Page 7 of Frozen Hearts
“What the fuck, man,” I growl, attempting to wriggle out of his iron hold.
“With Astor on the team, there’s no way we aren’t making it to the Frozen Four,” he preens, ignoring my fist as I drive it into his side in a bid to get him to let go.
“Damn right,” one of the other guys yells as I finally manage to break free from Gavin’s hold and shove him away from me with a grin.
I forget all about Coach still standing in the room as I banter with Gavin and the others, giving them shit and talking about the pussy we’re all going to get when we win our game against Denver next week.
“Astor,” Coach barks, startling me as the smile drops from my face and I turn to face him. “I want to see you in my office once you’ve showered and prettied yourself all up.”
“Aww, Coach, finally taking me up on that date?” I tease with a wink as the guys howl with laughter.
Coach returns my ribbing with a deadpan stare before stomping out of the locker room, and knowing nothing pisses Coach off more than being left waiting, I hurry my ass into the shower.
“What’s up, Coach?” I ask as I saunter into his office five minutes later. Coach is a hard ass but a great coach and mentor. Everyone on campus thinks I’m responsible for winning us three championship titles in a row, but he’s the man behind the glass helping me perform at my best. Without him, we never would have made it past regionals.
“Astor,” he grunts, sounding positively irritated as he lifts his head to pin me in place with his glare. Leaning back in his chair, he folds his arms across his chest, and instantly my back straightens, knowing I’m in deep shit. “Tell me how we’re only one month into the school year, and you’re already flunking?”
Fuck. I should have known Coach would find out about that.
I grimace. “It was one test. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Don’t peddle that shit my way. You were nearly benched freshman year because of this class, right?” He waits until I give a brisk nod before barking, “Is that how you want to play out your senior year—on the bench?”
“No, Coach. Absolutely not.”
Lips pursed, he stares at me, seeming to contemplate something before he shakes his head and sighs. “The Pacific Penguins were on the phone asking about you the other day.”
I immediately perk up, eyebrows hitting my hairline as I gape at him. I wasn’t fortunate enough to get drafted right out of high school, and I’ve spent the last three years working my ass off to prove myself to the scouts. This is my final year to show them what I’m made of and ideally land an NHL contract.
This year, I have to make every game count. Every minute of ice time. This is my opportunity to prove to the scouts that I'm not just another player but an unstoppable force.
I can’t afford to be benched for one game, never mind an entire season!
My team is depending on me. My future is relying on me. If I can't get my grades up and play the best damn season I've ever played, I might as well throw in the stick right now. Tell Coach I'm quitting and walk away.
Except I could never do that. Could never willingly walk away from hockey. It's who I am. All I've ever wanted. Since I was three years old and someone put a stick in my hand, I knew this was what I wanted to do.
I refuse to let one measly grade, one stupid class be the reason that dream slips through my fingers!
“They wanna come watch you play,” Coach states with an engrained frown, unaware of the rapid pitter-patter of my heart. "But they won't get that chance if you’re sitting on your ass all season. Not to mention that, as team captain, it doesn’t set a good example if you can’t keep your grades up, and not having you on the ice will affect team morale.”
Damn it!
This is it. This is my shot. And I might have already fucked it all up.
“Coach!" I plead, grinding my teeth against my frustration. "You can’t bench me just because my brain takes offense to numbers! I’m this team's best shot at getting that championship title, and you know it!”
“Maybe so, son, but rules are rules,” Coach returns, unfazed by my outburst. “If you don’t wanna be warming your ass on the bench all year, then I suggest you find a way to pass that class.” He's unwavering in his stance. It doesn't matter how much I protest, he's not going to change his mind. I get it. Respect it, even. But that doesn't mean it doesn't piss me the hell off.
The principle of it all is what infuriates me. It's fucking unfair. What the hell does one stupid test have to do with my ability to perform on the ice? My grades don't define me as a player or a captain. Sure, I need to pass the class in order to get my degree, but that should be a wholly separate issue. One I can deal with after the scouts have seen me play, and I ideally have the championship trophy in one hand and an NHL contract in the other.
Seemingly done with me, he drops his gaze to the pile of paperwork on his desk—my sign that I’m dismissed.
“This is fucking bullshit,” I grumble to myself as I march away from his office with my duffle bag slung over my shoulder. How the hell am I meant to pass a class that’s next to impossible?!
It’s not like I’m not trying. Despite the bad rep athletes get for not studying, I actually do put the work into my classes, and I fucking studied for that test! Regardless, it might as well have been in Chinese, for all I could understand of the questions. It didn’t seem to matter that I’d poured hours of my time into understanding the concepts Professor Caldwell discussed in class. I couldn’t figure out how to apply them to the issues presented.
Like I said, it’s fucking bullshit.
