Chapter Three
TOMMY
After a zero to two loss in the opening game of the regular season, I’m minding my own business and listening to Black Sabbath during cooldown when a hand reaches across the treadmill and hits the red Emergency Stop button.
Fucking rude.
Slowly, I pull off my headset and lock eyes with Archer Moore. With his arms planted across his chest, he stands at the end of my treadmill.
“I don’t know how many times Coach needs to say it, but he doesn’t like us listening to personal music during gym time.”
We both know that isn’t what’s really eating at him. Still, I’m not about to broach the subject. He can man up and tell me tonight’s loss was my fault. And then I’ll explain why it wasn’t.
“Why do you care?” I say, scrubbing a hand across my jaw. “You hardly ever talk to me anyway.” I pause and consider leaving my retort there, but holding back isn’t my style. “Unless you want me to save your ass in practice or games, that is. Then it’s more of an incessant plea.”
Archer Moore has been the Blades goalie since before I left college, and he’s widely considered to be one of the best of a generation.
He annihilated his own shutout record last season, and truthfully, he’s the best I’ve ever worked with.
Not that he needs to know that. I’m not lying when I say I’ve saved his ass a time or two.
In part, his excellent performance last season—where we narrowly missed out on the Cup—was down to my speed on the ice, especially traveling backward.
He just smirks, and there’s nothing remotely friendly about it. “That major penalty you picked up tonight, it cost us the game.”
Ah, so now we’re getting down to the crux of the matter.
“We were already a goal down when I got handed time in the penalty box. We had one shot all game, and that came from a turnover I’d created in the second period.
Coach has come into this season fresh out of ideas, and the entire team looks lethargic and unmotivated.
” I motion around the empty gym, noting that we’re the only players in here. “Aside from me, that is.”
When Archer opens his mouth to reply, it’s not his voice that materializes.
“How about you repeat that in my office?” Coach Morgan’s harsh tone rips through the music I can still hear through the headphones that rest around my neck.
All my goalie does is grin.
I turn around to face a fuming Coach as he stands at the other end of my treadmill. “I mean, I can repeat what I said,” I reply to him. “But I’m pretty sure you heard me the first time.”
I’m a certified idiot to wind this guy up. Other than the GM—who, for some reason, seems to like me—Coach holds the strings to my career, and let’s just say, I haven’t exactly gotten on his good side since I walked onto the team last season.
“My office in five minutes,” he grits out before heading straight for the exit, the gym door crashing against the jamb when he leaves.
“Don’t worry about being late to Lloyd’s tonight.” I don’t bother to look at Archer as he speaks, and I snatch up my towel and water bottle from the treadmill. “It wasn’t like the team would’ve saved you a seat anyway.”
“Sit,” is all I get when I push into Coach’s office fifteen minutes later.
I took my sweet time in the shower and then getting dressed. Like hell was I going to sit in my postgame sweat while he reamed me out for speaking nothing but the truth.
Flopping down and adjusting my tie, I unbutton the top button on my dress shirt. “Jesus, Coach, why do you always have to run it so hot in here?”
His jaw tightens, and he pushes away a few papers on the desk in front of him, clearing the space between us. “More to the point, why are you always in here?”
I shrug like a petulant teenager, unable to stop myself.
It’s like I’m daring to see how far I can push this guy before he snaps.
But I know he needs me on the team just as much as I need my position.
With Sawyer Bryce playing out his final season and Emmett Richards on the slow path to recovery, following a serious knee injury, he has very few options.
That, and the GM seems to back me each time Coach and I come to blows.
I’m aware my trade to the Blades last season was unpopular at best, driven solely by the guy at the top, calling the shots.
“Because you always summon me here like some kind of principal or something,” I reply, gazing around the room.
A picture of his wife, Felicity Morgan, sits in an emerald frame on the corner of his desk.
She’s got her arm wrapped around her daughter, Darcy Moore.
Last season, Archer was the bad guy in town for secretly hooking up with their golden girl.
Although that was quickly forgotten when he made a bunch of declarations about promising to love her for eternity or some shit like that.
The fact that he had gotten her knocked up didn’t seem to matter.
I wonder if I start fucking a teammate’s sister, will I suddenly enter the magic circle of trust?
Coach sits back in his black leather chair, despondency flowing off him. “Why is it that your main priority is to piss off everyone around you? At this point, I’m wondering why you chose to play a team sport like hockey.”
It’s a fair question, one I can answer easily. I focus back on him and away from the image of his family. “Because I don’t like people and because I’m really fucking good at hockey.”
“Is that genuinely your full answer?” He sounds more desperate now.
I shake my head and lean my elbows on the desk.
“Listen, if this is your version of a pep talk to get me to see reason or want to start making friends around here, then I’d save your breath.
I’m here to play hockey and earn money.” I drop my palms to the desk, and as I lean back into my chair, I slide my hands until they fall off the edge and slap against my thighs. “Being liked is overrated.”
“I’ll agree with you on two points.” Coach holds up a couple of fingers.
“One, you’re right. You are a good hockey player.
I can see it beneath the layers of unnecessary bravado you bring to the ice.
You’re the fastest I’ve ever seen going backward, and you’re advancing game is some of the best out there. ”
I agree with that.
“Two, being liked is most definitely overrated. But proactively trying to make everyone hate you is worse. You call yourself a serious player, but all I see is a kid throwing his weight around, both in the locker room and in the rink.” He leans forward, lips pressed into a thin line.
“I mean, why? Why did you drop your gloves today? We could’ve been looking at a draw tonight instead of a loss since we were beginning to turn the screw on them.
Instead, Philly is thinking their Christmas just came early since we were odds on to clinch the W. ”
I clear my throat as I think of a valid excuse. I don’t have one. Their center had been in my ear all game, and for the first time since I can remember, I didn’t know how to handle it.
“Why, Tommy?” Coach repeats.
I look up at him then, surprised at the use of my first name. I don’t like his coaxing tone, even less the understanding edge it carries.
“Gentry had it coming,” is all I can manage.
“The opposition can’t be allowed to believe that they can talk shit when they play on our home ice.
Someone has to put the hammer down, and that someone is me.
Bryce is past his best with one eye on retirement, and no one else has the build or the balls to bring the intimidating role our GM asked me to fulfill when I was brought on board. I’m doing my job, simple as that.”
Satisfied with my response, I sit back and rest one leg over my knee.
Coach doesn’t seem to share the same opinion as he drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I hate to burst your bubble, kid, but even Adrian is growing tired of your antics. Our GM only has so much patience, and he’s part of the reason why you’re in here tonight.”
A kernel of discomfort blooms in the pit of my stomach.
“That’s not the impression he gave me,” I argue. “I only spoke with him last week. He wanted to see more of the same this season.”
“Yeah, well …” Coach blows out a low breath. “Opinions change, and I gotta be honest with you …” He pauses, looking me dead in the eyes. “Tonight’s hit stunk of your father.”
The slight unease I was feeling earlier morphs into something way worse as cold shivers trickle down the length of my freshly tattooed spine.
“It was a clean hit,” I insist. “He had the puck, and I was the obvious player to tackle him. The penalty was unjustified and only because the ref panicked. The entire league is turning soft.”
Coach quirks a brow. “The hit was questionable, but Gentry has a bad concussion and a twisted knee. He’ll be out for multiple games.”
I lift a single shoulder. “And?”
“And you just lost us the fucking game! Moreover, I don’t want this team to go back to what it was when I was playing.
The Blades were nothing but animals. As an opposing player, the aim was to leave the rink with all your limbs still attached.
That was considered to be a win when you traveled to Brooklyn. ”
I make a face akin to pride. “Sounds like a great way to run an NHL team.”
When he pushes a hand through his silky brown hair, I can tell Coach’s patience is wearing thin.
“Is that what you want? To follow in your dad’s footsteps? To have your career cut short because no team wants to sign you?”