Chapter 8ROBBIE
CHAPTER 8
ROBBIE
E xhausted, I sit shirtless on the bench in front of my cubby, hunched over, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, feeling every bone in my body ache. I’m twenty-five years old, but right now, I feel like I’m eighty. And I can’t help but wonder if my new coaches are purposely punishing me or if it’s just a coincidence.
As far as I’m aware, of the twenty-one players out on that ice, I’m the only one with three consecutive Stanley Cup wins under my belt, and yet I’m the one being targeted, forced to repeat the same basic drills over and over again like I’m a goddamn call-up from the minors trying to prove himself. Shit’s fucked.
I drag a hand over my face as the door swings open, and I look up to see Dallas Shaw, Thunder’s starting goalie, walking in on his skates. He stops at his cubby and begins the arduous task of shedding his gear, glancing at me as he does. “You okay, my man?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, looking down at the floor.
Of all the guys I’ve met so far on the team, Dallas is the only one who hasn’t immediately treated me like I’m public enemy number one. I think it’s because Dallas is one of Andy’s clients too, so it’s kind of like an unspoken truce we have. I’ve heard stories about the notorious Dallas Shaw—he’s a cocky asshole on the ice, and a total playboy off the ice—but so far, he’s the only one not giving me the stink eye.
“Hey, don’t take it to heart,” Dallas says. “Coach has a hard-on for asserting himself with the newbies.”
I look up at him again, meeting his eyes.
“I mean—no offense,” he says quickly. “I know you’re not a newbie, per se. But, given the circumstances, Coach is just trying to show you who’s boss.” He slumps down on the bench beside me with an almighty harrumph. “The guy’s a fucking asshole. Daughter’s a total smoke show, though.” He winks at me.
I chuckle lightly, relaxing some. It’s at least nice to know it’s not just me who thinks the head coach, Lance Draper, is a dick.
“Hey, some of us are gonna meet up for a few beers later tonight.” Dallas slaps my arm. “You in?”
I consider his question. And while it’s nice to be invited, since I’ve only been in the city for a few days and I know practically nobody, I’m reminded of the terms of my contract. Unless it’s an approved team event, I’m not allowed out past nine. I cannot believe this is my life right now.
I rub at the tension that knots in the back of my neck. “No can do, man.” With a sidelong glance, I mutter, “Curfew.”
“Oh, shit, yeah, the probation.” Dallas offers a remorseful look. “What’s the deal with that, anyway?”
Legally, I’m not allowed to divulge the terms of my contract, although the media managed to catch wind of a few of the more ridiculous call outs, such as my curfew. But there are so many stipulations, my measly nine-million, three-year deal is more like a fucking prison sentence.
“It is what it is,” is all I say with a noncommittal shrug, heaving myself up and heading for the showers.
“Mason?”
I’m stopped on my way out of the training center, turning to see my defense coach, Coach Bromley, leaning over the railing from the upper mezzanine of the lobby.
“Coach?”
“Draper’s office,” is all he says before turning and disappearing out of sight.
My shoulders sag in resignation because what the fuck now? Gripping my bag strap, I make my way up the stairs and follow the corridor lined with glass meeting rooms to the very end, where Coach Draper’s office is situated.
I pause at the door, taking a few breaths before knocking.
“Come in,” the deep voice barks from the other side.
Tentatively, I open the door and continue inside, a little taken aback to see not only Coach Draper, but Bromley too, and one of the assistant coaches I haven’t yet had anything to do with.
“Sit.” Coach Draper points to the chair directly opposite him, and like a fucking dog, I do as I’m told.
I like to think I’m a pretty confident guy, but right now, I have no idea what’s going on. Are they done with me already? Fuck. I go over the last few hours in my head, thinking what it was I might’ve done to fuck up bad enough to be shown the door after my first on-ice practice.
Coach looks up at me from his phone, tugging his wireframe glasses off, steely blue eyes intense when they meet mine. “Do you know what I did when Chris Garret told me he wanted to sign you?”
I’m not sure if this is a rhetorical question, so I say nothing.
“I laughed in his goddamn face.” He slaps his big paw on the desk so unexpectedly, I can’t help but flinch. “Because sure as shit he had to be pulling my damn leg.”
I cast a furtive glance in Coach Bromley’s direction, but he gives nothing away.
“Why the hell would we want to risk signing the biggest liability in the NHL? ”
I swallow hard, forced to bite my tongue.
Coach looks down at the papers in front of him. “Drinking. Partying. Drugs .”
“I’ve never touched a drug in my life, Coach,” I interject, because fuck it. I’ll cop a lot on my chin, but not that. “I don’t even take Tylenol.”
Coach says nothing, but the smirk ghosting his lips tells me he doesn’t believe a word I say. I suppose I can’t blame him. The media royally screwed me over.
“Fighting with your own teammates,” Coach scoffs as he reads the paper in front of him. He glances up at me with one quirked brow. “They’re saying Ben Harris might miss the whole season because of you.”
Fuck Ben Harris. He’s a pussy ass bitch, milking it for all he can.
When I remain silent, Coach continues, “Promiscuity with your little internet… fangirls .”
I almost laugh at that because Lola Grey sure as hell ain’t no “fangirl,” and if she knew this old man was referring to her as one, with condescending air quotes and all, she would lose her ever-loving shit.
“Lola was a mistake in judgment, Coach.” I don’t add that she was nothing but a rebound. One I wish I’d stayed the hell away from. And that, frankly, it was all Ben fucking Harris’s fault. Instead, I clear my throat, sitting up a little straighter. “I’ve settled down. I’ve got a girlfriend now, Coach. A real nice girl I’ve known since high school.” Honestly, it takes all I have not to gag at my own words.
Coach studies me for a few silent moments. “Well, I hope for your sake you have settled down. Because we spent more money signing you than any other player on our roster.”
Probably the reason you’ve sucked ass the last two years , I don’t say.
“Half the fans have turned on us because of the decision Chris made offering you a contract,” Coach adds .
Frustrated, I pull on the back of my neck, because there’s only so many proverbial kicks a guy can take when he’s already down.
“So, what I wanna know is where the fuck is Robbie Mason, three time Stanley Cup champion and MVP last two years in a row, because I sure as shit didn’t see him out on that ice today.” Coach sags back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, watching me, waiting.
He’s right. But I’m at a loss, and all I can do is shake my head because honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. When I skated out onto the ice today, it was like coming home. But there was something off, and I don’t even know what it is so that I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.
“I’ll be better, Coach.” I look him straight in his eyes. “I promise you; I will be the best damn decision Chris Garret’s ever made for this team.”
Coach stares at me long and hard, his face a blank mask, void of any and all emotion. He’s quietly terrifying, if I’m honest. And I find my mind wandering back to what Dallas said earlier in the locker room. I know it’s not the time or the place, but all I keep thinking is how the hell does this guy have a hot daughter?
“You better not let me down, son.” Coach looks down at his phone again and starts tapping something into it.
I stand, lingering a moment or two before I realize I’ve been dismissed. Grabbing my bag off the floor I turn, and I’m out of there so damn fast.
“Mason!”
I stop halfway down the corridor, turning to see Coach Bromley standing there, hands tucked in his pockets, the hint of a grin curling his lips. And it’s not lost on me that this is the first sign of a smile I’ve received from any of the coaching staff since I’ve arrived.
“Let’s you and me grab some time on the ice tomorrow, before everyone gets here,” he says. “I wanna do a review of your edgework. You’re one of the best skaters in the league, but you were looking a little sloppy out there today.”
I nod. Because I do agree with him that I’m one of the best skater in the league—possibly the best. His mention of my edgework, however, almost has me laughing out loud, because is he serious?
“Be here at ten.”
“Sure thing, Coach.”
Bromley nods but doesn’t say anything more before turning and disappearing back into Draper’s office. Probably to talk more about how shit I am.
I turn, hurrying back along the corridor, down the stairs and through the lobby of the training center. And as I walk out into the afternoon, the city chaos hitting me like brutal slap to the face, I realize something; I seriously need to get my shit together before I fuck this whole thing up.