Page 29 of Tricky Puck

“Why did you miss your flight?” His voice hardens.

I stand in silence. I’m not going to tell him it was because I chose to stay in bed with a woman, but I’m not going to lie, either. He stares at me, waiting for an answer for too many heartbeats as mine races. What the fuck is wrong with me?

It’s not the first time I’ve been called out by a coach for messing up—not that I made a habit of it in my career, but hell, no one’s perfect. I try slowing my breathing to slow down my heart rate, but as coach stares back at me with that implacable face, waiting for an answer, it’s impossible, and I feel sweat pop on my forehead and start to trickle down my temples.

“No excuse,” he says, confirming the meaning of my silence. Then his mouth turns down in a derisive scowl, and his whole face frowns. “I know what that means even if you don’t admit it, Milano.” He doesn’t raise his voice and shakes his head ever so slightly.

Fuck, he knows it’s about a woman. But is it really that difficult to guess? I’m not exactly a choir boy when it comes to enjoying a variety of women on a regular basis. Since Sabien shacked up with Cherry, I’m the team’s hottest bachelor at large and the biggest chick magnet.

He takes his time staring, and more sweat pops, this time at the back of my neck to trickle down my spine. I’m itching to get out on the ice, to have this over with because neither one of us can undo my poor choice this morning, but the fucker stands there, watching me like we have nothing else to do, knowing he’s torturing me by remaining calm and drawing this out.

As he stares at me, I continue staring back like we’re in the military, and I’m at attention—which is absurd because hockey is nothing like the military—except that the team members rely on each other.

“You made the wrong choice this morning, Milano, while all your teammates made the right choice. They showed up on time—not half a day late—because they have their priorities straight. This isn’t training camp or pre-season anymore. We’re in season now, and while we’re in season, hockey is the top fucking priority.” He pauses like he has to gather himself because he’s so angry. The line of his mouth thins, his eyes narrow, and I can feel his tension almost as much as my own.

It’s the most uncomfortable I can ever remember being with a coach, but I grit my teeth and wait him out until he finally speaks.

“If you can’t handle putting hockey first,” he spits barely under control, “say the word, and I can have you traded to another team.”

The bottom falls out of my gut, and my heart stutters at his words—fucking traded. He’s serious. But that’s outrageous, over-the-top overreacting for one transgression. Anger flares to life in me like he’s contagious.

“I can handle my priorities, Coach,” I bite out.

He nods. I clench my jaw to hold the anger against unfamiliar fear as my insides knot up. Fucking traded? Jesus. I didn’t see that coming. It’s like getting your hand chopped off for stealing a piece of gum. Fucking harsh consequences for showing up late to practice. First day of the season, be damned.

“See that you do. I’m not bluffing about trading you—or any player that can’t handle their priorities. A player doesn’t get a chance to make a run at the Stanley Cup like this every season—hell, sometimes never. We have the team to make a serious run, and I’m demanding your best. You in, Milano?”

I nod. I get it. Maybe a day too late, but I get it. If this hard-ass coach intends to bring us to the Stanley Cup finals, then I’m going to make damn sure I stay on board for the fucking ride.

“Good. You can prove it by staying an extra hour for shooting and skating drills. You and me.” He pauses while I nod again. My heart calms down to normal. I know what I need to do, and I’m ready, blocking out the images of Delaney and my grandma as soon as they pop to mind.

“Get out there, and let me see you sweat blood, Milano.”

I hop over the boards and skate away fast to join my teammates.

He’d fucking trade me? Shit. Maybe that shouldn’t feel like the worst thing that could happen, but it does. So, I’m not going to let it fucking happen.

In the locker room, after late drills, I’m alone in the showers, washing away the sweat that feels like fucking blood and regret. Jason and Sabien said they’d wait for me in the dining room. I’m not so sure it’s a good idea to go out for drinks tonight. As I turn off the water and grab my towel, I feel drained and somehow defeated.

The right choice would be to go home and get to bed early to catch up on my sleep. I had none last night, knowing full well what might happen—that I could miss my plane and catch shit from Coach—but I never guessed how bad the consequences might be.

Or how bad the idea of getting traded would terrify me. Fuck. This is my third team in four years. I thought I fit in here, that I’d found a home, a place I could stay and play.

But what the fuck does that matter? Home is in New York with my family, and hockey is temporary, right?

Wrong. Hockey is who I am and what I’ve worked for all my life. Being here on a Stanley Cup contending team is my dream, my ultimate goal.

Does that mean I can’t go out with my teammates for a couple of beers?

No. A few beers with friends isn’t going to interfere with hockey. Since when do I let Coach stop me from doing basic shit?

I make it to the dining room as it’s shutting down, but I grab a couple of steaks and some salad and head for the table where Sabien and Jason still sit, waiting for me. A few other guys are around finishing up.

Collapsing into a chair, I nod at my friends. “Where’s Chase?” I know the answer.

“He headed home to sleep, but I doubt he’s planning to sleep.” Jason grins, shaking his head.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Sabien says.