Page 63 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

this ain’t a democracy

Mikhail

I’ve only just put my bag down in my bedroom after a quick trip to Austin for a game when I get the text to come back to the arena for a team meeting.

I’d planned to go to the gym to box and meet Reagan but there goes that plan. I send her a text.

Mikhail: Back in town but I’ve got a team meeting right now

Reagan: I was looking forward to watching you punch people in the ring

Mikhail: Sorry. I’ll make it up to you somehow. Meet up later?

Reagan: Yes please. To both.

Oh, I plan on it, gorgeous.

Thirty minutes later, I’m listening to Coach Brown express his frustrations about our inconsistent play lately.

“We’re mostly winning, but it’s not the kind of winning we’ve done during championship seasons,” he’s saying. “We need to talk this out or this sloppy bullshit is going to catch up on us and we’ll find ourselves out of the running. Other teams are looking good. We can’t rest on our laurels, here.”

The guys all mutter amongst themselves. Grant says, “Look, guys, we talked about this before. Tyler spoke up and we appreciate that. We need to hear more voices. We need to know what’s going on in your heads when you head out on the ice.”

In true Team Captain fashion, Evan speaks up first. He clears his throat and looks around the room.

“With all due respect, sir, the first string is like a well-oiled machine. There’s history and chemistry and a bond that’s been built game after game after game.

We know where to send the puck, sometimes without even looking, because we know how each other thinks.

And we trust each other. That kind of trust doesn’t just show up because you wish it into reality.

It takes trials and tribulations to build it up and once it’s there, you just don’t do anything that will knock it down. ”

You could hear a pin drop in this place. Coach nods a few times before saying, “But what happens if you go out for a season on injury? Or worse yet, if an injury takes you or one of your guys out permanently? What happens then?”

“It’s happened,” Evan says. “We’ve had a few bad injuries and guys have had to sub in as needed.

They’ve done a good job. Nothing wrong with their play.

But there’s a difference between subbing for injury and subbing whole lines in and out the whole damn game.

You get comfortable on a line and then, next second, there’s a bloody new player out there. ”

Grant pinches his nose between his fingers like he’s got a headache.

He says, “You know, I was a player before I was a suit. I know exactly what you’re talking about, here.

And what we’re trying to build is a scenario where all these guys feel exactly the way the starters feel about each other.

Where it doesn’t matter who’s out there with you, you feel supported and trusted and connected as players. ”

“Great, sounds like utopia,” Tyler says. “Look, all these guys are on contract for a reason. There’s no one sayin’ that they can’t play or whatever. But when our line is out there, magic happens. Why mess with magic?”

Next to me, Aiden grunts loudly enough that the room turns to look at him.

He grimaces, like he didn’t mean to attract attention, but then says, “I didn’t expect to get much playing time my rookie year unless there was a retirement, or I had some kind of crazy pre-season.

I knew what the front line could do. I wouldn’t expect anyone to mess with it. ”

There are a few other comments. A few guys wonder why the starters get treated like they shit gold.

Every other team subs in and out. We’ve all learned to play that way since we were little kids, and it helps with the whole team dynamic.

Other guys agree that the chemistry on the front line is so crazy good that it’s obvious it needs to stay intact. It’s about fifty-fifty, honestly.

Coach is stiff-backed with his hands in his pockets.

He jumps back in and says, “Look, boys, this ain’t a democracy.

Every one of you sits on a fat contract that says you play the game we tell you to play.

This is a team, and we need bench strength.

I need guys who get what we’re trying to build who can also gel out on the ice.

So, get your heads straight and outta your asses real fuckin’ soon.

Figure it out or find yourselves traded.

You all are professionals. Act like it.”

He storms out, which shocks us all. Coach Brown is always honest and blunt, but I’ve never seen him pissed like this.

Grant hangs back, though. He bites at his bottom lip as he thinks about everything that’s been said.

“I know change is hard and you like things the way you like them. That’s human nature.

But we want this team to be strong to the foundation and I know you want that, too, in your bones.

This is something to be proud of, what you all have built, and we can honor those who stood at the front while still building up the rest of our players. ”

He turns to head out but stops at the door.

Turning back, he adds, “Good win in Austin.” But it’s quiet after he goes because we all know it wasn’t a good win.

It was an okay win that should have been a blowout.

LA was a messy win. New Jersey was a messy win.

There’s a pattern emerging, and if I’m reading things right, it won’t get better unless we stop trying to replay the past.

We all head out, and as I’m walking home, I get a call from my father. I let it ring for a bit before I finally sigh and answer. My reward is my father not even saying hello. He just launches into me. “What the hell was going on out there in Austin?”

“Yeah, it was kinda brutal,” I say, with nothing better to add.

“The team doesn’t seem like they can get their shit together. And you, where were you? You let two passes slide by you and spent two periods trying to wake up before you seemed to get your head in the game.”

“I’m just not sure what you expect me to say, Pop. I agree, the team’s not playing its best right now.”

“I just think you can do better. I can’t say anything to those other yahoos, but I can coach you. And what I’m seeing is a player who is not worthy of the starting spot he’s secured. Your play is halted and weak. You need to put more power into what you’re doing out there.”

He rages on and on, telling me what I did wrong at every turn of the game. By the end, I feel like I’ve been doused in cold water, I’m so numb. I should be used to it, I suppose. It’s no different than any youth, junior, high school, or AHL game I’ve ever played in my life.

I’ve learned over the course of my life that arguing with Jozem Zelenka is pointless on all levels. You just don’t do it. He thinks he knows the game better than anyone else, and he’s not interested in excuses.

So, I don’t say anything.

I just grunt to acknowledge each statement as I walk, turning toward the boxing gym instead of the apartment building.

By the time he hangs up, I really need to punch something.

I head in, go straight for the locker room, change, and proceed to the stationary bags.

One of the trainers comes over and asks if I want a guided workout, but honestly, I just want to punch and kick shit, so I tell him I’ll freestyle until the ring comes open for sparring.

“Your game is weak right now. You don’t deserve to be a starter with the play I saw in Austin. Remember the name on your back and play like it or you’ll find yourself traded to a shitty team.”

Every comment, every dig, it all comes out as I punch and kick that bag. Someone says, “Take it easy” from behind me, but I don’t want to take it easy. I want to let out every one of my frustrations on this inanimate object so that I don’t let them out on anyone else.

I don’t stop until I see a short, dark-haired figure out of the corner of my eye. I stop and turn, and Reagan gives a little wave as she jogs over to me.

“Hey, sweaty. I thought you had a team meeting?” She’s smiling at me and it’s the best thing to happen to me so far today.

“I did, and it did not go well. And then my father called to pick apart my game in Austin. So, I came straight here. Sorry, I should’ve texted you.”

“No biggie.” She gives me one cute shake of her head. “I get it. You okay?”

I push my lips together and make a noncommittal noise.

“Okay, so then, that would be a no.” Reagan laughs. “Well, do you want to spar with me?”

“I was hoping to hit someone I didn’t care about hurting,” I say carefully. I don’t want to offend her, but there’s no way I’m gonna blast anything at Reagan.

“Well, I can use the sparring time, so suck it up.” She’s so damn sexy when she’s feisty.

It’s not sparring I want to do with her right now.

I want to rip her clothes off her sexy-as-fuck body, have her tits in my mouth, and have her riding me hard and fast. Then I’d take her from behind, fucking her even harder so she can barely walk in the morning with my name on her kissable lips.

But that’s not going to happen in the middle of the gym, so I will myself to think about hockey stats.

Once we get the go-ahead and she’s wrapped her hands, we climb up into the ring. The trainers put on our headgear, slip us our mouth guards, and help us put on our gloves.

Not gonna lie—Reagan looks very small and fairly helpless to me in this venue.

I know she’s been training, and I know she’s strong for her size, but she is tiny.

And I am large. So, we mostly work on footwork and combos.

The trainers give her pointers throughout, so it’s not really a true sparring match, but it’s fun, and she seems to really enjoy it.