Page 7 of Dangle

“Rounding out the front three is Ethan Ruggers. Ethan’s no Aiden Mercer or Trey Malachek, but the boy can skate, and when you have two of the best forwards in the conference as linemates, being where you need to be when they need you there is not nothing.”

“Next up, the Mauler starting defensive pair: the twin terrors, Isaiah and Isaac Huston. You do not want to get stuck in the corners or behind the net with either of these two boys. They are big, brutal, and fast.”

“And rounding us out, we have goalie Ryan Riordan in the net. This kid has a homing device attached to the puck. He’s number one in the nation in save percentage, and he’s just a sophomore.”

“On the other side of the ice?—”

Coach Storm grabbed my arm. “Trey. Hang back for a second.”

I stopped, waving Isaac Huston on when he stopped as well. It wouldn’t do for the captain and the alternate not to hit the ice.

“Yeah, Coach?”

His gaze stuck to Isaac’s back. The moment we were alone in the tunnel, he said, “I called Merkel.”

“Why?” I asked, trying my damnedest to figure out what I could have done wrong.

Sasha Storm hadn’t been with us for long. He came on when our previous coach got caught doing some illegal shit that got him canned. But I knewThe Storm. Everyone knew Sasha Svartstrom and not just for the freak puck he took to the temple that ended his career. No. They knew him as a beautician. The man was a menace on the ice. His average minutes per game, his shots on goal, points, and goals were way above average. Better than both my dad and grandfather.

“Because I wanted to know why they’re leaving talent like yours on a college bench.”

I couldn’t fucking look at him. Instead, I waited to see if he would explain, but his lips stayed zipped. Sighing, I asked, “What did he say?”

“What’s he told your dad?”

Fuck me. I should have known he’d hit me with that one. I hated the position this put me in. Yes, I’d asked my dad why New York wanted me so badly they drafted me as their first-round pick, only to leave me riding the pine at The U. Not worded that way, of course. The world had two braggy fuckers in Donald and Donnie Malachek. They didn’t need a third in me. I refused to live up to that part of my legacy.

My lips rolled into my mouth, which turned to chewing the tender inside of them before scraping first the lower and then the upper lip, digging the sharp edges of my teeth into the flesh that I knew would make them puff up. I knew my dad hated Coach Storm, but Dad hated most people who counted him as their friend.

Squaring my shoulders, I finally admitted, “Dad refuses to call him.”

He nodded. That was it. What?—

“Well, he toldmehe wanted to see more impulse control. You’ve got a reputation for being a hot-headed player on and off the ice.”

That sucked, big fucking hairy ones, but I nodded.

“That means, put your head down, focus on school and hockey, and less fuckery.”

Shit. Did Coach know…

“You don’t gotta be a monk, but maybe quit fucking around and getting shitfaced in public. The front office, and Merkel especially, doesn’t put up with bad publicity. They’ll fine your ass or put you on the bench.”

I nodded my head, fucking spinning.

Then his hand landed on my shoulder, and the other patted the side of my face. The touch felt weird. Not pervy-weird, just…odd. No one in my life was as touchy-feely as Sasha Storm. They didn’t do that shit, not even my mother.

“I’ve convinced him to bring you to camp this summer.”

My eyes flew to his. The words shocked me. I tried to clamp that shit down, but it was useless. I couldn’t believe it. Coach’s hand moved to the back of my neck, shaking me a little.

“Just get out of your own way. You understand?” I nodded, and he continued, “And remember…your last name is Malachek, but Trey Malachek only has to be Trey Malachek, not anyone else.”

My eyes burned as tears flooded my vision. Swallowing, I nodded, then added, “Yes, Coach.”

Unable to stand there any longer without losing it, I turned my back to him and trudged off down the tunnel. At the gate, the equipment manager, someone whose name I’d never learned because per the Malachek code, he wasn’t worth the time, stood waiting for me to hand over the blade guards I wore even on the rubber mats. Cause that shit felt weird to me.

Trey Malachek only has to be Trey Malachek, not anyone else.