I step into my hockey coach’s office with Knox at my back. Coach Roake has a newspaper folded on the edge of his desk. My face is creased on the page, my eyes dark on the thin paper. Coach is reclined with his arms folded behind his head. His face is perfectly stoic.
“Sit,” he orders.
Knox, as captain, took it upon himself to come with me. But he must see something in our coach’s face that I miss, because he hesitates at the door.
I take the chair and twist around, my eyebrow lifting at Knox. I jerk my chin, and he steps back, shutting the door on the way out. When I face forward again, Coach hasn’t moved.
“I spoke to your old coach,” he says.
My chest tightens, but I try not to let my expression change. So far, we’ve gotten along. I’m not one to ruffle feathers if the person is useful to me. I keep things smooth with my father, with the school administration, with the man sitting in front of me… they can all do something for me.
They’re all relevant to my success.
But now, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. If I should’ve done more to get on his good side instead of just letting my talent pave the way. Buttered him up with the charm that exhausts me.
He sighs and drops his arms, bracing them on the desk. “The Brickell one and your high school coach,” he clarifies.
Shit.
“And?” I ball my fists, squeezing hard. There’s not much I care about, but hockey is absolutely one of them. Plus, I’ve got no fucking idea what Coach Marzden from Emery-Rose Elite would say. Maybe he’d sing my praises… or he’d throw me under the bus. He’s a fickle guy.
My Brickell coach, though? Asshole material. Especially since there were no charges filed, and I got dumped over a newspaper article. He blamed it on the administration in general, but I know better. He preferred a spotless team. The players were angels with clean records, and here I was with the accusation of drunk driving and reckless endangerment hanging over my head.
With a sudden burst of fear, I realize that this could be headed in that direction, too.
And then where would I be?
Roake sighs. “Let me put you out of your misery.”
“Please do.” I sit back and brace for the worst.
“This is an embarrassment.” He picks up the newspaper and tosses it at me.
I don’t move to catch it. The newspaper hits my chest, sliding into my lap. I ignore the garish distortion of my face. The online article was pulled, and print copies were retracted—but that did nothing for the people who had already had copies delivered.
And clearly, print newspaper isn’t a dying breed.
“You’re kicking me off the team.” I have to say it before he does, and I rise from my seat. “I understand. This sort of publicity—”
“Get your ass back in that fucking chair,” Coach snaps. “I’m not kicking you off the team. But this sort of thing cannot go unchecked. They’re accusing you of a lot. Your only saving grace is that article is an opinion piece that the paper decided to fucking put in front of everyone’s faces.”
I shift. “That’s—”
“And that Violet girl. Is she involved?”
“If she says she is, she’s lying.” I shrug. “I don’t know where they found her, to be frank, and they’ve exaggerated our relationship.”
“What is your relationship?” Roake narrows his eyes.
“I slept with her once.” I shake my head, aiming for rueful. “Maybe she talked to the journalist who came sniffing around, or maybe they paid her. I don’t know.”
If I keep saying it, I’m going to believe it. There is a small part of me that does believe Violet would do something like this. That she’d go to an extreme to get back at me. Another part knows that she’s just as caught up in this as I am.
But it still doesn’t lessen my anger.
It’s why I let Paris maul me in the dining hall. Because my fucking feelings were hurt, and making her hurt eases some of it. Like pushing on a bruise until she cries out, or insulting her, or reminding her that she’ll never dance again.
“Well, perhaps that’s our solution,” my coach says slowly, chewing over his words.
I straighten. “What is?”
He eyes me. “Your father called me, you know. Said that I’d be blameless to let you go. But to me, that just means you’re guilty. Are you?”
“No.” Another lie.
They’re stacking up, but what the fuck do I care? It’s either lie and stay where I am or tell the truth and reinvent myself at a new school. The truth won’t get me into the NHL. The truth has done nothing for me.
“Okay.” Roake nods. “You’re going to meet with the hockey team’s publicist and put together a statement. I want this handled.”
Relief hits me. He’s not forcing me out. “Done.”
“And we’ll need a statement from Violet, too. Just to cover our bases.”
I wonder how I’m going to make that happen. Can she lie to a publicist? Would she even? That’s not part of the NDA. That’s not part of anything except maybe her good nature.
But—let’s be honest. After my stunt with Paris?
Not fucking likely.
“Thanks, Coach.”
“You’re welcome. Now get out, I’ve got work to do.”
I finally take the paper and fold it under my arm. I consider the ways I can twist Violet to do my bidding and say what I want her to say.
Pressure. Like lifting her arm behind her back, torquing her shoulder, and getting her to twist the way I wanted.
Just like that… but more.
