Chapter 28
WYATT CHASE
If I didn’t have such an incredible night last night, I’d be annoyed as hell today. Zane, who’s been varying degrees of useless for the last month, has sunk to a new low.
He slipped away as soon as we reached the stadium for our morning run-through, and I haven’t seen him since. The team is heading to the locker rooms soon for showers and then we’ll review tape of our opponent, and I wonder if I’ll see him then, either.
We’re closing in on the end of the first half of the season, and I’m doing my damndest to get the players to winter break–and our upcoming tournament–in one piece.
It’s a constant battle. Maine is a smaller school, so their facilities aren’t as outfitted as the ones on Radford’s campus, but what the university lacks in size, it makes up for in heart.
I know that tonight is going to be an absolute grind, and I’m readying as much tape and gauze as I can to get ahead of it.
“How’s your shoulder?” I ask West when he skates by, noticing that he’s holding his body almost imperceptibly different from when he was cleared for full play again ten days ago.
Besides Asher, I have four other players that have current treatment plans ranging from concussion protocols to groin injuries to knee sprains. Hockey isn’t for the faint of heart–or body.
West’s injury from earlier in the season had been lingering, but he’d been able to play through it with intensive recovery in between game days.
He lifts up his arm holding his stick. “All good.”
“Now, turn it sideways,” I challenge, and he grimaces with the movement.
“Why didn’t you bring this to me? You told me a few weeks ago that you were back to 100-percent.
Did something happen?” I ask West, trying my best not to sound judgmental.
He’s only a junior, but anyone who has dreams of going pro knows that every minute on the ice counts, and being seen as an injury-prone player isn’t a good thing in the eyes of prospective coaches.
He glances toward the large hallway that leads to the locker rooms, where Zane is pacing back-and-forth on the phone. “Um… I mentioned it to Zane last week. He told me that it was no big deal.”
My face morphs in anger, but I temper it quickly. I don’t want West to think that it’s directed at him. “I know that this isn’t what you want to hear, but I need to recommend to Coach that you sit out tonight until we know what we’re dealing with.”
“Chase, it’s really not that bad,” he argues, skating closer to me. “I promise that I’m fine to play.”
I shake my head and cross my arms over my chest. “You aren’t fine. We’re going to get you a full evaluation when we get back to Radford, at which point we can make a better determination.”
“Come on, seriously?” he whines, and even if it’s not a good look, I understand where he’s coming from. But it’s my job to protect these guys from themselves.
I nod, not ceding an inch. “I’ll chat with the coaches after we review tape later, and we’ll make a final call then.”
He takes off his gloves. “This is bullshit. I followed protocol.”
“I know you did. But I can’t let you play not knowing whether you have a serious injury. You can barely rotate your shoulder, man. I’m not going to be the reason that you develop a long-term injury. You have too bright of a future for that.”
“Not if no one sees me play,” he mumbles.
“Hey,” I say, imploring him to look at me, which he does reluctantly.
I take a step closer and place my hand on his padded shoulder.
“This is our last game before the holiday tournament. You’ll get a couple extra days of rest beyond the two weeks that the team will have.
If we win tonight, our standing in the league doesn’t change. I promise you, it will be okay.”
I can see that he’s considering my words, even if he’s still frowning. “I guess so.”
“This is a marathon, not a sprint. For your own sake, you need to really internalize that. How much would it suck to miss the second half of the season because of something that a few extra days of rest could have helped?”
“That would suck a lot,” he agrees, starting to nod.
I squeeze his shoulder. “Good man.”
Then, I set my sights on Zane.
He’s trying to weasel away into the bowels of the stadium, but I’m following at a fast clip.
“Zane,” I call when he’s about to slip into the locker room. I don’t want other players to hear this, if anyone’s lingering in there.
His groan echoes through the hallway. Good, that makes two of us that are pissed off. “What do you want, Chase?”
“Honestly? I want to know what the fuck is going on with you.” I don’t mean for it to come out as acerbic as it does, but I’ve had enough of his attitude over the last few months. Hearing about West was the last straw.
West is a great player, and he could get seriously injured–in a career-ending way–because of Zane’s poor management of his injuries. Out of all the things in hockey that are awful accidents, this wouldn’t be one of them. It would be negligence, and I cannot believe this idiot doesn’t even care.
He turns from the locker room door, glaring. “You aren’t my boss. I report into Coach Donovan, so ‘whatever the fuck is going on with me’ is really none of your business.”
I take a step closer. We’re about the same height, but I have him edged out by about half-an-inch.
It doesn’t matter, though. The glower on my face, something that usually doesn’t see the light of day, makes it clear how I feel.
“Why didn’t you report that West was having shoulder issues again?
Whether I’m your boss or not, you’re supposed to roll up all player reports of injury to me.
Promptly,” I add, even though we’re so far beyond the window of time where I could have let this slide.
As I’m schooling him with a look, I realize that his polo looks slept-in, and just like yesterday, he has dark rings under his eyes.
A flash of sympathy works its way through me–it’s clear that he’s going through something–but I temper it easily when he says, “It wasn’t a big deal. I’m capable of making judgment calls.”
This fucking guy. What I really want to do is throttle his neck with my bare hands, but I cross my arms instead.
“No, I don’t know, Zane. As far as I’m concerned, your job is to tape injuries, treat acute issues, and report everything up to me, whether it seems minor or not in your expert judgment.
West can barely turn his shoulder. You didn’t think that’s something that I needed to know? ”
A smarmy smile flashes across his lips. “Well, you have been pretty busy lately with your pet. I figured that you wouldn’t have time for it anyway.” I’m keeping my anger in check until he adds, “Having a little one-on-one conditioning in your hotel room last night?”
The switch inside of me flips, and I have him pinned up against the wall, just like yesterday at the buses.
I’m not going to let anyone talk about Asher like that, especially this loser.
I know that I’m not doing myself any favor, but I can’t help it.
Heat rushes through my veins and I’m seeing red–wild that it’s not fear or my career flashing before my eyes–as I push him harder against the painted concrete wall.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Putting players at risk?” I growl. It’s not what I want to say, which is that he keeps Asher’s name out of his disgusting mouth, but my words are still true.
For the first time, I see genuine fear flash across his face, like he understands that I really will beat the shit out of him. Maybe he doesn’t know the truth about Asher and me, but he knows that he’s crossed a line in my mind.
I push in harder, just to prove my point. I’m not usually an angry guy, but hearing Zane talk about my relationship–fuck, I shouldn’t be using that word, even to myself–rockets me onto another planet. One where I’m not as in control of my faculties as I’d like.
“You can’t put your hands on me,” he says, his words weak but frantic.
I hear voices around the corner, and even though it takes long seconds, I finally loosen the grip holding him in place. Then, I take a small step back and pat his chest. “Don’t let the glasses fool you. I could kick your ass all over this arena and not break a sweat. Do you get me?”
“I get you,” he grits out, his chest rising and falling now that he can breathe again.
Two players enter the hallway, the voices that I heard moments ago.
It’s West, who still looks a little sullen, only now, Asher’s with him, too.
I glance down at my watch, trying not to smile now that he’s in my line of sight.
After last night, there’s no way that I can pretend he doesn’t take up too much of my focus.
So, distracting myself is the best that I can do.
“Tape review in thirty?” I ask when they reach the door to the locker rooms, taking another step away from Zane, who slinks away quickly.
Asher smiles at me, and I can see the unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes, like he’s been thinking about last night just as much as me. It sets off a tumult of butterflies through my stomach, and I cough and put my hand over my mouth, knowing that my cheeks are turning red.
West gives me a salute with his good arm. Asher, however, clasps me on the shoulder, and it sends a spark through my already overheated body.
When am I going to stop having this reaction to him? Part of me hopes never, but the other part of me knows that I’m running headfirst toward a brick wall. It’s just one of those things that can’t end well.
But by this point, the consequences be damned, I know that I can’t stay away.