don’t want to let him down.
Let the team down.
I’m tired of being the weak link.
Especially when I’m the one who should be leading us to victory.
I need to purge myself of her once and for all, except I have no idea how. Obviously, sitting in the parking lot of her place of work isn’t going to do me any good. However, I have no desire to go inside.
I should get out and go in. I know I should. The team is expecting me. However, every time I reach for the door handle, I stall. Feeling as though I need another moment to gather myself before I come face-to-face with her.
I’ve made a point of avoiding Riley. I don’t seek her out on campus the way I used to. I avoid anywhere I know she might be. I don’t even get coffee from the cart anymore, considering it’s located outside the dining hall and I know she eats all her meals there. Plus, the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg makes me think of her.
Rather, I bought myself an insulated cup and I bring my own coffee from home.
The only time I can’t avoid her is in Statistics. Although, even then, I make a point of not looking in her direction. Of course, my body intuitively knows whenever she enters the room. I might not catalog her movements with my eyes, but my fucking senses are attuned to her. They know where she is at all times, even where she sits. If she’s looking at me. Some days, I can even sense her moods from the opposite side of the room.
The woman is buried so deep in my fucking system that I can’t get her out.
