Helmets and pads bang and clack against wooden stalls as the team strips down after practice. We’ve been gearing up for our first away game series at none other than our rival school—also in the Chicago area—Blackmore University, and despite the hiccups in our first two games at home, I’m feeling good about how the team is meshing.
At least, for the most part.
The exception is when I’m on the ice with Oakley. The rhythm between the two of us is still shaky at best, usually looking more like Bambi on ice than two top-tier college athletes who have been on the same team for years. But it’s better than it was a few weeks ago, so I’ll take all the progress I can get.
Honestly, I don’t think Coach thought this whole thing through. While tossing us out on the ice together might be a good idea in theory, it’s clearly not working well in practice. Figuratively and literally.
There’s a reason we’ve spent most of our college careers on two different lines. It just works better that way. Causing less issues between us, since we both have our time to shine. We don’t have to cross paths more than necessary, and we work better with different people. Only problem is, those people graduated last season, and for the time being, we’re all each other has.
Most of the guys undress quickly, ready to rush off to the shower before heading out. But then Coach steps out of his office, and almost immediately, the team comes to a halt.
“All right, guys,” Coach booms, authority and respect demanded by his tone alone. And it does, because silence falls over everyone, every set of eyes in the place fixated on him. “It seems there’s been some concern at the administrative level about steroids and other performance enhancing drugs at the collegiate level. Two other schools in the NCAA had multiple players testing positive on either their hockey and football teams. I’m sure the lot of you are clean, but we have to be sure. So”—he holds up a sterile plastic container we’d have to be blind to not recognize—“let’s make this quick and get about the rest of our day.”
I heard about this last week. Both Lincoln Center’s hockey team and Blackmore’s football team had players who tested positive for PEDs. I almost didn’t believe it at first, but one of my high school friends who’s a student at Blackmore confirmed it’s true.
Supposedly, a lot of the players are looking to appeal, claiming false positives, but the jury’s still out on that being the truth.
But if this is what we all need to do to prove none of us are cheaters, fine by me. So I do exactly what Coach requested. I shower, do my business, drop off my sample to the lab tech waiting by the door, and go about the rest of my day.
“De Haas, my office. Now.”
Coach’s call echoes through the locker room as I start dressing for the Blackmore game later that week. I’m not even out of my street clothes yet, so I shuffle my way through countless half-dressed athletes until I reach the door of Coach’s office.
I knock twice before opening it as a courtesy, and when the door swings open to reveal all three coaches, I realize there must be some information about the team we’re about to face that he needs to share with me.
Or someone died, but I’m banking on the former.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask, leaning against the frame.
“Yes. Close the door and sit.”
Cryptic. Okay, then.
My brows furrow, but I follow his instructions despite my confusion, sliding into the seat across from him. He leans back in his own chair, steepling his fingers as he stares at me. Not saying a damn word to let me know why the hell I’m in here when I should be getting dressed, zoning in on my pregame routine.
Thirty seconds pass, the silence already close to unbearable, so I break the ice. “Did you just want to look at my pretty face before we go out to kick some ass?”
His hands drop, and he leans forward over the desk, grabbing the top paper out of the file folder I hadn’t noticed when I first came in.
“On the contrary. You’re in here because you failed your drug test.”
I don’t think I heard him right, because it sounds like he said—
“What? That’s impossible.”
Coach slides a piece of paper across the desk. “Then how do you explain this?”
I glance down at the paper, where my drug test shows a positive result for—
“Opioids?” I ask, dumbfounded. “Coach, I’ve never touched that shit. Even when I got my wisdom teeth out back in high school and they gave me God knows what kind of narcotic for the pain, I still didn’t take anything stronger than Tylenol.”
But from the wary look he gives me before glancing between both the assistant coaches, my rebuttal won’t matter. Results are results, and none of us can do anything to change them.
My stomach sinks, the contents in it threatening to make a reappearance.
“This can’t be right. It’s not mine, I swear, Coach. The lab must’ve gotten it mixed up with someone else.”
He nods once. “I want to believe you, Quinton. You’re a lot of things—including the biggest hothead I’ve ever coached—but I’d never peg you for something like this. You care too much about your future career to pull this kind of stunt.”
“Which is why I didn’t do it!” I say with earnest, rising to my feet in panic. My attention darts between the three men before falling back to Coach. “I swear on my life, I didn’t do this. There has to be some kind of mistake. Tell me there’s something you can do.”
The look Coach gives me, paired with the creases running through his forehead, tell me he’s already tried working though solutions. Probably long before he called me in here. And the only reason to have called me in here is if he came up empty.
“This isn’t something I can just take your word for and hide it, de Haas. Of course, we had the lab check for which opioid it was, seeing as one drug that falls in that category is heroin—”
“Heroin?” I almost screech.
“—but it came back as hydrocodone. Vicodin.”
Oh.
Well, I guess it could have been a lot worse.
“Look, Quinton. Vicodin might not be heroin or coke or meth, but prescription narcotics are still classified as banned substances without a medical exception filed with the NCAA…” He continues on, droning about the policies and bylaws enacted by both the school and the NCAA—ones I’m perfectly fucking aware of, because unlike some, I’m not one to waste an opportunity I worked my ass off to earn—while I try my best to figure out how the hell this could’ve happened.
The more I think about it, the only possibility besides the lab results getting mislabeled or swapped somehow, would be that I took something without knowing it.
Could there be something in the medicine cabinet back at my apartment that was mislabeled?
It’s a long shot, considering I don’t even have any narcotics prescribed to me currently. Never have, apart from the one time years ago I just mentioned to him. I doubt Hayes, my roommate, does either. He’s as straightlaced as they come, but I still make note to ask him about it when—
“…and because of it, I have no other option than to suspend you.”
His statement snaps me back to reality as the floor seems to fall from beneath my feet.
This is exactly the kind of thing I was hoping to avoid. But here we are, my heart crawling into my throat at hearing the consequences all the same.
“Suspend me for something I didn’t do?”
His lips form a tight line, and then he sighs. “I have to until I can prove you aren’t using, de Haas. My hands are tied. You have to realize it’s my ass on the line too, especially with the way the NCAA is cracking down after the shit that happened with Blackmore and Lincoln Center.”
I look between the three of them again, unsure where to go from here. But from the solemn expressions aimed at me, there’s nothing to do but accept the punishment.
There has to be something that can be done. Anything.
I’m damn near close to getting on my knees and begging at this point. Because this can’t be the way my hockey career ends. No team in the NHL would dare touch me if this catches wind and I’m suspended for drug use. Drugs I didn’t even fucking use to begin with.
That won’t matter to them, though. This would be a black mark on the resume I’ve been building since the first time I put on skates as a kid.
Dejected and defeated, I cradle my head in my hands.
“But…” he says, trailing off.
That one word breathes new life into me, and I lift my head. “Please tell me that’s the good kind of but and not the kind that will make this even worse.”
Coach lets out a bark of laughter, eyes softening around the edges. “We can get you retested. Today, before we start talks of complete ineligibility. After all, if you were a habitual user, the drugs would still be in your system. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll submit an appeal on your behalf. Like I said, I don’t think you did this. The last thing I want to see is you being punished for someone else’s mistake, if that’s truly what this is.”
“None of us do,” Coach Davis—one of the assistants—cuts in.
“That’s good,” I breathe, letting out a sigh of relief. “That’s really good.”
Coach nods. “We still can’t let you play until the second set of tests come back—hopefully, negative—at the very least. Which could very well be another week. But it’s better than nothing.”
“Better than nothing,” I repeat, feeling a small amount of hope blossoming in my chest.
It’s all gonna be fine. I’ll test negative and the appeal will go through and everything will be back to the way it was before I pissed in that damn cup.
I’m too busy chanting silent prayers to listen in on what the three discuss among themselves. After all, if this has been my luck lately, I’m gonna need all the help I can get. Especially from the hockey gods.
But something Coach says snags my attention, causing my hair to stand on end.
“Get Reed in here for me, will you?” Coach says to Coach Jacobson, who nods and exits the office silently.
“Reed?” The dread in my gut returns. He’s the last person I want to see or talk to right now. “What’s he got to do with this?”
Coach sighs, like he always does when Oakley and I are involved. It’s not like we’ve made it easy on him these last few years, and honestly, I’m sure he’s ready to be rid of us. Even if Oakley’s his own flesh and blood.
“We need another captain on the ice while you’re on temporary suspension,” he says just as the door opens again, revealing Oakley and Coach Jacobson.
“Suspension?” Oakley says, clearly catching the tail end of his uncle’s sentence. His eyes land on me while the door clicks shut behind him. “What’s going on?”
“You’ll be taking over as captain, Oakley. Effective immediately,” Coach says gruffly, and I flick my attention back to him to find his attention still locked on me.
Another rush of embarrassment floods me, even though I know Coach is on my side in this—and more importantly—I did nothing wrong. There’s absolutely no circumstance where I’d ever think of using any kind of drugs.
Oakley steps further into the room, and I feel his stare burning the side of my face like a white-hot brand. Penetrating, even. Like I’m as transparent as glass.
When I maintain my silence, keeping my stare directly on Coach—who is watching us like a hawk—Oakley lets out a bark of laughter.
“What’d you do this time?”
I try not to give him my attention or let him get under my skin, but the freedom in his laugh and taunting tone ignites a fuse inside me. Hard not to, when this jackass is being handed everything I’ve worked for, and for no real reason.
But I cave, letting my gaze collide with his, boring into each other. I know mine have to be showcasing every bit of rage and defeat coursing through my veins, because Oakley’s eyes narrow, like he’s reading the silence between us to figure out just why—
“You tested positive,” he says. Not a question; just an incredulous statement. When I don’t respond, a shit-eating grin slides across his face. “Damn, de Haas. I knew you were reckless, but I didn’t know you were stupid too.”
“Bite me,” I snap between clenched teeth.
“I’m good, thanks,” he retorts before letting out another laugh. “I just wanna know why. Because even you have to be smart enough to know PEDs shrink your dick.”
My lips curl up in what has to be a sneer. “It’s actually your balls that shrink, Reed, but regardless, your concern for what I’m packing is duly noted.”
Oakley goes to open his mouth again, a flare of red tinting his cheeks at my inadvertent comment about his sexuality. Which…I’ll admit, was tacky.
But it’s too late to take it back now.
“Can it. The both of you,” Coach bites out, for which I’m grateful.
This entire situation already has me on edge, and Oakley running his mouth like the jackass he is, antagonizing me for sport, will only make things worse. Which could lead me into even more trouble if I let my temper get the best of me.
Biting my tongue is the safest option, so I do just that. To the point of blood filling my mouth. And though it kills me, I don’t use the moment of silence granted by Coach to correct Oakley’s assumptions. He doesn’t need the specifics as it is.
Nor does he deserve them.
Coach’s eyes drift between us, studying and analyzing in a way that makes me feel almost naked. And again, transparent.
Guess that’s a Reed family trait.
“The two of you need to get it together. I haven’t said anything until now because I was hopeful that putting you on the same line this season would help you find some common ground. Apparently that’s not working, so I need the two of you to actively find a way to fix your shit. Am I clear?”
He doesn’t even have to leave a threat hanging over our heads like an executioner’s blade. Simply getting chewed out for our little spats is enough to make both of us straighten our spines and hear what he has to say.
“Crystal,” I murmur at the same time a quick “Yes, sir” comes from Oakley.
I fight the impulse to roll my eyes at him calling his own uncle sir, no doubt to garner more favor with him. Shit, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him refer to Coach as anything other than just that. Coach.
Damn suck-up.
“Are we done, then?” I ask, looking between the three coaches. When I get the nod, I make a move to get up, ready to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible.
“Okay, great. Well, I’m gonna go get dressed, and then—”
“You can’t suit up, kid,” he tells me, a look of remorse on his face. “You’ll have to watch from the stands. As a spectator.”
A poorly disguised laugh comes from Oakley, and I roll my lips inward before clamping my teeth around them to keep from screaming.
Because this day just gets better and better, right?
