Page 74 of Puck, Marry, Kill

Dominic

Getting called into the coach’s office is never a good thing in my experience. At least once in my career, it’s resulted in me getting sent to a new team. I’m reasonably sure that’s not going to happen today, but you never know. I would’ve said the same thing a few months ago too.

My knock on Coach Boothe’s door is answered with a curt, “Come in.”

Coach is sitting at his desk, looking a little worse for wear than usual. His eyes are bloodshot, his usually clean-shaven jaw has a shadow of gray hair, and his hair is mussed like he’s been running his hands through it. On the wall next to him, his screens are filled with stats and plays, and one has a game paused like he was watching before I knocked.

“You wanted to see me after warm-ups?”

The team and I just finished our morning skate and check-ins with sports medicine. Some of the guys are still in the locker room, taking cold plunge dips or getting massages, and some have already headed home for a nap or food in preparation for tonight’s second game against the Hawks.

“Sit down.” He doesn’t indicate where, but I pick the chair in front of his desk that’s closest to the door as a strategic move. “I think you know why I’ve called you in here today.”

Honestly? No, I don’t. There are so many things it could be related to ...

To thank me because Kipson is actually doing better, on and off the ice.

To discuss the changing team dynamics.

To dissect Anderson’s latest temper tantrum outburst.

To ensure Kipson and I are prepared to play our asses off tonight the way we should’ve last night.

Or you know, the obvious ... that I’m in love with his daughter.

Playing it safe, I ask, “What’s on your mind?”

He glares at me, narrow-eyed and cold, silently waiting for me to break. I’m pretty sure it’s an interrogation technique I’ve seen in at least a few dozen movies. When I stay respectfully quiet, simply looking back at him, he exhales loudly and stands.

In front of his wall of screens, he points to one. “Know what this is?”

I look at the list of names. “Seems like tonight’s team roster.”

He arches a brow. “Notice anything unusual?”

I really wish he’d skip all this bullshit and get to the yelling. He’s angry, that much is obvious, but I’d like to know why so I can adjust accordingly. But I play along for now and read down the roster. Wait ...

“I’m an alternate? You’re starting Tomville as left d-man?”

“Smarter than you look, aren’t you?” he quips snidely. “That’s my plan. Could be for tonight. Could be for the rest of the season. That all depends on you.”

I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. “On me doing what?”

Coach deliberately steps back behind his desk and sits down. The whole time his eyes, which are filled with fury, stay locked on me. He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. All moves designed to demonstrate the power dynamic in the room.

“Playing hockey for me requires a player’s full commitment,” he says evenly, but there’s a threat already developing his tone. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been particularly distracted as of late.”

He says the word as though I’ve been drunk or high, or out committing felonies as a part-time side gig, but at least we’re getting somewhere. Though, in theory, he could still mean the whole team dynamic or Briar. Testing that, I hum, “Huh. I thought our pregame get-togethers were helping, but I can cancel if you want.” I hold my phone up, thumb poised like I’m going to text the group chat right now.

Coach slams his palms to the desk, the noise jarringly loud in the quiet office, and stands, looming over me, though the desk is thankfully still between us. “You are sneaking around with my daughter, Lee. My daughter!” he roars. Digging his fingertip into a stack of papers, he asserts, “That. Stops. Now.”

I don’t so much as flinch. My face stays perfectly stoic, though inside I’m raging at this asshole who has neglected Briar for her whole fucking life and now wants to demand things like he has any right.

I lift my brows, cockily challenging, “Or what?”

I know the answer. That’s what his whole showboating thing with the roster was about. If I kowtow to him, he’ll put me back as a starter. If not, he’s going to play Tomville. But he doesn’t want to do that. Not really. I love the kid and he’s damn good, probably even going to be great one day, but he’s not me. And I don’t mean that arrogantly; there’s just no comparison between me and Tomville at this point in our respective careers.

“Or you can sit your ass on the bench tonight. Or all fucking season, for all I care. Or you could never play again. How about that?” He’s ramping up, each threat worse than the last, and louder too. “Make your choice.”