4. Pope
Chapter 4
Pope
As one of the only rookies on the team, it’s not unreasonable for Coach to snag the back of my jersey and tell me to help clean up the ice after I’ve skated a small circle to celebrate being one of the named stars of the game. That’s not to say it doesn’t steal the wind right out of my sails as I realize I’m going to be late to my team’s celebration.
That said, he’s my coach and I’m already on thin ice with my reputation, so I give him an easy, “Yes, Coach,” and start helping clear the ice so the Zambonis can come out.
I try not to be overwhelmed with bitterness as I enter the locker room to find that everyone is quiet, focused on stripping their gear. No one is even smiling or playing music. Shit, how long was I gone for?
My gut drops as I hobble over to my stall on my skates. The bubbly feeling I’ve had since puck drop is quickly disappearing. I still force a smile for Jules though when he meets my eyes. “Team isn’t much for celebrating, huh?”
“I dunno.” He shrugs, but his lips are starting to pull into a smile. No, a grin . A mischievous one. “Are we?”
Before I can decipher what the hell he means by that, guys are rushing toward me from all directions and something cold and fizzy is being sprayed over my head. The dressing room erupts into chaos as more drinks are sprayed and hands start grabbing at me to pat and pound and shake and poke and whatever the hell else they manage to do. Jules hooks an arm around my shoulders, making my pads dig into my skin. It hurts in the best possible way as we all start hopping together in a pile and yelling like complete idiots.
I nearly cry, I’m so fucking happy.
“We’re damn glad to have you, Pope,” Wilson, our captain, tells me with a slap to my padded ass. “Might be selfish of me, but I’m hopin’ you stick around for a bit.”
I give him a goofy grin, too happy to even worry about the whole non-NAPH thing. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m untouchable. Tonight, my depression, my past mistakes, the NAPH—none of it can get anywhere near me. Even the social media tech, Tara, putting her camera in my face isn’t enough to get my spirits down.
More guys tell me they’re happy to have me. I’m hugged and patted and my beer-sticky hair is ruffled. Even Coach gives me a grin and a, “Good job, kid,” when he passes me on his way to address the room as a whole.
“Alright, alright, settle down, gentlemen.” Coach grins as he surveys the room, his head nodding like he approves of what he sees. “Tonight was a damn good way to start off a season, I’ll tell you that. For a group that hasn’t had much chance to find your rhythm yet, you guys were a well-oiled machine on that ice tonight. Keep that up and we’ll be a happy bunch of motherfuckers come May.”
We all whistle and hoot our agreement before settling down again. He tells us the schedule for tomorrow since we have another game, before making it clear we all need a good night’s sleep. “So keep the celebrations to a minimum,” he says, his eyes already rolling like he knows it’s a waste of time.
Sure enough, the moment he’s ended his speech, I have Jules’s arm wrapping around my shoulders. “We’re taking you out tonight, dude.”
“We?”
“Me and Kirkland.” He shrugs. “Well, and I’m sure we’ll run into other guys too. Pretty much everyone on the team uses the same drinking spot.”
I’m surprised to find the idea sounds appealing. A night out after a game like tonight would be the perfect finish to my day. I know my depression is only on a pause, unable to fight through the sudden onslaught of dopamine right now. I should take advantage of my time before it gains back control.
Just as I’m about to agree to going out with them, Coach calls my name. I’m riding too much of a high to remember to be worried until I’m standing right in front of him. Then his small frown registers and my stomach drops to my feet.
“Coach?”
“There’s some media here. They want a bite from you.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
“They’re not allowed to ask about training camp.” It takes effort not to flinch. Coach has never brought that up before. He’s never acknowledged that I’m only on his team because I let my dream slip through my fingers in a scandal that people are still obsessing over. It feels like a betrayal somehow, hearing him mention it now. “If they try it, shut them down by saying you’re excited for the opportunity to play for the Storm. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He tugs a team hat on my head, backward as if he’s noticed that’s how I prefer to wear mine. His smile is warm as he nods in approval. “There—now you don’t look like you’ve been mauled. Go on. Just get it over with. They’re in the hall.”
Nodding, I thank him and head toward the hall, adjusting the hat and tugging at my shirt. I’ve done media looking far worse than this, and I’ve seen plenty of other guys do the same, but it’s different knowing they’re about to dissect me. It’s different knowing this is the first time I’ll face the media after I ruined everything.
My throat threatens to close when I’m greeted almost immediately by a woman with a microphone and a man behind her holding a camera. She ushers me over to where there’s a banner hanging on the wall with the team logo and website repeatedly printed across it. When she has me centered, she asks, “Ethan, how do you feel after playing your first professional hockey game?”
Relief unfurls in me at the easy question. I even manage a decent smile when I answer. “I feel amazing. We were lucky to have a home opener and the fans were great. The team played a lot better than I thought we would for our first time being tossed together. Coach has been great about getting us all to work together, and I think that showed on the ice tonight for sure. And we won, so definitely can’t complain.”
She laughs softly, nodding her head. “You’re right, the team played great. So did you. Did your family come to watch your first game? Do you have plans to celebrate?”
“They couldn’t make it, but they’re hoping to come soon. Worst-case scenario, we’re lucky enough to have an exhibition game in Boston later this season, so they’ll for sure be at that one. I’m really excited for them to see me play and to meet the guys. As for celebrating, I’m honestly just looking forward to a hot shower and sleep.”
“No parties?” she teases.
I laugh. “No, ma’am. No parties.”
“Is that because of what happened during training camp?” The smile falls straight off my face. She presses on. “Some people wonder if you had a rock-bottom moment. Have you quit drinking? Given up that party lifestyle? You haven’t been seen out at the bars or partying since.”
I adjust my hat again, wishing it wasn’t backward. It’d be really nice to be able to pull a bill over my face right about now. “I’m—uh. I’m excited to have the opportunity to play for the Storm.”
She blinks at me. It’s not a great spin—it’s not even a spin, it’s a straight subject change—but it’s all she’s getting. Straight from Coach’s mouth to mine. At least I know he won’t be mad at me for this. I take a step to the side and nod at her. “Thank you.”
I walk away before she can even recover enough to call after me.
The AT room is empty when I peek my head inside. I sigh in relief. The last thing I need right now is Hayden doing that calculating thing where it feels like he can see right through me. It was bad enough that Jules and Kirkland caught onto my shift in mood when I returned to the dressing room, badgering me until I finally mumbled something about the interviewer that had them exchanging a knowing look and dropping the subject. I hated that look more than I hated their questions. Jules has yet to ask me about training camp, but I know it’s only a matter of time. Out of all the guys, it makes sense for my roommate to be elected as the man to press me for information.
They still wanted me to come out, but didn’t seem surprised when I turned them down. I’m definitely not feeling up to it now. That reporter gave my depression a turbo boost and all I want is to go home and hide until it’s time to come back tomorrow and do it all again.
I don’t exactly want to stick around long enough for Hayden to come back and start analyzing me, but I’m also not in any hurry to head home either. The first game of the season is always intense for a player physically, and the first game at a level much higher than college was even more so. My body hurts in places I’m not sure it’s ever hurt before. If I don’t want to be absolutely miserable tomorrow, it’d be a good idea to take a quick dunk in an ice bath.
I’m breathing through clenched teeth, my body going numb, when Hayden strolls in with his eyes on his phone. My breath catches in my throat as I watch him. He’s in a purple and black quarter-zip with the team logo tonight, but even with the casual attire there’s still an aura around him that screams sophistication and control. I hate how he makes my heart race. I hate that he has that power over me. More than Coach. More than that fucking reporter. He’s going to be the thing that takes me down. He’s going to be the one to figure out my secret. I can feel it. So why the fuck am I still here?
“Pope,” he says in surprise when he notices I’m here. His eyes scan me, doing that calculating thing that I fucking hate, before he smirks. “Are you really in an ice bath of your own freewill right now? Should I mark the calendar? Take a picture for proof?”
I huff, hating that a part of me wants to laugh. The enemy, I remind myself. He’s the fucking enemy.
When I take too long to respond, his eyebrows pull together in concern. Shit . I should have laughed. I should have joked with him. “What’s wrong? Are you hurting?”
“I’m fine.” I give him my best smile. “I mean, other than me being in a fucking ice bath. But you’re right, that’s on me this time.”
“Just trying to get ahead of the soreness?”
That, and I’m putting off going home because I know I probably won’t sleep and I’m not looking forward to a night lying awake, playing that interview over and over while obsessing over my past mistakes.
“Yeah,” I say instead—for obvious reasons. “Just getting ahead.”
“Are you going out with the team after this?”
The question is too close to my current sore spot, making me flinch. I drop my gaze to the lip of the tub. “Not feeling it tonight.”
“Not feeling it? It was your first game and it was a win. You should celebrate.”
I shrug. “There’ll be other games. Other wins.”
“Hm.” I don’t have to look at him to know he’s back to calculating. I’m starting to feel too tired to get anxious about what he might find, my heart barely picking up speed. Maybe I’ll sleep tonight after all. “Well, I’m not sure how long you’ve been in there, but probably long enough. Your lips are blue.”
I blink, processing his words. It’s like a flip switches, my mind suddenly registering the rest of my body. I’m fucking cold. And in pain.
Fuck, fuck, brrr, fuck .
I nearly jump out of the bath, shivering hard as imaginary needles prickle along my skin. I expect him to laugh at me or give me shit. What I don’t expect is his hands suddenly draping a warm towel around my shoulders. Or for those hands to linger, rubbing soothingly to warm me through the cotton.
What I don’t expect is to suddenly be caught in the darkness of his eyes as we stare at each other, our faces just inches apart.
Hayden stumbles back, shaking his head a little. I quickly grab the towel before it can slip, frowning at his reaction. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I just remembered something I need to do.” He squares his shoulders, already looking perfectly put together again. “You should set an alarm next time you take one of those alone. Too much cold can do damage, you know.”
Not entirely buying his story—but also not willing to press him in case he returns the favor—I let it slide. “I will.”
He nods sharply before walking toward the door. He stops at the entrance though, paused with his back still to me. “Pope?”
“Yeah?”
He turns just enough for us to lock eyes again. “You played great tonight. You should be proud of yourself.”
I blink, and he’s gone. I stand staring at the empty doorway, dripping wet and freezing, wondering how the fuck he did that. How the fuck he figured out that beneath the smiles and the jokes with the guys and the bullshit to the journalist about feeling amazing, I’m not proud. Not even a little bit. Because this isn’t where I should be, and it’s my fault. How the fuck could I be proud of that?
How the fuck did he figure it out?
And how much longer until he figures out the rest?