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SIXTEEN
ETHAN
“WHERE THE FUCK IS O’REILLY?”My booming voice is agitated, and the locker room goes silent. It’s our last preseason game, and they’ve been chattering like a bunch of farm hens while my overpaid captain is MIA.
Jackson may have the personality of a chihuahua, but he’s never late, not anymore, especially not for a game. In the past four weeks, he has become annoyingly punctual. His life has been nothing but hockey and ourtherapysessions.
“Did you check your phone, Coach?” Killian snickers.
“Yeah, I’ve texted and called him. No answer.”
Chuckles and laughs ring around the room.
“No, Facebook or Insta, Coach. Or any sports network.”
Fuck. What did Jackson do now? Please tell me he hasn’t asked for a trade or some shit.
Frustrated, I take out my phone and make my way back to my office, preparing myself for whatever shitstorm lies ahead.
I open the NHL app and am bombarded with posts about my missing captain.
LA Hockey Star Jackson O’Reilly Shoves Fan for Injuring Girlfriend
Jackson O’Reilly’s Girlfriend Injured After Being Crowded by Fans
Jesus, I hate social media. I don’t have time to read the articles or watch the videos, but it’s likely a random girl, and this whole thing is being blown out of proportion.
This is Jackson. He has mellowed since getting sober, but he’s still a hothead. It doesn’t take much for him to throw down. My only saving grace is knowing he’s not in jail. His father, Police Commissioner Kyle O’Reilly, would never allow it.
He’d never allow anything to hinder Jackson’s paycheck.
I benched Jackson during our first preseason game for not passing the puck. I wasn’t going to play him to avoid the risk of injuring our most valuable player, but he insisted, and I gave in. He was a machine dominating the ice but ignored my instructions. When I pulled him, his eyes strayed to his father’s suite.
After, Kyle barged in on my post-game speech, disgruntled and smelling as if he was doused in bourbon. He hadn’t taken two steps past the threshold before I kicked him out.
Only this instance, I followed Kyle out into the hallway, letting him know that if his son didn’t adhere to my rules—rules prohibiting drugs, alcohol, and meddling fathers—he’d continue to sit the bench. Since I’m pretty sure the police commissioner is betting on games and needs Jackson to win, those rules have kept him away from my locker room and my star player.
Without Kyle and substances, Jackson is entirely different. He’s less temperamental, more receptive to constructive criticism, and overall happier.
He’s still the most annoying person I’ve ever met, never misses an opportunity to bust my balls, and spends far too much time in the penalty box, but he no longer throws helmets at me, and dare I say, we might even be friends—loosely.
And because of our stellar relationship, I think he’d tell me, along with everyone else in the locker room, if he had a girlfriend.
I’m sure he’s dealing with the media and his controlling father.
My assistant coach yells for the players to get their shit together. We have five minutes before we need to be out on the ice.
I call Jackson one last time. He doesn’t answer. I send him another text, trying not to be a royal dick. It’s preseason. He wouldn’t have played a full game anyhow.
Me: Hope everything is all right. Let me know if you’re going to make the game.
Captain Diva: I won’t. Sorry. I’m in the ER.
Me: No worries. You okay?
Captain Diva: I’m good. Thx for not ragging on me.
Me: Keep me updated.