Page 136 of Fighting Chance

Irving’s frustration explodes with a kick, the sound of his foot connecting with the locker as loud as thunder as it booms throughout the otherwise silent room.

The door swings open to my right and Coach walks in. With his flushed neck, protruding veins, and tight eyes, he’s living up to the nickname I gave him my rookie season—the bull.

Fuck, even Olivia Foster, the assistant coach, looks like she sucked on a lemon as she trails behind Coach. They stand beside one another, looking at us like we’ve not only disappointed them but sacrificed their firstborns with that loss.

Coach blows out a breath, rubbing his hand along his five o’clock shadow. “Well, we all know that game was rubbish.”

Irving, sitting on the bench across from me, snorts. “Rubbish is an understatement.”

“It was shocking.”

“Beyond,” Foster mumbles under her breath.

“I have no idea what the fuck that was, but whatever bad juju crawled up your asses, yank it the fuck out,” Coach thunders. “I expect you to come to practice next week as if you are NHL players being paid millions to slap a fucking puck and not amateurs.” Coach takes a deep breath to get a handle on his emotions. “I’m choosing to chalk this up to a momentary lapse in judgment on all your parts. But if you all play like sloppy two-year-olds in next week’s game, I’ll hang you by your balls and make you do suicides until you bleed. Understood?”

“Yes, Coach,” we collectively murmur.

He dips his chin, spinning on his heel as he shakes his head and leaves. Olivia gives us a final look before she follows.

Irving groans. “What the fuck happened tonight?”

“Bloody beats me. It’s been a long time since I’ve played like that,” Grayson admits, grimacing as he no doubt remembers the time where he was at the bottom of a bottle.

Mitchel rises, narrowing his eyes as he assesses us all. “Who fucked up their pre-game ritual? No one can convince me we weren’t fucking hexed tonight.”

The boys hold up their hands in surrender, all shaking their heads.

Mitchel spins on Irving suddenly. “Did you piss off a bunny again?”

Irving glares back. “What has that got to do with how we played?”

“She could have hexed us,” Johnson points out.

I snort. “Let’s not go down this rabbit hole, boys.”

Grayson rises. “Kieran’s right, let’s just say it was an off night and move on. Focus on how we skate in practice and work on it not happening again. Now go lick your wounds in solitude. I don’t want to see any rowdy shit in the press tomorrow, otherwise another vein is gonna pop up on Coach’s forehead.”

Murmurs of “Yes, Cap” follow suit as everyone, begrudgingly, begins to shower and gets ready to head home.

Grayson shuts his locker. “At least the girls didn’t make the trip out tonight.”

“God, that would have been a waste of time. 0-5? I’m disgusted.” A full body shiver wracks through me. “I feel dirty.”

“Are hexes real, you think?”

“Did you never watch anything spooky or witchy growing up?”

“No, it was always set to the sports channel.” He gives me a look. “Your TV taste is interesting, Ashford.”

I try to brush off the comment by bumping his shoulder and grabbing my towel to head for the showers. “And your TV palette is boring. You have to refine your taste.”

Grayson just laughs with me and the slight tension in my chest loosens.

He’s not wrong, I didn’t watch the typical shows boys my age would growing up. That was only because the girls in the foster home outnumbered the boys, and the show we’d play would always come down to a vote.

There was so much Hannah Montana, I can still sing her songs word for word.

Stepping into the showers, my ears are assaulted by Irving screeching at the top of his lungs. The guys and I all collectively groan.