Page 6 of Faking Time (The Steel City #2)

CHAPTER SIX

carter

I don’t get nervous. It’s not an emotion I’m used to feeling.

But standing outside Coach Davison’s door, knowing I have to walk in and face the music, this feeling in my gut is the closest thing to nerves that I’ve ever felt.

The whole walk down here was far too reminiscent of my countless strolls to the principal's office.

Knowing I have to take responsibility eventually, either now or later, I knock on his door.

I was called in early for a ‘discussion’.

Never a good sign. This isn’t the first time this has happened either, so I’m well educated on how this will go.

He’ll scold me, remind me why I’m here, and order me to keep my nose clean for the foreseeable future.

There might be a subtle threat at the end, but that depends on his mood.

Well, that’s how the conversation would usually go. This time feels a bit different. This time, I took it a bit too far.

Unfortunately, I think there’s much more at stake this time around, and I am not sure a simple lecture will suffice. There are actual charges that are about to be pressed against me. I was physically tossed and booked into jail for assault. The media is already having a field day with this story.

I’ve officially made this team a circus act.

This is more than just too much roughhousing on the ice, more than all those times I got away with throwing a punch or two. The public has been roped into it, and they have pulled up a front row seat. There is nothing the big hats hate more than public opinion.

“Yeah.” It’s more of a grunt than anything.

Man of many words, Coach Davison.

I open the door. He doesn’t look up to greet me, even when I shut it behind me and hesitantly step into his office. Not much ever changes in this room. Coach is a man who likes his space the way he’s always liked his space, and he’d probably sock anyone who tries to mess with it.

His large, roomy office is spotless, and that’s not because of the cleaning staff. It smells like fresh leather, and Coach always has a jar of individually wrapped pieces of gum on the corner of his desk. ‘ Everyone always wants gum ,’ is what he said when I asked about it once.

He isn’t wrong.

I reach for the jar.

His cold, blue eyes snap upward. That look is disparaging and holds a very clear warning that I am not to help myself to anything right now. Gum included.

I yank my hand back just as quickly and lower myself into the brown leather chair across from his desk.

“Forker.”

“Coach.” I nod.

He slowly moves the papers in his hands to the side of his desk, angling his body away from his computer. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands to rest them on his stomach, his face completely void of emotion .

He says nothing.

This is hell on earth.

There is nobody I hate disappointing more than the man on the other side of this desk. My parents? They’ll live. Ari? Hurts sometimes, but I’ll get over it and so will she. My team? That one stings a bit, but I know what I’m doing. Most of the time.

Coach? I’d rather die than disappoint the man who has always looked at me and seen a smart and tactical player, not a basket case. Since he’s been a part of the team, he’s made it clear that I’m valuable, much more than just an enforcer, and I’ve felt that way every single day since.

My last Coach? The one who got canned not too long ago? The opposite. I was nothing to him. Not when Saltzy and Lowesy were on his roster. Those were his stars. The rest of us? He could take us or leave us. Especially the enforcers. He would have traded me in a second and not batted an eye.

“You’ve created quite a mess.”

I nod stiffly. No sense in denying that.

Those blue eyes skim my face. His cheeks aren't a blistering red, so he can’t be that angry with me, can he? That’s his usual giveaway. His veins aren’t popping out of his neck, either. All of his tell-tale signs of frustration are not visible.

I might survive this.

“What am I supposed to do with assault charges?”

Forgive me?

Get them dropped?

I hold his gaze but say nothing. I’m not the brightest bulb in the arena, but I’m fairly certain that was a rhetorical question.

He already knows the answer. He’s had to deal with the fallout for days now.

There have been many talks with many people, much more important than myself, about my fate.

I’m here so he can serve me the consequences, not give my side of the story or offer up a bunch of excuses.

“This is becoming a pattern, Fork,” he grumbles, letting out a long sigh.

“Your first year, you got away with your shit by the skin of your teeth. I’ve followed your career.

Even when I wasn’t a part of this team, I was well aware of your behaviour.

Last summer, we swept that shit that happened in California under the rug. This? This one was the mecca.”

I wince. That isn’t good.

Sweat is starting to pool on the back of my neck. Again, I don’t get nervous, but I do get stressed. I’m feeling really fucking stressed out right now.

I can’t lose my job.

“I know, Coach,” I say, trying not to mumble like a little boy. Ariana always tells me that it makes it seem like I don’t mean what I’m saying, even when I do. “I’m sorry.”

“What happened?”

“I’m sure you’ve already talked to the guys.”

His eyes harden—frustration level increasing. “It doesn’t matter who I have or haven’t spoken to. I’m asking you a question. What happened?”

Well, okay then.

“Some idiot was bothering this girl,” I say, shrugging like it’s nothing. It wasn’t nothing. He touched her without her consent. Smacked her. “He took it too far and I lost my shit.”

Coach nods, likely having heard this story at least three times already.

He lets out a long, deep breath and shakes his head.

I feel like the bad kid in class, constantly being scolded, unwilling to improve.

It’s hard when it’s who you are. This isn’t a behavioural thing.

I don’t want attention. I’m just reactive. It’s ingrained in me.

“You’re suspended for two games,” he says. Just like that.

My heart should sink, but it soars .

Holy shit. I’m not fired?

My eyes must light up because Coach shoots me a look so lethal that my excitement fizzles out to nothing.

“You’ll be expected to make a statement about this. You have to talk with Amanda in public relations. I don’t trust you to produce something respectable on your own.”

That’s fair. I’m not the most trustworthy of his players at the moment.

I nod along repeatedly, but all I hear is that I’m not fired.

“I did a lot of damage control when it came to your position on this team, Forker. It wasn’t an easy task, alright?

I can’t keep doing it. I put my neck out for you and you punish me for it.

This is your last chance, kid. You can be a bully on that ice as much as you want, but off of it? That has to stop.”

I nod again, but this one feels less assured.

I’m going to try, but I have a habit of making the same mistakes over and over again.

Even when I have the best of intentions, my temper rears its ugly head eventually.

Swinging is something that comes naturally to me.

It’s how I solve disagreements. I’m not good with my words, not smart enough to win fights that way. I hit things. I’m good at that.

“You won’t play tomorrow, but you’ll be here. You’ll suit up and show your face. You’ll do press after the game, and I’m going to put you on the desk with someone else who was at that bar, or maybe somebody who just makes you look good. I haven’t decided yet.”

Saltzy or Lowesy, then. Boston barely speaks to the public as it is. He’d be useless in this situation. Coach isn’t dumb. He knows the right people to put in the spotlight to sway public opinion.

Saltzy was there. He is the perfect diplomat. You never know what that man is thinking, but he will say the right thing at that desk. He will make sure that our team comes out looking the best we can possibly look. Best part? He’ll have an answer for everything. That man doesn’t flounder.

Lowesy wasn’t at Icebox , but he’s my right-hand man and the whole world knows it.

Having him next to me would be wise. Just two best friends, one with a halo above his head, and the other with devil horns embedded in his.

Balance. Plus, he’s the golden boy. The sunshine that pours from those dimples and those eyeballs tends to project me in a nicer light.

“Absolutely.” I’m nodding so much that I feel like a fucking puppet. “Thanks, Coach. I won’t let you down.”

Coach dips his chin, but uncertainty is wafting off him in waves.

He might have put his neck out for me again, but he fears it was a mistake.

That’s a tough pill to swallow. The only way to make this better, to swap the look on his face with something nicer, is to figure my shit out and be the player he needs me to be.

I keep repaying his kindness with shit. Shit on a silver platter is still shit.

I stand, but he doesn’t follow suit. I ignore that pang of disrespect. He’s a Southern man. He usually stands when we do, says goodbye in a way that he considers polite. I hold out my hand anyway, and thankfully, he takes it—even though he does so with a hard look.

“I promise,” I say, looking him in the eye so he can see how serious I am when I repeat the next words. “I won’t let you down again.”

“You better not. Now, get going. If Amanda isn’t your first stop, you might as well pack your things now and get the hell out of my sight.”