Page 10 of Ice Queen

“And it’d do you some good to earn the respect of this team,” My voice comes out so low it rumbles. Sterling’s eyes narrow.

Out of the corner of my eye, Coach Stevens pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head slightly. But he doesn’t say anything. He won’t.

“If you’d focus more on what’s going on on the ice instead of how much you can drink and who you can get to bed, maybe your contract wouldn’t be in questio–” He doesn’t get to finish that sentence before he’s pushed up against the glass by our captain.

“You don’t get to talk to my teammate like that,” Reed spits, full of tangible rage. He holds him there for a beat before he releases him and walks to the locker room, the rest of the team silently following like ducks.

“For pucks' sake,” Coach Stevens mumbles under his breath while Coach Sterling and I are locked in a stare-off.

I turn and follow the rest of my team without a backward glance. Our old assistant coach, Coach Michaels, was phenomenal. When he retired out of the blue at the end of last season, we didn’t think twice about who his replacement would be. We trusted the staff to do what was best for the team, but this guy? None of us can figure it out.

The locker room is eerily silent as we all take off our gear, wipe it down, and put it in our bags. A cleared throat has us all looking up at Reed, who gently shifts his weight from side to side. “Sorry for my outburst, guys. I shouldn’t have walked out, but had I not, there would have been a completely different outcome.”

Instead of the whooping and hollering that usually follows practice, the soft clink of metal as lockers close, mixed with soft mutters, fills the room that somehow feels ten times smaller than usual.

“Practice isn’t over, though, hit the studio for film. Alright?” He says, dragging a hand down his face, letting out a few sighs as he makes eye contact with a few of the guys. But when his eyes land on me, they’re heavy, like he’s bogged down by something. Before I have a chance to ask, he turns and leads the way, everyone else filing out one by one.

I wait for the locker room to empty out before I try to take a full breath. When I finally push through the doors, the team owner, Mr. Collins, is standing outside. Arms crossed, eyes focused intently on me. I immediately throw my hands up, “Yeah, let's go.”

We walk in silence to his office, my shoulder brushing against the cool brick the entire way. As soon as he shuts the door, the room gets ten degrees colder, knowing every time I find myself in this room, I could be closer to being traded.

Of course, standing in the corner is none other than Coach Sterling, looking all sorts of victorious.

“Sit,” Mr. Collins says.

I don’t, I cross my arms over my chest, standing just inside the door. “With all due respect, sir. I have nothing to say to you while he’s here.”

He sighs, sitting in his chair before turning to Coach Sterling, “Give us the room.”

His face immediately turns ten shades of red, and I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing. “I should be part of this conversation, he’s one of my players!” He yells, hands flying through the air.

This time, I can’t hide my laughter. It’s loud and crass and has my boss's brows furrowing so deep it looks like a canyon. I hold up my hand as I suck in a lungful of air. This guy is the most out-of-touch human being I’ve ever met.

“I mean this with every ounce of disrespect I have in my body.” I level him with a glare that makes him flinch. “I will never be ‘one of your players’, and honestly, you’ll never be my coach.”

Mr. Collins leans back, his hands finding the back of his head, his eyes never leaving mine. “Out, Sterling.” He hisses.

Once the door closes behind him, I sit in the chair in front of the desk. Crossing one ankle over my knee, I do my best to act unbothered, to tell myself there’s nothing wrong, to stop overreacting. But looking at the man who's done nothing but pour into me and this team, even I know that’s a lie.

“I hired that man to do his job. Why are you and the men on this team so insistent on making it damn near impossible for him to do?”

“You actually hired him?” I gape in his direction. “Mr. Collins, the man doesn’t know a damn thing about hockey. He spends every practice telling us we suck and he’d be glad to replace us with someone else. But he never once gives us anything constructive, nor does he get into the technical part of the game. He’s just an asshole.”

“Are you questioning my decision?” His eyes dare me to defy him.

I mean, yeah. I have a shit ton of questions over this particular decision, but I don’t see that working out well for anyone. So instead, I push my tongue against my lip ring and slowly shake my head.

“Look, Markus.” He leans forward, placing his forearms against his desk as he levels me with a look of pure desperation. “He is your coach, and he is trying to look out for you.”

I fight to keep my eyes from rolling. But this is my boss, my big boss. The one who signs my paychecks, the one who ultimately decides whether I stay or go.

“Yes, sir,” I choke out.

He’s quiet for a minute. My feet begin to tap against the floor, the fight to keep my breathing even has me more focused on the lack of breaths I’m taking than breathing itself.

“You’ll be working with PR on some events coming up, damage control for your little stunt in Toronto, if you will.”

I start to refute, but his sharp glare has me rethinking my decision.