Page 8 of Breaking Point (IceHawks #1)
Grayson
Theo Irving
who the hell put a stick up Coach’s ass?
Hudson Mitchel
why? Are you jealous?
Theo Irving
never, dipshit
Logan Johnson
what happened now?
Jack Lewis
the bull is out. Coach’s neck veins are throbbing and everything
Logan Johnson
Irving, what the fuck did you do to piss Coach off?
Theo Irving
why does everyone automatically assume I did something?
Kieran Ashford
where there’s smoke there’s fire
Logan Johnson
I second that
Theo Irving
it’s not always me
Jack Lewis
you demanded a pet mascot and then lost it within six hours
Logan Johnson
what about the time you were caught screwing two puck bunnies in the locker rooms?
Theo Irving
you’re the reason we have beef with the Chicago Satans
Hudson Mitchel
you drove a woman insane enough that she trashed the facilities to get back at you
Grayson
you screwed his niece in the bathroom during his sixtieth birthday party
Theo Irving
point taken
“ T his is bullshit,” Theo spits, his blue eyes blazing, his nape-length blond hair rustling as he shakes his head in disgust.
Asher mirrors Theo as he shoves the ball cap down on his shaking head. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Irving. This is bullshit, Crawford.”
“I’d take offense, but I’m too fucking pissed off to focus on you,” Theo retorts, pushing off the locker bench.
My best friend comes up beside me and claps me on the shoulder. “Told you none of them would take it well,” Kieran gloats, his smug smirk doing nothing but getting on my nerves.
“As if we’d take it any other way,” Hudson fires off, his tawny skin glistening with sweat as he points a finger in my direction. “I respect Coach, but this is stupid. I refuse to acknowledge anyone else as my captain.”
Heat crawls up my cheeks as the locker room explodes with cheers of agreement.
Logan strolls in, his large hulking frame taking up so much room everyone takes a step back to give him space. “What’s got everyone’s panties in a twist?” he drawls, dumping his bag next to his closest teammate, Asher.
“Coach revoked Crawford’s captaincy.”
Logan spins, shocked. “You’re fucking joking. Why?” he spits.
“ Why ?” I blurt, silencing the team I’ve adored since day one. “Guys, I love you and the support you’re showing me right now, but we all know why I don’t deserve the title of captain.”
Logan shakes his head. “That’s bullshit. If anything, we all know why this is such a colossal fuck-up.”
“Cap—”
“Crawford or Grayson,” I correct, earning a glare from Asher that somehow makes me feel smaller.
My hackles rise. Logan Johnson and Asher O’Connor are the only two men on this team that could truly intimidate me, even with Asher and I both standing at six foot four.
“Captain,” O’Connor reiterates, his forest green eyes still staring into my soul. “Doesn’t matter who he appoints. They won’t accept the title and we won’t either.”
My team rises around me, dipping their heads in agreement.
“Don’t piss Coach off any more than he already is. I’ve put him through hell?—”
“Because you’ve been put through hell,” Logan interjects.
I point at him. “We’re not talking about that.”
“That’s why we’re in this mess in the first place,” Kieran whispers under his breath beside me.
Shooting him a scathing glare, I spin back toward my team. “I don’t want to hear it. I fucked up, I stopped showing up, he revoked my title, and he has every right to make that decision.”
“I don’t think you’re hearing us, Cap.” Hudson steps forward.
“I am, it’s you lot that aren’t hearing me. It’s Grayson or Crawford. If you call me by anything else, I’ll ignore you.” Turning my back on my team, I lace up, for once not hungover for practice. “This is the way it has to be from now on.”
I put my headphones on as everyone speaks around me, about me…and Drew.
I appreciate the support, more than they would ever know, but Coach Anderson had every right to revoke my title. I haven’t been a team player, and when I’ve showed up, it’s been me just puking from the previous night’s shenanigans.
A clap on my shoulder has me turning to Kieran. There’s such worry in his gaze I shrug off his touch. “I’m fine.”
And with those parting words, I ignore my team’s stares, their whispered words of the mistake I made that led to me not only ruining my life but killing my brother.
As I step onto the ice, I hope that I’ll feel something other than guilt over his death, but like the night I begged my brother to live, my prayers are ignored.
Sweat drips down every crevice of my body. My hair sticks to my face, my feet ache, and my lungs burn because I haven’t been training outside the ice.
I have fallen so far from where I used to be as an athlete it stuns me speechless. I truly didn’t realize how unfit, sloppy, and tired I had been playing until I was sober enough to listen to my body.
No wonder Coach has been pulling me into his office as often as he has. Drew would be pissed at me, so unequivocally pissed that if he was still here he’d kill me .
Everyone left practice an hour ago but I couldn’t in good conscience step off the ice.
The best thing I’ve done for myself since Drew died nearly sixteen months ago was stay on this ice and run through drills to assess just how far I’ve fallen down the ladder.
The new season starts in two weeks and the last thing I want to deal with on top of what’s happening in my heart and mind is the press hounding me on my horrendous playing.
Hell, Coach can’t even put me in my usual first forward line when I’m in this condition.
Three months after Drew died in the summer of 2023, I forced Coach Anderson to keep me playing, forced him to allow me to try and go on as usual.
It was the wrong choice. And it only took Coach two games to realize I shouldn’t have ever stepped back on the ice.
He ordered me to take a year off to grieve, but I still haven’t stopped.
I don’t think you ever do. No one can put a time on grieving. I don’t even think the pain ends; you just get used to it.
Needless to say, when he told me to grieve, I think he had something else in mind than my drinking. I’m shocked how I’ve handled everything. Who I was before Drew died and who I am now is so irrevocably different, I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore.
I hate who I’ve become.
I hate what my life looks like.
And I hate that all of it is my fault.
“Crawford.”
The female voice cuts across the ice, halting my skating.
Ice sprays the air as I come to a screeching halt at the board before Olivia Foster, the assistant forward coach and the woman that’s a pain in my ass.
Not because she’s a bad coach—she’s anything but.
I can see her quickly moving up the ranks to head coach one day.
Because unfortunately for me, she won’t let me bury my feelings.
“Hey, Coach.”
Her brow quirks. “You sober for once?”
I give her a flat smile. “Three days now.”
She dips her head, the corner of her lips lifting. “Good. How does it feel?”
“Like shit.”
She barks out a short, quick laugh. “And that surprises you?”
“No.” Why do you think I never stopped drinking?
It’s like she can see right through me, as if she watched the thought pop into my mind and settle.
She leans against the boards, her baggy IceHawks jumper hanging down to her thighs.
Some of the guys on the team talk about how attractive she is, but I’ve never looked at her as anything other than a coach.
With her blonde hair slicked back today, the guys had prepared themselves for a grueling practice. We’re not sure why, but slicked-back hair correlates to hard practices. It’s like a bad omen.
“I didn’t come out here to invade your privacy. Just wanted to check that you were in a good headspace.”
I side-eye her. “Why?”
She clicks her tongue before pushing off the boards. “Come with me.”
Something in the pit of my gut churns, a foreboding feeling, as I follow her down the tunnel and into her office. I’m surprised to find it empty. I’m not sure what I was expecting but that feeling won’t go away.
“Sit,” she commands.
I’m on autopilot. The voice she takes on is her coach’s voice and my body obeys. That’s when I notice what she’s reaching for, the red light blinking on the machine.
Jumping from my seat, I snap, “No!”
But I’m too late.
“Allie, I’ve got him in the room.” She clicks a button as she puts the phone handle down. Clapping me on the back, she says softly on her way out, “Talk to her before she feels like she’s lost two sons.”
Her parting words blare through my mind until the voice I’ve been dodging comes over the speakerphone.
“Grayson?”
My blood roars in my ears as I whisper, “Hi, Mom.”
She inhales a sharp breath. I can tell instantly she’s holding back tears. I can practically taste the sadness coming over the line, and this is the reason I’ve been dodging her and my dad’s calls since Drew’s funeral.
How am I meant to look them in the eye when I killed their baby boy?
“Grayson, honey…” She trails off, no doubt a thousand questions wanting to explode off her tongue. But then she settles on, “Can you come home? For dinner this weekend?”
A family dinner where there will be three placemats instead of four?
A family dinner that will end with my mom in tears ?
A family dinner with my dad staring off into space where Drew used to sit?
A family dinner where it’s quiet because my baby brother brought laughter, light, and sound into our family?
As much as I love my mom, I cannot put myself through that.
That will break me. That would be my breaking point. One I know I couldn’t return from.
I have to lie. “I’m sorry, Mom. I have pre-season training this weekend.”
“Coach Foster said there was only Sunday morning practice.”
Fuck.
I’m pretty sure I curse out loud because a small sound comes over the line.
Fucking Foster.
Doubling down, I push out, “I haven’t been playing well. I have extra sessions to make up for what I’m lacking.”
“Why aren’t you playing well, honey?”