“Did you not see the e-mail I sent you to see me in my office before practice?” Coach asks.
Something cold rushes through me, as if I’ve been knocked onto the frozen slab below my feet.
“I turned off my phone,” I say. “There were alerts...”
“I am certain there were.” Coach smiles, but his face is tight, and his lips look like they’ve been painted onto a ceremonialmask before the tribe goes off into battle. “You should have received calls from your agent too.”
I glance at the ice as if it might crack beneath me, thrust me into an icy river, and hold me down should I attempt to save myself, but there are just painted boards below.
He shrugs. “I didn’t give him much notice.”
The cold feeling is stronger now.
“You’re off the team, Larvik.”
My mouth drops, and my body is set on fire. Hell is right here.
My legs wobble again, and I sturdy my stance and glower as if I knew the words were coming.
As if I intended this all to happen.
As if I didn’t just get destroyed.
I slide my gaze toward the others. Evan is staring at me. A few others shoot curious looks in my direction. The looks lengthen. Their lips move, and even though they keep their voices low, I know they’re discussing me.
“Oh.” My heartbeat quickens, as if my heart is trying to scrape its way out of my ribs, out of my skin, out of this fucking arena.
I slide, then force myself upright. Damn these skates.
“Not forever,” Coach continues, and I swing my gaze at him.
“Did you think it was forever?” Coach smiles again, but there’s something in his tone I don’t like.
But then I can’t blame him.
My actions got one of his best players removed from the country, and now his son is somewhere on the other side of the world because of it. I can see I’m not on his favorite player list.
“You have a two-week suspension for poor behavior,” Coach continues. “You are not fired.”
If the trading deadline hadn’t passed, I would probably be on a one-way flight to the Yukon, eating poutine out of a vendingmachine, playing on a team where the single ticket seller also drives the Zamboni.
“Please use the time to think about your actions,” Coach continues. “I do not tolerate bad behavior in my locker rooms.”
“I don’t behave badly!”
“Players have called you homophobic, Larvik. You do not mingle with queer players, and you act like they disgust you. You are a bad teammate.”
“That’s not true!”
“You said there were lots of gay people on the team. Do not lie.”
“There are! One LGBTQ magazine started sending someone semi-permanently to cover our hockey games! That’s a fact.”
“The way you conveyed your bewilderment was inappropriate.”
My veins skitter, blood rushing and halting, like I’m two years old and I’m making my way over the ice for the first time all over again.
I eye Coach. Will he waver?
