fucking alarm went off at four this morning, Preston has been an asshole. Flicking on lights, slamming drawers and doors.
“What the hell is your problem?” I snap, sitting up in bed.
“Your lack of commitment to this team,” he snaps back, pulling his shoes on and tying them.
“Your dad literally paid for you to be here, what do you know about dedication?” I work my ass off to afford to be here. Summer jobs coaching and on campus jobs during the off season to pay for books and shit like my cell phone because my family isn’t made of god damn money.
“I’ve been waking up at four am every day since I was twelve for workouts and practice. On top of school, after school practices, and games, I also had one-on-one training three days a week. I’ve put in twice as many hours as you have just since I got here. I earned my spot on this team but at least some of the guys are stepping up. You, however, are still whining like a little bitch because you don’t wanna.” He storms out of our dorm room, slamming the door behind him.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stand and fume. I hate that he’s right and I should be putting in more time. Getting more gym time wouldn’t hurt, but fuck him. He’s not better than me because he works out like a maniac.
As I open my dresser drawer for some workout shorts, my door opens and Brendon steps in.
Confused, I look over at him, taking in the workout clothes and water bottle in his hand.
“Hey, what are you doing up this early?” I ask, pulling up my shorts. Brendon watches me, his eyes hesitating on my ass.
“Paul and I heard the door slam and saw Carmichael storming off down the hallway. Figured we should make sure he hadn’t killed you.”
I grab a shirt and shove my arms through. Brendon steps behind me, splaying a hand on my stomach as I push the shirt over my head.
“It’s been a while,” he murmurs with his lips against my neck.
Discomfort flutters in my gut. I can’t do this anymore.
“Yeah, haven’t really had the time.” I shrug, but Brendon doesn’t get the message and presses his dick against my ass.
“We have time now,” he peppers kisses across my neck.
“Paul is waiting for you, and I should get some gym time too.” Please stop pushing it. I don’t want to ruin our friendship.
“Right, sure. Okay.” He steps back and I grab socks and my shoes from the foot of my bed. “We’ll see you in there.” He nods and leaves.
I let out a breath and finish getting ready. At some point I know I have to tell him I’m done with our arrangement, but it’s not going to be a comfortable conversation. I wish he would just let it go, but much like the times we’ve fucked, he’s not reading the situation.
By the time practice starts, I’m tired and ready to punch Carmichael right in his perfect fucking nose.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Albrooke! The puck goes in the net! It’s no wonder you’re third line!” Carmichael yells across the ice as I miss another shot.
“Hey!” Oiler yells at him, sticking up for me, but is it just me or does he sound more like a jealous boyfriend than a teammate? “You have off days too, dick head.”
“When was the last one?” Carmichael gets in his face. “Have you already forgotten that I got us on the board on Saturday? You all went half a fucking game with nothing! Scoring is not my job!”
Coach blows his whistle and Oiler backs up, muttering something under his breath that I don’t catch.
“Line it up boys. I guess we’ll spend today running passing drills!” He’s pissed, his barking yell echoing in the empty stands around the rink.
He gives directions and we break off into two lines against the goalie. First ones up are me and Johnson. Both of us fuck it up in spectacular fashion. This is some serious rookie shit. We are a shit show.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Carmichael once again yells for everyone to hear. “How hard is it to pass to Johnson, Albrooke?! Get your shit together!”
“Fuck off!” I yell at him, embarrassment at my shortcomings yelled in front of everyone, like I’m not aware of them.
“Regretting that bacon cheeseburger now?” he throws back. Half the team shakes their heads but no one says anything.
“What the fuck is your obsession with what I eat?” I skate toward him, wanting to beat him with my stick but stopping just short of him.
Carmichael straightens to his full height so he can look down on me. “Every good athlete knows that what you feed your body matters. All that fat and carbs you eat do nothing but slow you down.” The dig hits the intended target, my insecurities.
“I get that you’re everyone’s god damn golden child, but not everyone wants to be you. I don’t want to play in the NHL, so I really don’t give a shit what you think I should be eating. You’re a shitty teammate and when you’re gone, that’s all anyone on this team will remember about you.” I shove him away while he smirks at me, turning my back to put some distance between us.
“Then why are you here? You’re okay being mediocre? What is it you want to do with all this hockey experience, Albrooke?” he calls after me.
“What do you care?” I snap back, spinning around to face him. Humiliation burning in my gut, making me angry.
Because he’s right. Who’s going to hire me to coach their kid if I suck?
“Because you’re wasting everyone’s fucking time. Why don’t you quit so someone who actually wants to play can?” I skate toward him, shoving him into the boards and getting into his face this time. His gray eyes sear into me with anger and lust and something else. Delight? Is he getting off on pissing me off?
“You gonna hit me, Albrooke?” His words are quiet, taunting. Almost like words he would whisper in a lover’s ear while he fucked them unconscious.
I want to knock him out, strangle him, push him until he snaps and attacks me.
I’ve got his jersey in my fist and my arms against his chest, holding him against the boards. Why isn’t he telling me to get off him? To stop touching him.
“You trying to make me hit you?” I whisper back in that same threatening bedroom tone.
One of his gray eyes twitches and I smile in victory.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You like it rough. You get off on the fight.” My gaze drops to his lips as I lick my bottom lip. “If you want to fuck, all you have to do is say something.”
I watch as the mask he uses to hide slams back into place. The brightness in those haunting gray eyes dims and the grin becomes a straight line. He flips us until I’m the one being shoved against the boards. It’s embarrassingly easy for him to do. “Fuck you, Albrooke. Get your shit together. I won’t have you fucking up my stats.” His words are meant to hurt, but he’s grasping at strings to get control back.
A few of the guys hurry over to us and are pulling on Carmichael’s arms to get us to break apart. Both of us are flushed with frustration and exertion. Too stubborn to back down or give in.
He’s shoved away from me and for just a second, I think I can read desperation on his face. Just for millisecond, then it’s gone.
Coach blows the whistle again. “That’s it!” he yells, furious we’re fighting instead of following orders. “Conditioning drills! Let’s go!”
Everyone groans but we break off into six groups and start working our way through the exercises Coach tells us to do at each station. The first run through isn’t too bad, but every time we go through them it gets harder, and by the fourth time through all the exercises everyone is exhausted. Even mister I wake up every day at four am to workout.
