Page 136 of Off Limits: The Firsts

I knew that the minute I laid eyes on him.

I knew that there was going to be a casualty in all of this.

And most likely, it was going to be my heart. Shit.

Hunter

“What the fuck was that, Cap?” Frankie asks and deliberately bumps my shoulder as I stride past him in the locker room.

I keep walking and ignore the inferno raging within me to take a swing at any of these fuckers. Guys that were friends—teammates—and now calling me out. I did exactly what they fucking wanted—became a pansy-assed passer instead of myself—and of course, it’s not fucking good enough.

“You not feeling good?” Katz asks.

“Your ankle bugging you again?” Callum questions. “Your knee?”

But I keep my focus on my locker, because it’s so much easier than facing the bullshit in here and their subtle digs at how I played.

Maysen’s shoulder hits mine and I refuse to respond to the look in his eyes that says, this is how you let us down.

“You trying to throw the game?” another voice yells from the back just as I hit my locker. “How much money’d you bet against us?” There’s laughter that follows the joke, but I know it wouldn’t have been said if it wasn’t thought of first.

Do they really think I’d bet against my team?

Screw this.

Like fucking clockwork I don’t want to acknowledge, I open my locker and the first thing I see is the screen of my cellphone lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. Text after text after text telling me what a disappointment I am to the Maddox name, no doubt. How Jonah would have never played this poorly. One after another hit the screen and goad me like the eyes of my teammates at my back.

I don’t pay any attention to them. I never do.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

I round on the locker room to find every teammate staring at me, defeat in their postures, and fury in their expressions. They’re sweaty and spent in partial stages of undress but all of them are laser-focused on me. In anger. This isn’t right. This isn’t how it was when I decided to come here two years ago. They had welcomed me and my aggression, knew I was here to lift the game—the team—to Cup level. And now the bastards think I could throw a game . . . fucking pisses me off.

“What’s the problem?” I shout, hands out, fight welcome. “Is that not what you were asking for when you sent Maysen to talk to me today? Be more of a team player? Pass to make sure every goddamn one of you got to put their stick on the puck? You wanted a fucking Kumbaya session, boys, and you got it.” I stand on the bench. “What? You don’t have a right to stand there and look like someone pissed in your Wheaties when you got exactly what you asked for.”

They all gawk at me, the rookies on the team shrinking into themselves, the hardened fuckers like me standing their ground.

“What do you all have to say now?” My voice reaches a fever pitch, and I hate the fucking tinge of panic in it. I hate that even though I did exactly what I set out to do, I’m still sick to my stomach over it. Staring at the people I’ve devoted blood, sweat, and pulled muscles to, I loathe the look of disappointment in their eyes and that it’s directed at me.

“Mad Dog—”

“Don’t Mad Dog me. Don’t act like you guys didn’t send Maysen to lead the charge in telling me I’m too selfish, too aggressive, too me, because guess what? When I’m not, none of you stepped up to the fucking line and played the damn part.” I throw my gloves into my locker with a thud. “Maybe you all oughta start asking yourself the question, why the fuck not?”

My hands tremble with anger, and I need to get the hell out of here before I do something I’m going to regret. Before I fuck up more than I already have.

I’m losing control and there’s no worse feeling in the world.

None.

“Maddox. In my office.” The voice of Coach Jünger booms through the locker room and while I look at him, everyone remains staring at me. “Now.”

“This is total bullshit.” I jump off the bench, kick the foot of my locker, and stride toward the door Jünger is holding open for me.

When it slams behind me, I stand there as he takes his time walking to the other side of the desk before resting his hips on the counter at his back. He looks at me with the same disappointment that everyone else did.

“You want to tell me what the fuck that was all about?” he asks and tosses his clipboard on the desk with a thud.

“The team thinks I’ve been showboating. Had a delegation deliver a talk to me this morning over it . . . so I gave them what they wanted.” There isn’t an ounce of fucks given in my voice, but inside is a goddamn hurricane of emotion. “I gave them mediocre Maddox.”