Page 3 of Puck with Karma
20-years-old
“Fuck,” I groan when the force of my opponent pushes me hard into the boards. “That hurt.”
“Get used to it, rookie,” one of my teammates snickers as he skates by.
I am no stranger to roughing it on ice. In fact, over the years, I got into more fights than I can count. But this is my first day of practice with this team. It is the first time I am playing in the pros, too.
I started playing hockey for what feels like a lifetime. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have my skates on. When other kids my age would go to the park, I’d be at the ice rink. When they’d go to birthday parties in middle school, I’d be at ice practice. When they’d go to high school graduation parties, I’d be trying out to get into the minor leagues.
My entire life to date has been revolving around hockey. It took precedence over everything else. Hell, I have a little sister that I love but barely know because of hockey.
“Hey, who’s the hottie with your dad?”
The guy who just slammed me into the boards now has the nerve to elbow me in the ribs to get my attention. What I want to do is to elbow him back, but in the nuts. My face turns to stone when I swing my head around to look where I know my father always sits when I am at practice.
“That’s my little sister, fucker. Don’t look at her.”
“Why?” he snorts. “She’s hot, and she doesn’t have a sign on her that says not to look.”
“She’s underage, so there’s your sign,” I growl at him. This time, it is my turn to push him into the boards. He grins at me and shrugs.
“Hot,” he mouths, and it is game over. I drop my stick and let the gloves slide off my hands before I start punching. I don’t stop when blood squirts from his nose, and I don’t stop when I hear yelling from behind me.
But I do finally stop when strong arms grab me and pull me back. My new coach’s voice barks in my ear, snapping me out of my rage.
“You will stop right now unless you want your professional career to be over before it even started.”
I nod and yank my arm out of his grasp. Spitting in the direction of the player who ran his mouth about my sister, I bend down and grab my helmet, stick and gloves, then skate away from them all. By the time I step off the ice, the coach catches up with me.
“In my office. Now. Skates and all.”
Completely ignoring his directive, I walk toward the locker room and find where my gear is stored. I can’t imagine that he’ll want to keep me after this, so there is no reason to leave anything here.
I take my time undoing my skates and pulling the shoulder pads from under my practice uniform. I debate for a second if Ishould take that off and leave it here, but then figure I might as well take it with me. It’ll be the only thing to show for being part of a pro team for five seconds or less.
Hauling the heavy bag with all my gear over my shoulder, I make sure to not stand back when the rest of the players are starting to file in from the ice. When the player whose ass I just kicked comes toward me, I catch him with my bag, and almost laugh when he loses his balance and falls into the wall.
With slow and calculated moves, I make my way down the hallway to where the office is. I notice the door being closed when I get there, but I don’t think anything of it. I rap my knuckles against the heavy wood and open it without waiting for the coach to call for me to go in.
The arrogant smirk I prepared freezes on my face when the first person I see upon my entering is my father. He doesn’t look happy with me in the least.
“Xander,” Coach assesses me with calculated eyes. “Have a seat.”
I drop my bag by the door and walk toward the desk without saying a word. I sit down and wait to have my ass handed to me.
“I can’t believe you would risk your career like this,” my father starts on me. “After everything your mother and I sacrificed for you to get here, this is how you repay us?”
My eyes remain focused on Coach, refusing to take the bait from my father. This is nothing new, him humiliating me in front of my coaches or teachers, anyone I’d ever looked up to. But I was hoping it wouldn’t be something I’d have to worry about once I was part of a professional team.
“Mr. Hamilton.”
Coach’s voice sounds rough and unforgiving. For a second, I think he is talking to me. But no, he is addressing my father. Figures.
“This is not the kids’ league. Your son is considered an adult. By law,” he makes sure to add when he notices that my father is about to say something. “I’m not sure how you got back here, but you are not allowed to come into my office and discipline any of my players. I don’t care if you are related by blood or not.”
My father leans forward, his chest almost touching the desk we are in front of. The rage is obvious on his face, and it becomes quite clear where I got my temper from.
“This is between me and my son. I have every right to be here as his father, and as his agent.”
