Chapter 6
Chapter six
BECKETT
You’d think I was walking into Coach’s living room after seducing his omega. I’m not that dumb, and yet I feel like I have to slink through the locker room, taking the back hallways so no one sees me.
“Yo, Beckett!”
I squint my eyes shut. I didn’t even make it fifty feet.
Javier, one of the trainers, jogs up to me.
His footfalls sound like bombs going off in my head.
This is why I don’t drink. This is why you shouldn’t drink when you have a concussion.
The minibar at the hotel was just too tempting last night.
I push my shades up the bridge of my nose.
There’s no real reason to hide my black eye, but everything is just too damn bright.
“Doc wants to see you,” Javier says, crossing his arms as if he’s reading me like a packmate.
“Sure, I’m all good though,” I lie.
“Yeah, I know, but team protocol. Big fight equals Doc. Your face is busted up, hands too, I bet.”
I roll my eyes behind my glasses. I like Javier, but I just can’t today.
“Besides, maybe Doc can give you a get out of jail free card for when you see Coach.”
“Whatever,” I snap.
“Hey, are you okay? Let me see your eyes,” he says as he reaches for my glasses.
I slap his hand away. “Fuck off.”
“Beckett. Dude, seriously, what’s up?”
“I’m fine,” I lie again and turn down the hall to Coach’s office. I’m not fine, but since lying to everyone about everything is on the table now, what does it matter?
I ignore Javier’s questions with a careless wave over my shoulder. Coach’s door is open at the end of the hall. I didn’t check my phone this morning. There was no point. I knew there would be a dozen messages from Liam, none from Pierce, and only one “report to my office ASAP” from Coach.
The office isn’t exactly welcoming. Papers are shoved everywhere, and a stack of clipboards balances on a corner of the desk, threatening to tumble to the floor if you look at them too hard. He’s pecking at the keyboard with just his pointer fingers.
I drop into one of his chairs. I’m convinced that he designed this office to psychologically torture his players.
The chair is too damn small. He’s got a roster of a dozen guys over six feet and two-hundred fifty pounds of muscle, but he has chairs made for toddlers.
Coach’s scent is so thick it basically pools at my feet.
I resist the urge to rub my nose. That’s bad manners.
This is the most uncomfortable silence I’ve ever experienced.
I have nothing to do but pick at the raw and broken skin on my knuckles.
I haven’t gone gloves off in ages. We have too much equipment that gets in the way now.
Coach’s office is lined with old press photos and framed newspaper articles that I’ve never bothered to inspect before.
This must be what it’s like to be called into the principal’s office.
The chair squeaks as he finishes up his task and leans back. Great. It’s even worse now, with his pretty face giving me the stink eye. I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks.
“Why are you in a suit? Did you sleep in your clothes?”
I flick a bit of fuzz off my knee. All I had were dirty practice clothes, workout gear, and my away bag when I left the house.
“I wanted to look pretty for you. You’re always on us about looking professional for the press.”
He cocks his head, and I know I’m in real trouble. I just don’t know what to say to make this right.
“You’re one of the best enforcers in the league. Do you know why?”
“The cookies and milk.”
Coach snorts. I always have cookies and milk, chocolate milk specifically, before games. The team dietitian orders it special for me. Chocolate chip. Macadamia if I’ve been a really good boy.
“Because you’re not a hothead,” he continues, his smile gone again. “You stop players by any means necessary, and you move the puck. But you’re not emotional about it.”
“Grady would argue that’s what makes me suck at the job.”
“You’re one of the best defensemen because you don’t pull shit like you did last night.”
I grind my teeth. I really don’t want to talk about last night.
“You want to tell me what that was about?” He cocks a brow at me.
“I was doing my job. Bugrov was being nasty.”
“And attempting to stab him with your stick?”
I don’t look away from Coach, but only because it would be an admission of guilt. The exact details of the fight are hazy. But I knew I wanted to kill Bugrov. Not to win the game. But to put him in the ground. That was the only clear thing. After a long moment, I look away and pick at my knuckles.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I’ve always suspected that there’s something wrong with me as an alpha. I don’t get jealous. I don’t go off half-cocked with anger. Maybe because half my job is fighting for a living, I just burn off that kind of energy.
Last night? It was like ten years of alpha rage came pouring out of me. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t control it. And I didn’t want to.
“Last night was not an isolated incident.”
I lift my head. My brows crease so hard it makes the headache worse.
“The Florida game? You spent half of it in the box.”
“No one touches my goalie.” I growl. I actually growl. “Besides, Timber had him pinned and I…”
“Two games ago, you went after a ref.”
I open my mouth and shut it. I forgot about that. No, not “forgot,” not really. The details just aren’t sharp, and they’re hard to hold on to. Shit. Is this the start of CTE?
“And there’s this.” He slides the email from Marilyn across the desk. I’m usually up for PR stunts, but not a date. I roll my eyes and throw up my hands. “You’re going on this date.”
“My pack isn’t interested in an omega.”
“How is your pack?”
“Fine,” I spit out the word.
“Is this rut or trouble at home?”
“I said everything is fine.”
“Really? With your pupils dilated like that?”
“It’s…” I stop myself just shy of saying, “It’s the concussion, asshole.” Admitting to a concussion would make this all worse.
Coach stands up so I know he’s done with me. “You’re going to spend the rest of the day on the ice with Julius, and you’re going on this date.”
“The hell…”
Coach cuts me off, “You refuse and I bench you for the rest of the season.”
I stand up so fast the chair topples back. “Over a date?”
“No. You’re falling apart, you don’t want to do anything about it, and I don’t know if you’re worth my time anymore. I need a professional, not another meathead I have to babysit.”
Fear mixes with rage. I can feel my hands tightening into fists. The only thing stopping me from launching myself at him is the desk between us. I break eye contact and take a step back, my calves bumping into the chair.
Rut. Rut? Is that what this is? Or am I just going crazy?
“Go on the date. I don’t want to have another conversation with Marilyn about how you’re not returning her calls. She said you ran out of the locker room naked when she tried to find you.”
My cheeks burn. I don’t think defending myself by saying that I was wearing boxers is a good idea.
“My pack’s not interested in an omega.”
“Yeah, you said that, and that could be part of the problem. Go on the date and enjoy some shiny happy omega company rather than your ball-busting packmates.”
“Fine.”
“Good. Now, get on the ice. Julius is going to abuse you until your mood improves. And then we’ll decide if we’re benching you or not.”
I step around the chair and stoop to pick it up. I even dust off the seat for good measure for the next torture victim.
Forty-five minutes later and I’m puking on the ice.
“Your edge work sucks.” Julius says.
I spit nasty bile from my mouth and straighten up. My thighs are screaming.
“Crossovers down and back. Move.”
I throw my stick. It skitters down the ice. “Like I’m twelve and drilling for the travel team.” I’m gulping air, trying not to puke again.
“Stop acting like a baby, and I’ll stop training you like one.”
I push forward with my back leg, snatching up my stick.
“You’re getting lazy. You’re weak on the outside edge.”
I sink lower, bending my knees more, switching from foot to foot.
“You have all of the power but none of the speed,” he bitches at me. And this goes on for another twenty minutes.
That rage is back, and it steals all the heat from me.
“Again,” Julius demands. “Push harder.”
I lose it and hurl my stick into the boards. It shatters. The game comes rushing back. I had wanted to kill Bugrov. Really kill him, rip him apart. And for what? Taunting Phillips and making disgusting comments about omegas.
Julius skates around me.
“Do you need to talk about your feelings?” He smirks at me.
“Fuck off.”
He glides to an easy stop. “In all the time we’ve played together, you have never once cursed me out.”
“I’m making up for lost time. Fuck off again.” I skate to the net and fumble with my water bottle. My fingers are numb, and I can’t get the top off. Teeth work fine, though.
“How are Liam and Pierce?” he asks. I give him the finger as I chug water. “What did Pierce do now?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“Be on the ice, 10 a.m. every day. The team’s practicing at the arena. You’re going to be here with me.”
“Are you punishing me?”
“I sure am. 10 a.m., Beckett.” He skates away. I shout “fuck off” again to his back, and he holds up three fingers like he’s keeping count.
I run both hands through my hair and grind my palms into my eye socks, like that will erase all the images from the game.
I skate slow circles around the rink, letting my muscles cool down.
Everything is going to ache in the morning.
I make big circles with my right shoulder.
Whatever I did to it during the game left it stiff and sore.
Pierce will stretch it out for me.
I immediately shake my head. So much of my game play, so much of my career is centered around Liam and Pierce.
Liam talks to my agent more than I do. He’s the one who got all the sponsorship contracts sorted.
He pays all the bills, takes care of the house, everything so that I can just skate.
Pierce makes sure my body can take it all.
He’s the one who manages my workouts, makes sure I have rest days and the right PT.
When we moved to Nashville, he got sports nutrition certification, massage therapy training, he even opened the gym for me so I could work out and not sign autographs from the treadmill.
Fuck Pierce. I don’t need him. I don’t need Liam. I don’t need our stupid pack. I start another big circle around the rink, stopping to pick up all the shards of my broken stick.