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He broke out into a shit-eating grin. “That’s what the ladies call me. Stroke of Genius.” He mimed grabbing a woman’s hips. “No wonder you can’t get pussy, Up-Chuck. Your cardio is shit. Me, on the other hand, I can go all night long, baby,” he said between thrusts.
The whole team broke out in laughter until we caught Coach’s scowl.
Want to talk about someone having a hardwired reaction?
I wasn’t sure Josh Monroe knew how to make any expression besides a scowl anymore, not since his nasty NHL career-ending injury a few years prior.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true.
He looked at his daughter, Goldie, like she hung the moon, but that softness was reserved solely for her. We got the hardass coach who pushed until we broke and then built us back better.
At thirty-two, he was young for an NHL coach, but what had made him a great center made him an even better coach. Monroe could read the ice like no one else. Everything I knew, I’d learned thanks to him.
Grew up idolizing the guy, begging him to let me tag along to shit. Only reason he had was because our moms were best friends, and Aunt Cindy had practically forced him to put up with me.
"You should be too fucking tired from practice to even think about pussy," he seethed. "At this rate, you can kiss your playoff dreams goodbye."
That shut everyone up real quick. I knew he wasn’t completely serious. I’d grown up with the guy—hell, I’d looked up to him, too, since he was about seven years my senior—and while he communicated via grunts ninety-five percent of the time when he was fired up about something, he had no problem finding words to express it—passionately.
“You’ve got a month left, and we’re gonna use it. Only two of you were explosive out there.” His gaze cut toward me and Jimenez before sweeping over the others. “The rest of you? Looked like you’ve spent the summer sitting on your ass. We’re going to be putting work into our strength and conditioning this month. Good seasons start during this downtime, boys.”
He was right. The pressure that always lingered just below the surface surged forward.
We couldn’t have a repeat of last season—I couldn’t have a repeat. Not with me barely crawling out of the emotional hole I’d been in.
“Yes, Coach,” I called out, glaring at the others until they followed suit.
For a split second, I thought I caught the ghost of a smile twitch at the corner of Monroe’s mouth. But it was gone so fast, I couldn’t tell if I’d imagined it.
“You dumbasses better be ready to work because I’m making some changes come Monday,” he called over his shoulder, storming off toward the team office and leaving us to slink off to our locker room.
The distinct eau de locker room replaced the crisp air from the rink. Bleach barely masked the lingering scent of sweat-saturated hockey gear—not even the best air filtration system money could buy eliminated the smell completely.
I smiled, thinking about my mom making me store my stuff in the outside shed because of the stench. Same reason I never put the top on Betty, except when it rained or snowed.
“Dalt, you’re coming with us tonight, right?” Jimenez asked as I approached our neighboring lockers. He ran a tattooed hand through the top of his black hair, shaking loose droplets of sweat.
It was less of a question and more of a statement with a thinly veiled threat that I better not bail on them—again. I wracked my brain for a believable excuse for not going out with the guys, but those few seconds were like blood in the water to him. He whipped around when I didn’t answer fast enough.
“Dalton, you’re coming tonight.” There was more bite in my best friend’s tone that time around. If I pissed him off anymore, he’d start cursing me out in Spanish. “You’re coming up on four months of living like a damn hermit, man. Start acting like you’re twenty-five instead of fucking seventy-eight. You’re a star athlete in the prime of your life.”
“I’m not acting seventy-eight,” I threw back, catching his eye roll as I pulled my jersey over my head, stripping out of my gear. He was right, but I didn’t have to admit it to the fucker. “I just don’t want to end up on the front page again.”
I’d practically become a shut-in over the last few months, but it was better that way—no tabloid run-ins or news articles could be written if you never stepped foot outside of your apartment.
Jimenez’s heavy hand gripped my bare shoulder, forcing my attention. “Dude, who fucking cares if the paparazzi are there. I’m sure you’re old news now. You know how short their attention span is.”
The whole locker room chimed in with their agreements—nosy bunch of assholes.
Dread formed like a pit in my stomach. I was being pulled in two separate directions. On the one hand, disappointing my team hurt like being hit with a slapshot, but was that feeling enough to get me to go out?
“Sure, normally their attention spans are short, but not if you have an ex-girlfriend who happens to be part of the media,” I mumbled the last part, grabbing my towel.
His expression flickered with sympathy, but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by his signature grin. His calloused hand was back on my shoulder, holding me in place.
“Ah, man, don’t worry about that. We’re going somewhere she probably wouldn’t go. It won’t be a problem. Besides, you can’t keep letting other people run your life, Cap. You deserve to do what you want to, and I know you want to come out with your best friend and party before Monroe tries to kill us next week.” I leveled my gaze at Jimenez’s attempt at puppy dog eyes. “Please?” he begged pitifully, dragging the word out like it had twelve syllables.
The hockey world might have an image of him as a playboy who could hit a party as hard as he hit a player in his defensive zone, but he’d always had my back, and I wanted to repay him for it. Even if that meant pulling me out of the cave I’d shut myself in.
