Page 14

14

ledger

I had never carried a heavier weight on my shoulders or deeper anger. My career had been solid—I was a good skater, a great offensive player, and a damn good fighter. I loved hockey, but after what Coach interrupted, I wanted to hand in my resignation.

I was nearly ready to quit when the beautiful, curly-haired goddess walked out of my apartment for good. The universe had brought her to my doorstep three times, but our luck had finally run out. It was over before it started.

“Fuck” echoed through the empty apartment as the door slammed shut. Dealing with whatever Coach was calling about at nine at night was unavoidable. A glance at the spot in the living room where Auburn had given the best blow job of my life brought a sharp reminder that it was over—time just wasn’t on our side. She had to take care of her relative, who needed round-the-clock care, and I had the hockey team, which was similarly demanding, especially since I was the captain.

Grabbing my wallet and keys, I hurried out, not wanting to linger where her scent still permeated the air. I headed down the hall to where Coach lived.

* * *

“We should never have recruited an eighteen-year-old.” Coach was pacing in his corner apartment, which was much more modern than mine. He had left all the original stylings, and it was white, cold, and sterile.

Coach was in his early forties and single by choice, or so he said. He was a huge superstar fifteen years ago in the Canadian Hockey League, but got injured early and decided to spend the rest of his time coaching. He’d been with the Ravens for quite some time, which was rare in hockey.

He was usually put together, especially in his designer suits at the games, but tonight, he looked out of place in his gray sweats and black hoodie. His blond hair was cropped short. He was clean-shaven and had dark blue eyes that seemed fearful.

“I had no intention of leaving this damn house tonight, and I had to beg the cops not to arrest Hart.”

“What’d he do?” I asked, settling into one of the uncomfortable barstools without a back at the counter. “Why the fuck did you buy these? We’re big men, and my ass barely fits on the seat.”

Coach chuckled before cracking open a beer, then handing me one.

“He went out with some of the guys. They tried to use a fake ID and got caught.”

“And instead of cutting the ID, the bar called the cops?” It seemed extreme to call the police right away. Normally, you’d cut up the card and tell the kid to go suck it somewhere else.

“They recognized Dirks as a player, and it was a stick-it-to-the-man kind of moment.”

“Fuck,” I said, taking a long pull at the beer. “So what’s the plan?”

Coach stepped out from behind the counter and stood directly in front of me. This was not good. “Whatever you’re about to ask, it’s major, isn’t it?”

I didn’t need to hear his request to know my answer was an unequivocal no. His eyes widened with a desperate puppy-dog look. “No.”

The stool clattered behind me as I stood and moved toward the windows overlooking the lake.

“No,” I repeated.

“Listen…” Coach came up from behind me as I looked out into the night sky. “I told them I didn’t want the liability of someone like Hart on our team, but everyone seemed to think it would be good for the team and the media.”

“Media?” I asked, turning around to face him.

Coach rubbed his temples, then gestured for us to move to the couch. I took a seat, expecting to sink into it, but instead, it forced me to sit upright.

“How the fuck do you sit on this?” I asked, scooting forward so I could somehow get comfortable on this stiff piece of shit.

“It’s not for sitting.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “It’s a fucking couch.”

“I don’t fucking know. The designer said that this couch was a talking couch and there were other areas in the house for watching TV.”

“Weird, man.”

Coach sighed. “As I was saying, management thought that bringing on the best youngest player in the League would be good for our socials, get people to the stadium this year.”

“Is that a problem?” Truthfully, when I was on the ice, I had no idea if there were ten people or tens of thousands, and I didn’t care. I played for the sport, for the adrenaline, and for the bigger team aspect.

“Yes, it’s a fucking problem. Who pays your bills, Cole?” Coach snarled.

“Valid point. So the team decided to pick up the rookie for social aspects, but if they find out about this, it will tank any thoughts of him having this young, wholesome persona?”

“Now you’re putting the pieces together.” I leaned against the couch and was met with an uncomfortable squeak from the leather. Fuckin’ A.

“So, if you’re not going to tell upper management, then what’s this plan you want me wrapped up in?”

Coach leaned in toward me. “I know this is one of your last years?—”

“The last,” I corrected him.

He rolled his eyes but continued with what he was going to ask me. “I need you to mentor the kid.”

“Right, because he’s literally a child.” I sighed, looking at the twinkling lights of the city and wondering if Auburn had gotten to her family member’s house already and was safe. I was a fucking idiot for not getting her number.

As I grew up, my mama taught me respect was one of our greatest weapons as humans, though many people didn’t see it that way. I was always taught to treat people with kindness, but that part of me had hardened over the years. I was no longer warm and kind, and was tired all the time.

“Are you listening?” Coach asked.

“No. Sorry, will you repeat that?”

“I need you to mentor him, Cole. I need you to show him what it’s like to be a skater but also what it means to be on a team. Those are the skills he doesn’t have.”

“For you?”

“For me.” Coach was everything to me. He gave me an entire career I wouldn’t have had without him. After my injury last year, he offered me a lifeline, a second chance I wouldn’t find elsewhere. He fought tooth and nail to keep me on the Ravens roster.

With a resigned sigh, I relented, recognizing that I owed it to him to follow through with his plan. “Okay,” I conceded, though every fiber of my being resisted the idea.

“But…I won’t be held responsible for coddling him on the road or before games. I have my own pregame routine that I can’t afford to disrupt because of superstition.”

“No.” He leaned back on the couch and looked at me as he splayed out. “I have a plan for that.”