Page 26 of Stick It
“I was exactly where I was supposed to be,” Dylan snaps, pushing forward so they are skate to skate. Since Reed is one of the shorter players on the team, it brings them nearly face to face in the middle of the ice. Their sticks hang forgotten at their sides, legs planted hip-width apart. “You screwed up your play all on your own,” Dylan continues, driving the knife deeper. “You couldn’t handle a simple pass, and somehow that’s my fault?” Her laugh is bitter. “Maybe focus less on whining and more on actually playing.”
“You don’t belong here,” Reed hisses. I can feel the eyes of everyone on the team—including Coach—on the back of my neck. The tension on the ice is suffocating, everyone having stopped to watch the ongoing train wreck. I’m not sure whether to intervene or let Reed get it out of his system. Maybe then he’ll calm down and stop running his mouth.
“You’re a joke.” Reed’s gaze slowly drops over her, lips curling in a sneer. “You think Coach is gonna pick you over me?”
“He will if you keep playing likethat,” Dylan shoots back without hesitation, her eyes blazing. Sliding right into his space, their helmets nearly touch as she pokes him in the chest. “Maybe if you put as much effort into your plays as you do bitching about me, you wouldn’t feel so threatened by a girl.”
I can see the venom in Reed’s eyes. The way his hands twitch at his sides. I know that look. I’ve seen it right before he’s slammed someone into the boards. Right before the gloves come off.
Shit.
I shoot forward, wedging myself between them before things can boil over. I shove them apart, one hand on Reed’s chest, the other pressing against Dylan’s shoulder.
“Enough!” My voice is sharp, cutting through the escalating chaos.
Reed glares at me, his chest heaving, but I don’t let up. I point a finger in his face, my tone leaving no room for argument. “Skate it off. Now.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move, his jaw working like he’s biting back every curse word in his arsenal. Then he finally turns, muttering loud enough for me to catch as he skates away, “Traitorous teammates.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, but I don’t react. I can’t. Not here, not now. I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to focus on Dylan, who’s still glaring at Reed’s retreating form.
“You good?” I ask her, my voice quieter but still firm.
She blinks, dragging her gaze back to me, then nods. “Yeah. I’m good.”
I nod once and skate toward the bench, my mind already racing. Reed’s temper is bad enough in normal circumstances, but this is something else entirely.
Coach meets me at the gate. His expression is like stone ashe stares me down, one eyebrow arched in a way that tells me he’s not impressed.
He tilts his chin toward Reed, who’s at the far end of the rink, still fuming. His voice is low, meant solely for me. “Can you handle that, or do I need to?”
The words hit harder than they should. My jaw tightens, and I force myself to meet his gaze without flinching. It pisses me off, the implication that Reed’s inability to keep his temper—or just play the damn game—is making Coach question my leadership. My ability to keep this team in line.
My ability tocaptainthis team.
“I can handle it.” My voice is steady, sure, even though my pulse pounds in my ears.
Coach studies me for a moment, his eyes hard, before he questions, “Thisignorerule you’ve put in place regarding Carter, do you feel that’s the best approach?”
I bite down on my tongue to keep my initial response from leaking out. Why is everyone questioning me about this? What the hell else do they suggest I do?
Feeling defensive, I cross my arms over my chest as I shuffle back and forth on my skates. “What’s the point in instigating World War Three when she could be riding the bench all season?”
He cocks a brow, and his expression is eerily similar to the one Dylan used on me the other night. “Do you truly think she will be?”
Once again, I have to resist the urge to grind my teeth.
That’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? Because, no. I do not believe she’s going to be sitting on the bench all season. I don’t think she’s going to be on the bench at all. And I haven’t the first fucking clue what to do about that.
I don’t know if he can read the answer in my expression, or if he doesn’t feel he needs one, but he doesn’t wait for a verbalresponse from me. With a clap of my shoulder, he moves past me, and I turn to watch him stride toward his office.
An itch prickles at my skin. Not having Coach’s unwavering trust. Not having my players’ respect. Having people thwart the rulesIput in place…
The itching grows incessant. Nope. No, can’t have it. Ineedto be in control. Ineedto be the one calling the shots. The one they all listen to—abide by.
A player marches past me toward the locker room, the name printed on the back of their jersey catching my eye. “Carter!” I call.
She stops in her skates, helmet clutched in her hand. Her shoulders tense before she slowly turns to face me.
