Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JULIAN
“That’s how we do it, boys,” Anders yelled, walking into the locker room. “And you, Julian Silver. My sweet prince, welcome back.” He made bowing down motions.
“Yes, all hail Julian Silver, the Comeback King and Prince of Hat Tricks,” Mason Tremblay teased.
“Both of you, shut the fuck up.” I threw my towel at Anders. It was my best game of the season. We had beat Toronto, a tough team. Hopefully, this game would prove to Murry that I didn’t need any help and we could move on. Put last season behind us.
“Great game, Silver. You too, Mason,” Coach said, standing in the middle of the room.
“This is our second win in the series, and this one was too close. We have San Jose on Saturday, Chicago on Monday, and they are both scrappy teams, hungry to prove themselves. We need to keep our heads in the game and remember there’s still a lot of season between us and that cup.
The bus leaves in an hour. Silver, can I see you? ”
I followed the coach into the small office. This was it. I either proved myself or didn’t. The air was stale and smelled like old coffee and a locker room.
“Close the door and sit down,” Coach Murry said, sitting down at a beat-up desk. “The front office wants to know who this trainer is you spoke of.”
“It’s nothing. It was a joke.”
“Is it? Obviously, something has changed, Julian. Do we need to test you?”
“For what?” I frowned, waiting for him to mention an injury or concussion.
But that wasn’t the look he gave me. “Are you fucking kidding me? You automatically assume I’m doping?
Fuck.” I sat back in the chair. My body ached.
I wouldn’t be able to lift my arm over my head tomorrow.
But yeah, doping was the reason I was better.
“What else should I think? You haven’t scored a goal in thirty-two games. Thirty-two. And suddenly, not only do you score, but a hat trick. That’s not normal for even you.”
“Not normal?” I snapped. “It’s not normal for a winger to score points?”
“This has gone on too long. The personal issues I could handle. But this. This is bad. If you need help, we can get you that help but—”
“I’m not on drugs.” I cut him off. “I’ve changed a few things up.”
“Okay, tell me. What have you changed? Because I haven’t seen you training any different. The staff hasn’t been working with you any more than normal. So please tell me.” Coach Murry rested his forearms on the desk.
“It’s personal.” I didn’t look at him. I didn’t want to explain that a paid escort was one of those things.
“God damn it, Julian. They’re going to test you. McGrath is already crawling up my ass about you. He wants you gone yesterday. He wants the next Hulton or Host. And now this. I can’t keep saving your fucking ass!”
I shot out of my chair. “Then fucking let me go.” I could feel the ache of tonight’s game crawling into the marrow of my bones and worming its way into the connective tissue.
And all they were worried about was if I was on something.
“You want to know what’s going on? I am so tired of you and McGrath constantly holding my career over my fucking head.
I came here because you asked me to. I could’ve gone to DC for a longer contract, and I wouldn’t have my coach questioning me.
I don’t score, you’re pissed. I score, you’re pissed. What the fuck do you want from me?”
“You think you’re the only one with something to lose?” Murry stood, yelling back at me. “I’m the one that brought you into this franchise. So if you fail, we both do. So you better tell me right now what the fuck is going on with you. If you need help, ask.”
“Help for what?” I shouted back. “I went out and played fucking hockey. Isn’t that what you pay me way too much money for?
Isn’t that the only thing I’m good at?” I threw his words back at him.
“You want to piss test me? Let’s fucking go.
” I threw open the door. “Come on, bring your cup. I’ll piss right here.
Hell, why don’t we take it out on the ice and show the world what a good little hockey player I am? Let’s go.”
“Julian.” Murry pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Don’t Julian me.” Some days I felt like I couldn’t win.
“What do you want from me?” Murry threw up his hands. “You don’t have McGrath crawling up your ass. Christ, I can’t take a shit without him there. Everyone’s eyes are on you, Silver. If something is going on, tell me now before it becomes bigger.”
“It’s nothing. Whatever is going on with me has nothing to do with you. Or this franchise.” That wasn’t true. They were the reason I couldn’t sleep at night. The reason I played through injuries. The reason I had nothing in my life but this game. Until Cassidy.
Murry put his hands on his hips and looked at the desk. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I wasn’t sure what surprised me more—that he cared, or that he’d actually listened to what I said that night.
“Who is she? You said it was she. We can’t deal with any more drama.
First Emily’s public affair with Hulton.
Then you got fucking sloppy drunk at a charity tournament and tried to fight Shaw.
Don’t get me started on the baseball game.
Christ’s balls, we can’t take another incident. Your teammates can’t.”
I laughed. “Is this your way of helping me? I am so fucking sorry my personal life has gotten in the way.”
“Your personal life is splattered all over goddamn social media. I get at least one question a week about you and your marriage. How you feel about seeing Hulton. If your head is in the game. Do I think your personal life is the reason for your shitty season? There’s a running bet on if you’ll have another breakdown if Hulton and Emily get married. I’m not the enemy here.”
“Well, you’re not my friend either. Are we done?”
“Yeah. But you’ve been warned.” Murry flopped down in the chair.
“Whatever.” In the locker room, Anders and Tremblay were waiting. “You two got something to say too?”
“Whoa.” Mason Tremblay held up his hands. “Jules, what’s going on?”
“Take a breath, Jules. Coach meant nothing,” Anders said, pulling on his pants. “It happens to all of us.”
“What happens? They want to piss test you because you scored a fucking goal tonight?” I kicked the pads lying on the floor. I expected this from Murry. He had to play by McGrath’s rules. But not Anders or Mason.
“I gotta shower.” Mason wrapped a towel around his neck. “Andy, you need help with pissy pants here?” he grumbled.
“No.” Anders waited for Mason to leave. “You done?”
“Fuck you,” I spat. “Fuck this entire fucking franchise.” I sat down on the bench, and I hung my head. “I’ve given this game eighteen years of my life.”
“Jules, tell me the truth, are you?”
“Am I doping? You have to fucking ask?” Sometimes I lost the feeling in my left hand from the nerve damage in my shoulder.
Then there were the headaches from the concussions and broken jaws.
The joint issues I’d have in a few years.
All of these were reasons to take something. My game wasn’t one of them.
“Will you look at this from their standpoint? You go from nothing to a hat trick. That’s unheard of even for you.” He sat down next to me. “You want me to really believe that a piece of ass did that?”
“You’re the one who suggested it. You’re the one who said it would help.” And it had. I didn’t know how, but spending time with Cassidy cleared my head.
“Help, yeah. Change your fucking game, no. Just tell me you’re not, and I’ll believe you,” Anders said.
“Fuck you.” I walked to the shower. For hockey being a team sport, I’d never felt more alone.