Page 34 of Massacre Monday

“Cardell! What the fuck are you doing?” Landon yells as I almost trip over the cones set up for us to skate around.

“Shit.”

He flies up to me and bumps his helmet against mine. “That was a straight pass. You’re acting like you’re not here.”

“You alright there, Cardell?” Jax asks, and I nod while giving Lan a shove in the shoulder.

I glance over at Coach Bell, who’s observing me carefully, as I tell the team, “It’s just an off day. What? I’m not allowed to be tired?”

Jax is a good guy, always concerned about us. I know it’s because he really wants to get drafted, but I also think he genuinely cares. Pulling me toward the boards, he murmurs, “Last night hit us all hard. Still recovering?”

“I guess so.”

“We gotta have you in top shape for the first game in a couple of weeks. Hey, if you need anything, let me know.”

“Thanks.”

A few of the other guys eye us, and I try to put my girl out of my mind so I don’t call more attention to the situation.

After finishing drills, we scrimmage, and I make one slapshot on our goalie, who gives me a little salute in respect.

My muscles are worn out and ragged by the time we finish. I’ve been busy training, and…with other diversions. Plus, between how much I’m lifting in the weight room and the cross-training program I started, I can’t consume enough calories. If only I could eat Pippi’s pussy all day, I’d be satisfied.

Fuck. Now I’ve got a full erection.

“Cardell! See me in my office after,” Coach Bell calls out to me from the hall as I reach the locker room.

“You got it, Coach!”

Grumbling all the way to the showers, I hurriedly clean myself up, dress, and grab a protein bar from my locker while tousling my wet hair between my fingers. When I approach, his door is cracked, and he waves me toward the blue-padded chair in front of his desk.

“Come in and have a seat.” He waits for me to settle in, then strokes his chin once. Twice. “Cardell, you’re one of the best players I’ve had the privilege to coach. This is why I knew I made the right decision to make you captain your second year when you came back from that…injury.” Sitting back in his chair, he eyes me skeptically, as if he knows my secret. I mimic his posture and keep my mouth shut.

Clearing his throat, he continues. “I understand you couldn’t devote the time to the draft and the sport last year with your fraternity presidency obligations, but I still appreciated how much you gave the team with all of that going on. But it seems something happened between finals then and now. You’re good enough to go pro, honestly. That’s talent that shouldn’t be wasted. It doesn’t come around every day.”

I’m not sure what his point is, so I sit silently without the words I need to say, other than, “Thank you, sir.”

He leans forward and scans my frame. “You’re getting distracted more often. I wonder if your heart isn’t here, and it’s been pulled somewhere else. Ryan, son, are youokay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” My eyes widen with surprise at how quickly the automatic response crosses my lips.

I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’m okay. Nothing to worry about.

If I confess my struggle to someone, I fear they’ll tell my father. Who could make my future even bleaker than it already appears to be. Not only that, but the board, the elders, could assign me to do something worse. Like put me on the Board of Loyalty and Societal Appreciation Control (the BALSAC). Which is a long-winded way of saying “snitches with clipboards.” Or they could just kill me, which is starting to not look like such a bad idea…

Except I gotta live for my pink cheeks.

I shift in my seat, getting a feel for my phone in my pocket, dying to leave here so I can do what I want. “I’m sorry, Coach. You know how things go around here. I’m going to be CEO of Cardell Enterprises and won’t have time for hockey. Even got my appointed woman, too.”

He doesn’t look like he buys my attempted enthusiasm, so I follow with the truth. “I don’t want to play professional hockey. In another world, at a different time, maybe I’d work in the NHL for scouting or commentating, but not playing. It’s just not something I’m interested in pursuing as my career, though I enjoy the game.”

Wiping a hand over his bald head, he gives a curt grin. “Thank you for telling me the truth. Because if youwantedto go pro, you know that your father, me, and the president of the university would fight to make that happen. We’d tell— We would change the orders for you. But if you truly don’t want it, then so be it.”

“I don’t.” As I stand, I pause and ask, “Do you think it’s possible for you all to request that I become a scout?”

His eyes dart toward the desk as he bumbles words, already sounding like a negative. “I’m not sure they would allow that…”

I hate that it makes me so fuckingsadto hear. So I hurry out the door and to the athletic training center cafeteria to grab whatever they have left to eat before closing time.