Page 6 of The Play Maker

My eyes snap to his, and I put on my best puppy dog face.

Nathan recoils. “The fuck are you doing? You look creepy as hell. Cut that shit out.”

I drop the act with a sigh. “Can you talk to Coach? Daddy-son privileges and all that?”

Nathan makes a gagging sound. “First of all, never say “daddy-son” ever again. Second, that’s not how it works. On the ice, I’m just another player. Not his son.”

I grunt, yanking my jersey over my head and push open the door. “He won’t know I failed if none of you fucking talk,” I say, bumping Nathan’s shoulder as we leave the locker room. “Just don’t say anything, and it’ll be fine.”

Nathan shakes his head. “I hope you’re right.”

Fucking hell. I hope I’m right too. Hope the guys are all wrong, hope Coach doesn’t find out, hope I can still play, hope?—

“Rhodes,” Coach’s voice booms from across the rink. “Where the hell are you going?”

Both me and Nathan freeze at the sound of Coach’s voice. He’s standing there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and that godawful whistle of his dangling from his neck.

“Well, I was going to practice, but if you wanna go on a date, you need to ask first, Coach,” I joke, throwing him a wink.

He does not appreciate it. At all.

Ah, well. Win some, lose some. As long as he lets me play, I’ll cut the jokes out altogether… Alright, maybe notaltogether, but I’ll tone it down. I’ll do whatever I have to do to get on the ice.

Coach doesn’t say a word, just points behind him to the rink. “Nathan, get on the ice.”

Fuck.Nota good sign.

Stay calm. Maybe he just wants to talk. Maybe he wants me to give him sex advice or something. His wife is hot as hell, and I doubt he’s putting in the work to keep her satisfied.

“Good talk,” I say, flashing a smile as I place my helmet on, tapping my head. “I’m ready to practice, Coach. Lemme just?—”

“No.”

The single word stops me cold.

“You’re suspended.”

My stomach plummets into my ass. No. No. No. This can’t be fucking happening.

“Suspended?” I shake my head. “But?—”

“I got the email from your professor. You failed, and that brought your grade average way down. You know the rules. You don’t play if you don’t pass your tests.”

“What? Comeon. Anatomy is fucking bullshit. I don’t need to learn that to play.”

“I’d disagree,” he says with a shrug, his hard-ass face still perfectly in place. “And so would your professor. You’re on the bench until you get your shit together.”

“But—” I throw my hand toward the ice. “I’m the best center you’ve got. Who the hell is gonna replace me?”

“Jenkins,” Coach barks, keeping his eyes on me. “On the ice.”

The rookie freshman stands up, wide-eyed. “Me?” he asks, pointing to his chest like he’s shocked someone knows his name.

Coach pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, you. Get on the ice. Now.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I shout, throwing my arms up. “You’re putting a rookie on instead of me? C’mon, Coach. You know I want this. I’ve been busting my ass for this team!”

He sighs, shakes his head, and for a split second, I swear there’s a hint of sympathy in his eyes. But then it’s gone. “Apparently not enough. Sorry, but you know the rules.” He shoves a water bottle into my hands. “You want back on the ice? Chill out, hit the books, and you’ll be back in no time.”