Chapter 14 Adrian
ADRIAN
“This is our third meeting this week,” says Coach Forrester. “Have you taken any proper time off this month?”
I haven’t.
Not really.
“It’s the off-season,” he reminds me. “Son, you need to rest and recover.”
I will…when we come up with a proper game plan so the Vancouver Wings win again.
Until then, I can’t afford to relax.
From the outside, my limbs appear loose because I’m lounging on his office chair, but worry dries my throat. “Coach, I heard more rumors that the GM wants to make changes to the roster. Sooner rather than later. Tell me it isn’t true.”
Forrester pinches the bridge of his nose. “He doesn’t have faith that we can pull it together.”
“So?” I lean forward, bracing my hands on the edge of his desk. “Aren’t you always telling us that the bonds between us matter? That we can make it work together?”
He grimaces. I’m throwing his words back at him. “For the record, you don’t have anything to worry about. Your contract is safe, if that’s your concern—”
Once upon a time, it would have been, for a lot of reasons. The house that I grew up in was loud, poor, and crowded. My mom kept believing in love, but never had any real luck with it. By the time I was eighteen, she was raising kids from three different marriages by herself.
Now I’d never trade being the only boy in a house full of sisters for anything, but back then I felt like an outcast who didn’t fit in. I couldn’t find my place in the middle of all that crowded noise until…
Hockey. It just clicked. It was all mine, and I didn’t want to lose it. I prioritized it over everything else in my life.
Shame burns the back of my neck as I push back what happened afterwards. I can’t remember the past and how selfish I used to be, because if I do, I’ll break apart. And then I’m useless to my team.
“This isn’t about my contract,” I tell Forrester. “Tell the franchise we need every player we have to win again.”
Forrester doesn’t look my way, shuffling papers. “You can’t protect everyone.”
“Give me a list of everyone they’re considering trading.”
He startles, glancing up. “That’s a lot of pressure on your shoulders, Adrian.”
I know.
It’s a suffocating amount of pressure.
I grin at him. “Coach, what happens when I’m put under pressure? We get results! Don’t you like results?”
That earns me a laugh, but Coach still hesitates.
I stare back at him, seemingly unfazed. “The list.”
Begrudgingly, Forrester pushes a folder across his desk toward me.
I open it and skim the contents. My heart jams up into my throat. There are more names than I thought there would be.
“The first one on the top…” I say.
“Eric Jung.”
“The rookie?”
“They’re talking about releasing his contract first.”
“That’s worse than trading him.”
“I know.”
“There’s no reason to do that.” My voice echoes off the walls. “Jung needs a lot of work in his zone, but he’s elite at stretch passes. I’ll train him personally.”
“I don’t know if you want to invest your time—”
The rest of his words don’t reach me. I’m too lost in my own thoughts.
Why is my time worth more than anyone else’s? Or my success? I don’t deserve to be captain if I still think that way.
The folder is tucked under my arm. I’m going to study it right away.
Most of the players will be vacationing, or at Worlds, or spending time with their families during break, but as soon as we’re back, I’m setting up special practices.
Meanwhile, I need to figure out their strengths and weaknesses.
I’ll make charts. Map our plays. Different formations.
Figure out how to inspire them, find the right words to say.
Coach must read something off my expression. He frowns. “I don’t want my captain to buckle under the stress.”
My grin is wide. Cocky. Careless. A lie. “What stress?”
Forrester reluctantly dismisses me.
I salute him, then stroll out of the room. I’m grinning—until I’m not. Safely away from his office, I slump against the wall, grateful the hallway is empty.
My hands tremble as I rub the back of my neck.
Those unwanted memories from my past surface.
Another hockey player with short buzzed hair.
The vintage jersey his parents bought him for his birthday that he let me wear sometimes.
Eager brown eyes that told me he’d be known all around the world for scoring the game-winning goal on an international stage one day.
I shove a hand through my hair. Keep it together, a voice in my head chides. Get on the ice and clear your head. You’re no good to anyone like this.
Since I’m already in the arena, it’s quick work to head to the locker room. There, I put on my jersey and gear, and finish tying up my skates when my phone rings.
The opening notes of The Nutcracker don’t play long, because I don’t let them. There’s only one person with that ringtone in my phone, and she’s never called me before.
The image of her struggling on stage grips my mind. I was planning on calling Quinn later tonight to see if she’d mentioned it to him yet.
“Sonya?” Her name comes out in a rush.
“Butt-dial,” she mumbles.
Then Sonya hangs up.
Huh. What?
I call her back. My chest swells with this rush of strange anticipatory energy, overwhelming any stress I was facing minutes ago.
Sonya called me? Why?
I don’t know why, but I’ll always pick up her calls, no matter what. Regardless of where we last left off. That’s a fucking guarantee.
“Sonya,” I croon as soon the call is answered, before she can get a word in.
“Were you staring at my number? Is that how you accidentally called me? Maybe your Adrian quota hasn’t been met after all.
Did you want me to fill it? I’m really good at filling things up. Care for a demonstration, darling?”
Her silence is deafening, but she hasn’t hung up yet. That’s strange. I’m about to ask what’s going on when I hear it.
Beeping. A monitor. The muffled announcement of a code being announced on an intercom.
My grin dies. Fucking instantly and immediately. “Sonya. Where are you?”
She doesn’t answer.
Another announcement comes on, this one much clearer.
ER, room 15. Cancel code blue.
Fuck. No.
I’m ripping off my skates, but my hands aren’t steady so it’s clumsy. I’m taking too long. Swearing, I finally get them off, toss them away, and jam my feet back into my boots.
I’m out the door.
“Sonya. Are you at the hospital?”
“…doesn’t matter.”
“Which hospital?”
“I’m fine—”
“Answer my question, darling,” I order, my voice roughening. “Now.”
“Are they coming to take care of you?” someone asks from her side. A voice I don’t recognize.
“Um—I don’t—not—I mean—” Sonya is deflecting hard.
“What hospital?” I’m running to my car. In my jersey and gear I’m recognizable, so arena staff members wave before they see my expression. Then their eyes noticeably widen. Adrian Hughes, Captain of the Vancouver Wings, is running at full-speed. His usual shit-eating grin is nowhere to be seen.
I barely see them. My muscles scream as I pick up more speed. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask Quinn. Want me to do that?”
She swears. So softly. “No.”
“It’s me or him. Pick.”
“You.”
“Good girl. Now tell me which hospital.”
I’m in my sports car with my tires spitting up gravel, when she finally gives me an answer.
I know where I’m going.