Page 46 of The Switched-Up Playbook
“No, but it’s what itfeelslike!” There’s a whole lot more I want to throw at him, get him to understand how angry it makes me that of course I can’t say anything to Coach, to anyone! Because no matter how angry I am right now, Nate is still my best friend, and I would never risk his career. But I’m also fuming over how casually he handles this; how easy it is for him to break the rules while I’m constantly worried that something I say or do will turn me intoTheBad Example. The one the bigots will point to when they want to argue for less “politics” in their sport.
While I’m digesting my anger, there’s an entire other part of me slowly rearing its head. The tiny piece that’s upset, confused,relieved, that it’s notNateI’ve been crushing on.
Just his annoying twin.
I’ve been standing there for far too long, so I finally shoulder my way out of our room without another word. At least the weights at the gym won’t lie to me.
Nicko, October 30th
“Back from the dead, I see,” Coach greets me on the first day I step back on the ice with the Badgers. He says it with a raised brow and a slight edge to his tone that has me pull up my shoulders.
While Nate simply wasn’t able to play for me during the first week of our switch, I specifically asked him to sit out the second one. I didn’t want him to win my place back for me, even when the thought of him having to put up with Aldridge was tempting. Hence, he dragged the symptoms of his stomach flu out for longer than any student athlete would dare to do.
I barely manage a nod at the lingering question, causing my teammates to mutter quietly among themselves while we wait for the first instructions.
For a moment Coach regards me with a thoughtful look. There’s no visible anger displayed on his face, yet I shiver under my gear. He dismisses the rest of the team with a quick flick of his wrist, leaving the warm up to the assistant coaching staff, but raises his hand to keep me from following them.
“What am I supposed to do with you, Nicholas?” he asks with a sigh, and I shrink into myself. This is exactly what I feared would happen. Except for last year’s injury I’ve played through most of my medical conditions—be it a bruised rib or sprained ankle. Taking two weeks off for a supposed stomach flu is not just unusual for me, it’s outright stupid considering my current standing with the team.
Still, I can’t find it in me to regret keeping Nate from playing in my place.
Coach doesn’t seem like he actually expected an answer, he just lets out another long sigh.
“You know why I let you play on fourth line?” he asks, and I frown.
To punish me. The bitter answer is right there on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it. I know he has to do what’s best for the team, but I can’t bring myself to say that, so I press my lips together in a tight line.
“To take away the spotlight. I’m not stupid, Nicholas. After an injury like that, everyone wants to see how the 7th overall draft pick plays, right? Your teammates, other teams, the school, the Rebels, they all want to see it,” he counts off on his fingers, and I flinch at each point.
“And with a bull-headed boy like you? No.” He shakes his head at whatever imaginary scenario he conjured up, then focuses back on me. “Were you even sick in the first place?”
The question is so unexpected, I take way too long for a convincing answer. I know what I’m supposed to say—swear up and down that I could barely stand on my own two feet, that I gagged on the smallest sip of water and basically slept in front of the toilet for days. But I’ve never been a good storyteller. My cheeks already heat from the unspoken lie, and I finally give the most subtle shake of my head.
“No.”
Coach groans and wipes a hand down his face at this. “You know telling a lie would make life easier for me, yes?” he curses, and for a second my lips twitch.
I quickly bite down on it, though, when he narrows his eyes at me. I almost expect him to go further, draw another conclusion, but Nate never entered the rink in my place, so there’s no reason for him to suspect our switch.
“I should suspend you from the team for this.”
I hold my breath, biting down hard on the inside of my cheek. A suspension would put a definite end to my career plans, right here and now. No more hopes of getting back my place, but also no more doubts. No more of the awful “will they, won’t they sign me.”
My heart beats in my throat as I wait for Coach’s final judgment like a prisoner facing the jury. I barely dare to take another breath until he groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“You will be with Zollweg and Kristiansson today.”
“What?” I honestly think I must have misheard. Or maybe my mind is playing a cruel trick on me.
“Do not make me repeat my words, Nicholas, and do not think this is a reward. It is not. I will think of a punishment,” he warns, his eyes boring into me before he gestures toward my teammates. “Now go. Go! You give me a headache.”
I take off in such a hurry I almost stumble over my own two feet when Coach demands my attention one more time.
“Nicholas!” he calls out, and I reluctantly look back at him over my shoulder. I’m too shocked to feel relief right now, but I also don’t want to give him a chance to change his mind.
“Yes?”
“Before the next stomach flu comes on, you talk to me.” It’s worded more like an order than an offer, and I scramble for an answer.
