Page 16

C oaches, players, equipment managers and about eight thousand voices are all screaming, “Noah, move!” But I can’t, because Lotte is here. Lotte is with Ryan. Wearing Ryan’s Jersey. Kissing Ryan, and the only thing moving is the contents of my gut.

I’m going to be sick.

“Noah!” Shane careens into me and screams in my face, “Dude, are you having like a stroke or … Ooh, shit.” He’s seen them. I know he’s seen them. “Dude you gotta forget it. We need you, Captain.”

“Captain.” The word that means more to me than anything, or at least used to, ricochets in my mind till I say it out loud, it breaks the spell and I’m off. Within three strides I’ve laid a dirty check, slammed my own team mate Chen into the boards and stolen the puck from his stick. Picturing Ryan’s face at its rear, I fly towards the goal, aiming for where the asshole’s nose would be, then slap the shit out of the puck. Shane and Paul who were acting as my blocks have no time to get out of the way. They just jump and then watch the puck slide beneath their blades, the defense’s and goalie’s pads and straight into the back of the net. The horn blares, the crowd goes apeshit, as do my team mates. They’re on my back, my front, my sides, piling into me and screaming into my ears.

“Yeah, baby. What a beauty!”

“That’s how you do it, Cap.”

“Let's smash ’em, boys.”

Perhaps I smile and joke and play along as I skate to the bench for my obligatory high fives, or perhaps I look as sullen as I feel. I honestly have no concept. I’m one hundred percent on autopilot.

Numb.

When the final hand in line slaps into mine, my head snaps to them, to Ryan and Lotte. Except now all I see is a smirking Ryan with two empty seats beside him.

“Lotte?” Every fiber in my being tells me to leave and find her, but I can’t for two reasons. One, like Shane’s stanky breath reminded me, I am the captain. This is my future. My team’s future. And two, I’m the one who told her we can only be friends.

This is on me.

It’s our shift on the bench, so I jump the barrier and collapse forward onto my knees. Violence prickles beneath my skin. My fingers ache. Each labored breath further embeds the dagger I put there, into my heart. Behind me, Coach paces. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so mad. He is livid, really, eyes and lips twitching in time. But what’s even worse is that he’s silent.

It’s fucking torture, and he knows it. So I wait. Hoping he at least pulls a Professor Snape and bangs our heads together, but he does nothing but pace, and chew and twitch.

Until he doesn’t.

“What the hell was that, Petterson?” He explodes in my face, his spit resting on the tip of my nose is almost a relief. Shane gives me an understanding tap on my thigh as my mentor continues to hammer into me, but I don’t need his support. I deserve his wrath. I want it. Maybe if he fires up I will and then I can burn off some of this horrible fucking energy. This need to maim Ryan. “You’re lucky you pulled that goal out of your ass. The big freeze could easily have cost us a goal.” Happy for the distraction, I nod, and chug my water, but can’t help a glance over my right shoulder. The seat next to Ryan, the one Lotte was standing in front of, wearing his jersey as they kissed, remains empty. But leaning over it and talking to Mr. Kissy Lips is Claire.

Claire.

Claire is here.

Coach tells me how sick I make him, then sends me back onto the ice with a whack on the helmet. I use that reassuring tap and Claire’s presence to calm me, that kiss and Lotte’s absence as fuel, and by the end of the second period, I’m playing the best game of my life. It’s pure aggression, harnessed aggression, that’s led me to a hat trick and four assists that would normally have me bouncing off the locker room as Coach gives us our final instructions.

“Let’s play smart. Petterson is on fire, use him. Lock it in offense. Draw the penalties. Use power plays. I know it’s the first game, but for some of you, it’s your last first game ever in this jersey. Don’t let them claim what’s yours.”

For the entire speech I’ve got my head down, focusing on finishing Notre Dame off, unnecessarily reapplying tape to my blade, but with those words, “Don’t let them claim what’s yours,” my eyes shoot to Ryan. He’s been in the locker room each break, and it’s taken all my strength not to snap him like a twig.

Like he was waiting, his eyes meet mine and he smirks, then blows me a kiss.

I’m going to fucking kill him.

Maybe Shane and Brady saw his taunt, or maybe they just felt the heat of toxic rage igniting within me. Either way one of them grabs onto my shoulder, while the other dives across my lap like he’s trying to save a goal in overtime. Just like they had to in training, they pin me down, stopping me from making what would be a massive, albeit satisfying mistake. Cause yeah, spreading Ryan’s nose across his face might ease my frustration, but it could also end my career before it begins.

“Remember, don’t let him get to you,” Brady huffs.

“What? Like he got to Lotte?” My Lotte.

Thankfully Coach hasn’t seemed to notice I’m wearing two of his players like a shawl and continues his rev up. When he calls us into a huddle, Brady and Shane release their hold, but hover by me in case I again lose my cool. We gather round, backs and asses are slapped as the team hollers the heartiest, off-key chant of, “Let’s do this boyysssssss. Pucks deep!” before knocking heads and heading out to the tunnel. Flanking me on either side are my bodyguards. We’re the last to leave … well, almost.

“You must be a total fucking gayboy to not close that easy deal, Petterson. Cause damn, I had your little freak’s sweet pussy dripping and the bitch dropping to her knees in a heartbeat.”

My fists clench at my side and I’m ready to unleash, but don’t get the chance, because using every ounce of his 6‘5 body mass, Brady pushes me out of the way, and swings, “Motherfucker.” His fierce right hook lands with a brutal crack against Donnelly’s cheek, sending him flying back into the hopefully putrid laundry trolley. “Shut your filthy, disrespectful, homophobic mouth.”

Our crazy-eyed goalie looms over him, spit flying as I break free from Shane, grab the trolley handle and shove it across the room. “Big D might have struck first, but I promise you I will strike last.” There’s a sweat soaked towel on the bench beside me, so I pick it up, stalk towards my bloody-lipped teammate and toss it in his face. “Talk about her like that again, and I will fucking end you, Donnelly. You hear me?”

A door slams behind me and I know who it’s going to be, and just how fucked I am.

“Petterson, what the fuck is going on?”

Like two naughty schoolboys, Brady and I sit outside Coach Harris’s office, our heads low, our shoulders slumped with the weight of shame. Brady has his right hand in his pocket and it’s not the time but I have to ask.

“What the hell do you have in your pocket? You fiddle with it constantly and I need to know it’s not your dick you’re playing with.”

Brady’s cheeks bypass red and go straight to purple. “It’s not my dick, you Dick. But it is something else you’re never going to see, so just shut up.”

All of that is said without him facing me. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s mad or embarrassed. I can’t blame him for the latter. He could lose his scholarship for this but if Ryan presses charges, that’s the last of his worries … he could be deported. Still curious, I drop the pocket thing and worry about myself instead. If the shit hits the fan, I could lose the captaincy, my place with Tampa. Everything. But I’m so blinded by jealousy, so twisted up inside that all I think of is Ryan and Lotte, and his jersey and that kiss.

Did he pick her up and drive her straight here?

Did they go out to eat?

Was that their first kiss?

Why did she leave?

Where did she go?

Was she waiting for him outside?

Did he touch her?

Did she touch him?

Did my Lotte really drop to her knees … For him?

The him in question is in there now, undoubtedly lying through his ass, squealing like a pig about how me and Brady jumped him for no reason. But part of the reason why Coach is the best in the NCAA is that he can smell bullshit a mile away, and isn’t afraid to call it what it is … or punish those who dump it on his lap - star player or not.

Muted voices become clearer, “I’ll be in touch, Donnelly, and for God’s sake, keep your nose clean for five minutes.”

“Will do, Coach. Like I said, I just want to avoid the drama, and play the game I love, for the team I love.”

Please, I’m going to puke.

Ryan exits the office, shoving his hands in his pockets as he passes and strategically leaving his wriggling middle finger hanging free. Sneaky fuck.

Coach turns to me and Brady, sighs and cracks his neck, “Get in here you two. I’m on a roll.”

“I’ve never been called in here like this, Noah,” whispers Brady as he shuffles behind me, “he’s going to break us, isn’t he?”

“No he’s not,” Coach answers before I can, “I know I seem ancient to you boys, Basse, but I’m not deaf. Sit.” He nods to the two seats opposite his desk then collapses into his chair and leans back. Dude is so over this, it’s almost funny. “This may come as a complete shock, but I too was once a college kid with a big dick and an even bigger ego. Luckily for me, I had a brain to match. I thought you did too, Noah, but the last couple of weeks have me questioning that … and my decision to make you captain.”

Brady leaps to his feet and slams both hands onto Coach’s desk. “Noah didn’t do anything!”

I latch onto the hood of his sweatshirt and try to pull him back. “Nope. It’s my fault. I’m the captain.”

“Captain or not, you did nothing. I punched him, and I don’t regret it.” He turns from me, stands and leans his palms on Coach’s desk, more gently this time. A bold move if I’ve ever seen one. “Coach, from the moment you picked me up at the airport, you’ve told me that our team was more than a team. That we were brothers. Now, I’ve got five brothers back home, Coach. Five. And not one of us would let another get away with shit-talking another brother and his girl like that.”

Coach pinches the bridge of his nose and rises. “You lost me at the first other brother, Basse. But even if you didn’t, it would change nothing. Donnelly claims he and this girl were on a date, that the girl rejected you,” he points to me, “Petterson, and that you and your goons attacked him out of jealousy … fuck I sound like a damn Kardashian,” he sighs, rubs his nose some more then walks to and opens his door. “Someone is lying, and to be honest, I am too old, and tired, and sick of reality TV-drama to figure out who. Either way, I can’t have my players fighting over girls, or guys, or anything for that matter. You’re both benched.” Brady and I go to scream in protest but Coach waves us off in disgust. “No training. No game next week. No watching from the bench. No discussion. This is done, and if it happens again, you’re both off the team.”

I stupidly stand before him, and block his exit. “Coach, It’s my fault. Don’t blame Brady.”

“Bit late to play the honorable leader card now, son. Now, get the hell out of my face and my office.”

Brady still wants to argue, but it’s useless, not only because I’ve known Coach for almost four years, nothing is changing his mind, but because Brady is so pissed his accent has quadrupled in Australian-ess, and no one can understand him. Judging by the look on his face, I’m not even sure he can understand himself. Something I’m more than familiar with lately.

“Why has this girl gotten so under my skin?” I ask to no one, but Brady answers.

“Cause she’s cute as fuck, sweet as sugar, and together, you two would be some kind of all-American,apple pieeating, pumpkin patch picking perfect.”

The urge to chastise him for brandishing me with good Ol’ American stereotypes is strong, but ignored. Instead, I swallow the snark like a spoonful sweetened maple syrup. Never let it be said that Noah Petterson walks away from a fight. It’s just with this one, he’s right.