Page 3 of Punked By the Playmaker
A hand grabbed my elbow. “Whoa, easy. Let us help you.”
Another trainer appeared on the opposite side, and I was hefted off the ice. Every inhale I took burned like hell, but I’d take getting the wind knocked out of me any day over having my bell rung.
I was escorted back to the bench, where I collapsed.
Cole nudged my shoulder, offering me a water bottle, which I gratefully accepted, taking a sip before squirting a generous amount over my face.
“You all right?”
“Physically, yes.” And because I was in a pissy mood, I added, “Mentally, not even a little bit.”
He hummed. “Yeah, I get that. But you’ll get used to it.”
That was the problem. I didn’t want toget used to it. Not to getting our asses kicked by double digits, not to being the laughingstock of the league, not to being hung out to dry by my teammates, none of it.
Karma was really fucking me up the ass with a cactus this time.
Chapter 2
Levi
Twoweeksintomytenure with the Surf, I was no longer the newest face in the locker room. Management finally got fed up and fired Coach Faulk, replacing him with Cameron Davenport.
It was a controversial hire. Davenport was known for being hotheaded. A search of his name on social media brought up all kinds of video clips of him screaming at refs and his players alike. Those who’d played for him in the past, along with other coaches in the league, had nothing nice to say about him.
There was a very real possibility that this would only pour gasoline on the dumpster fire that was the experiment of a hockey team in San Diego.
A nervous energy vibrated through the locker room as we dressed in our gear for warmups before tonight’s game against the Las Vegas Luck. The coaching change occurred during a press conference following our morning skate, so we anxiously awaited meeting our new bench boss.
Rumors about him circulated around the room.
“I heard he doesn’t let you have water during practice.”
“Yeah, well,Iheard he enforces a curfew on road trips. Total cockblocker.”
“Are we going to talk about the claims that he slept with a player’s girlfriend?”
“Ex-girlfriend,” a gruff voice corrected, and all our heads snapped up in unison to find Davenport strutting into the locker room. He came to a stop at the center. “And for the record, he was the one who dumped her.” With an arched eyebrow, he asked, “Anything else you’d like me to clear up for you, boys?”
His question was met with silence. None of us dared to breathe, let alone speak.
“Good. Now, let’s get one thing straight. I’m not here to be your friend. Whether you get your dick wet or not while we’re on the road falls at the bottom of my priority list. All I care about is winning hockey games.”
Crew Astor, Cole’s identical twin, snorted. “Then you came to the wrong place.”
“That”—Davenport pointed at our alternate captain—“is the biggest problem we face. All of you step onto the ice, night after night, already expecting to lose. It then becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
Jagger Barclay, Crew’s defensive partner, huffed, “Easy to say when you’re not the one having the puck rammed so far down your throat you taste rubber.”
Our coach folded both arms across his chest. “Is the next complaint going to be that we don’t have the talent to compete with that of other rosters?”
Like the young fool that he was, rookie Gunnar Jansson said in heavily accented English, “Well, now that you mention it . . .”
A corner of Davenport’s lips twitched. “If that’s how you feel, then I suppose you won’t mind being a healthy scratch tonight.” That was one step worse than being sat; you didn’t even get tosuit up and be on the bench, instead relegated to watch on from the press box.
Jansson’s eyes bulged as he rose to his feet. “What? You can’t do that!”
Coach shrugged. “I just did. Now get the hell out of my locker room.”
