LEO
“Next question,” I grumble into the microphone and glare hard at the reporter who showed up here and thought it’d be a good idea to ask me about my mindset going into tonight’s game with the rumors floating around about my association with Coach Miller’s daughter.
I guess she doesn’t even get a name. Not that I want the asshole speaking it.
It’s been a long week with the same tired questions every game.
I get out of the pre-game interview without yelling at anyone—just barely.
“They wouldn’t be doing their job if they didn’t ask,” Ash says in the locker room.
I know he’s trying to calm me and that on some level, he’s right, but it still pisses me off. “Since when did my personal life become any of their business? I came here to play hockey.”
My buddy falls silent. The rest of the guys give me a wide berth. When we take the ice for warmups, I roll my neck and focus. When I move over near the bench to stretch, Coach approaches me.
“Is your head on right?”
I nod, but he sees right through me.
“Take it out on the ice, leave it behind for a few hours, whatever you need to do.” He runs a hand down his tie. “Are we good to go?”
“Yes, sir.” The best way to get everyone to shut up is to skate my ass off tonight. This is my chance to prove all of those assholes wrong.
Seattle is fast. They’ve been on a losing streak, and it’s clear from the start they’re hungry to get a win. I do my best to leave all the drama behind, take it out on the ice like Coach said, and I succeed for a little while too. I’m reading my line mates and we’re getting opportunities.
It’s during a face-off at the beginning of the second period when I see the sign in the crowd. Lohan, My Dad Isn’t the Coach, but I’ll Take Care of Your Stick.
That anger bubbles to the surface, and Seattle’s captain, Ryan Moore (an asshole on and off the ice) sneers as he sees my reaction. “Trouble getting a date, Lohan? Had to resort to fucking your coach’s daughter?”
“How about you worry less about my sex life and more about helping your team out of a five-game slump, huh?”
The puck drops, and I shove him before going after it. My anger fuels me. The better I play, the rowdier the crowd seems to get. Every second I’m off the ice, my frustration vibrates under the surface.
“Let’s keep our heads out there.” Coach claps his hands as my line goes in. It’s a different kind of adrenaline pumping through my veins tonight. I’m feeling reckless and eager to prove that my personal life doesn’t impact the way I play.
I’ve reined it in as long as I can. The speed and energy are making me sloppy. I know it, and I fight to regain control. Not before I get called for elbowing. I start toward the box, and Moore starts mouthing off, asking if we pass Scarlett around after the games. I see red. I get two good hits in before Declan and Maverick pull me back.
It’s a downhill spiral from there. Seattle scores on the power play. I do my time in the box, leg bouncing and rage pulsing.
Coach yells at me when I make it back to the bench, but I barely hear him. Moore continues to sneer at me every chance he gets, but he doesn’t say Scarlett’s name again, so he gets to live. I know that the more I show how he agitates me, the more he’ll do it.
The game comes down to a shoot out, and Seattle gets the win. The locker room is quiet. Coach doesn’t come in to talk to us. I guess there isn’t anything to say. This game should have been a cakewalk.
I’m not at all surprised when I’m called to the media room. Jack places a hand on my shoulder and stops me before we walk in. “Are you good?”
“I’m fine.” I shrug out of his hold.
He moves his big body in front of me. “Do not go in there pissed at the world.”
Taking a deep breath, I nod.
Despite feeling like I’m ready to explode, I manage to answer questions and take my part of the responsibility for losing my head and costing the team an early goal.
By the time we get on the plane to head home, I feel like I’ve aged a hundred years.
“Drink?” Ash pours scotch from a mini bottle into a glass with ice.
“Nah.”
“Have a drink,” he says and places it in front of me. “You need to chill the fuck out. I can feel the rage radiating off you.”
I stretch my legs out and sip the whiskey.
“There you go.” He makes himself a drink and reclines his chair back. “What the hell did Moore say to you?”
“Just shit about Scarlett.” I keep my voice down. The last thing I want is for Coach to hear.
“You can’t rage on every guy that talks shit about her, or it’s going to be a very long season.”
He’s right. Once guys know you have a weak spot, they’ll rub against it every chance they get. “I know. I lost my shit. It’s been a long couple of days.”
“It’ll blow over. Somebody else will do something dumb soon enough.”
I blow out a long breath. “God, I hope so.”
When Ash passes out, I call Scarlett.
“Hey.” Her voice is husky and tired, but it still lights me up.
“Did I wake you?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” She groans. “I fell asleep on the couch watching the game. Did you win?”
“No. Lost in a shoot out.”
“Oh, really? I thought you guys had it. I’m sorry.” The genuine sympathy from her end makes me realize she has no idea I got into a fist fight during the game. She’d definitely mention it.
“How are you?” I ask. “What’d you do all day?”
Calm that I haven’t felt since I talked to her this morning washes over me. We’ve barely mentioned her ex or the pictures since I left. I have Blythe and Daria keeping me updated, but Scarlett and I have been carefully skirting the drama and enjoying the few minutes we get to chat every day.
It feels like it’s already occupied so much of my week, with everyone else wanting to talk about it. Is it too much to ask to keep all the nonsense from ruining the few minutes I get with her while I’m on the road?
Everything else is bullshit. I just want to talk to my girl.
