Page 14 of From Ice to Grace
“Nope,” EJ says. “That’s scotch right there.”
“I can hear you, you know,” I manage, spitting on the floor before wiping the back of my mouth with my glove. “And it’s not scotch. It’s bourbon.”
From the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of one of our trainers walking over with a bucket and disinfectant.
Coach skates toward the bench, his scowl deepening as he assesses the situation.
“Get him to the locker room,” he barks to Lindgren. “Take a shower, Murphy, then meet me in my office.”
His voice echoes in the background as he shouts orders to the people around him. The only time he uses that specific tone of voice is when we’re making a mess of the game.
“Looks like I’m in trouble,” I try to joke as Lindgren helps me. He doesn’t say anything, instead he leads me to the athletic therapy room. I collapse onto the padded treatment table, the vinyl cool against my skin. My eyes close and I drift off, finally feeling some relief.
Sitting in the chair in front of Coach’s desk, I’m already feeling a lot better. Puking at practice definitely wasn’t ideal, but it did the trick. Either that or the two hour nap they allowed me.
I’m already feeling like a human being again.
“I’m not happy about this,” Coach says, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He looks more disappointed than angry and I hate that look on someone’s face—especially when it’s directed at me. “That was a semi-open practice, Murphy. I had to rip a phone away from one of the staffers because he managed to get all of that on camera. Luckily Jen is all over it.”
My stomach twists thinking about how I’ve made Brady’s life a bit more complicated…again. Luckily Jen is a PR shark and she’ll be able to help Brady with this clean up.
“It’s just a bug, Coach,” I lie. “I’m feeling better now and I’m ready to go.”
“Are you being serious?” Coach asks, giving me a hard look from behind his black rimmed glasses. “Because I’m hoping this is one of your jokes.”
I don’t answer him. I’ve never shown up to practice hungover before. This is the first time. Sure I’ve had a few times I felt a bit off after a night out, maybe even a bit sluggish…but never like this. This morning I was half convinced that I was going to die if I got on that ice.
“I’ve worked with you for a few years now, Murphy.” He takes off his glasses, looking me square in the eye. “You’ve never once showed up to practice in the state you did this morning.”
I meet his gaze, the truth heavy between us. There’s no hiding from what happened, I have to take responsibility for my actions. His expression softens slightly, switching between sympathy and genuine curiosity.
“I’m not an idiot. I know my players, and I know the things they struggle with. But toeing the line is your strong suit, Murphy. Yet, this morning…” He shakes his head. “What happened?” he asks, popping a new piece of gum in his mouth before disposing of the wrapper in the bin in the corner.
I feel like I’m fourteen, getting a placating lecture from my newest stepdad. Sympathetic looks and soft words in a bid to try to get me in line. It never lasted. After I messed up again, those soft words quickly turned into threats of military or boarding school. And that was from the nicer stepdad. Another one was a bit more physical with his threats and warnings. My mom had this uncanny ability to marry someone who thought they had automatic control over me.
But Coach is not like that, and I try to remind myself of that fact.
He knows me. He knows what I’m capable of.
His mouth is working hard on a piece of gum. I’m starting to think the gum is there to keep him from saying something he shouldn’t. He’s studying me like he’s trying to figure something out.
I shrug. “Marachino got to me, that’s all.”
My words aren’t even fully out and Coach is already shaking his head, laughing without humor. He leans forward, his elbows set on the table, on the boards covered in x’s and o’s.
“I don’t buy it, Murphy,” he says. He chews on his gum a few more times, never once taking his eyes off me. “You know what you’re supposed to do to keep those kinds of guys out of your head. It’s never been that hard for you. Sure, you play with an edge, a fierce edge. It’s what makes you a great d-man. But something is…” he pauses, shaking his head like he’s trying to find the right words. “For some reason, when you’re out there it’s like you have no brakes. No control. It started last season, right before the playoffs. At first I thought it was end of the season fatigue or something. But now it’s like your aggression has hit crack-level.”
A small chuckle escapes me at his choice of words. I avert his gaze, not wanting to admit that he’s right. I don’t know what the exact reason is. I just know that the intensity inside of me has grown…over the off-season and more so when we started playing again. Now, it’s hard to control. A part of me thinks I don’t need to control it. Playing hockey at this level calls for aggression and grit. Why should I stop what’s growing inside of me?
My eyes land on the photo frame on his desk. We all know Coach has a family. His wife is smiling happily at the camera while their three kids are standing in front of them. Lucas has brought that kind of mentality onto the ice, the one where all the guys are suddenly more eager to get someone to be by their side.
“The media is already on this,” he adds after I don’t say anything. “Which means soon it’s going to be the GM in your face instead of me. And you know how Harry Matlock feels about negative press. He needs to answer to the organization, so he’ll want to nip this in the bud before it gets out of hand. I’m telling you this for your own good.”
I wipe my hands on my pants, hating that I’m suddenly a bit nervous of the consequences of my actions. Irritation is flaring up inside of me, because I know he’s right and I hate that. I’m frustrated because Coach cares. He cares about every single one of his players. He makes it his business to make sure his team is top form…on and off the ice. It’s something we all have come to appreciate because some teams quite simply trade players.
But right now, I’m not in a place to accept his words. At least not in a way he wants me to.
“Is that all? Can I go shower?” I ask.
