5. Jack #2
I lean forward, tapping my hand on his desk. “I show up. I’m never late. And we both know I’m a great fucking hockey player.”
“Except it’s more than that now. You’re a commodity to this league, Jack. The sponsors love your fucking ugly mug for some reason, fans adore you, and you sell us a lot of tickets.”
“It’s the charm.”
He reclines in his chair and folds his hands behind the back of his head. He has a faded tattoo on his forearm that’s a drawing of Superman Ava made when she was four. It’s terrifying. All big eyes and noodly limbs.
“I don’t know how else to get you to understand. You keep pulling the shit that ends with your name in the wrong headlines, and it follows you onto the ice. The charity auction bought you some goodwill. Don’t waste it. You’re here to play great hockey. Start playing like it.”
I scratch my chin, heaving a sigh. I’m so fucking tired of the lectures. Tired, and scared he’s right, but I won’t give him that. “I get it. Don’t fuck up tonight.”
“Tonight. Tomorrow. Three months from now. You’re going to have a fucking good season if you can focus.”
I don’t say anything. He knows I know what’s at stake.
“I know you’re still pissed you lost the chance at playoffs last season. I’m asking you to keep your head straight and in the game this season. I don’t want to see you lose ice time.”
“Careful, it sounds like you care, Coach.”
He growls. If he were holding a pen, he’d be snapping it between his fingers right now.
“I have my players’ backs, but I can’t keep telling them you’re fine when it’s clear you’re turning into an arrogant prick who’s more stuntman than player and focused on booking his next endorsement deal. We’re all playing with the Cup in mind.”
I drop my hand, my shoulders set. “I have plenty of time left. You know that.”
“Maybe. After last season’s hit, you need to be careful.”
I keep my face neutral. “I’ve been cleared to play.”
He scratches the back of his neck, then levels me with a stare that needles its way under my confidence.
“I know you love the life being a player affords you, but do you want it anymore? Are you going to put in the work to be the best you can, and not just be the pretty boy on the team hawking underwear and watches? Because right now every time you do something right on the ice, there’s some off-ice bullshit drowning it out.
Your personal life is becoming a bigger story than your game. You’re getting messy, Murphy.”
“I look good in those campaigns!” My smile falls when I notice it doesn’t earn me a laugh. Fine. “Your feedback is noted, and I’ll prove to you I’m here for you and the team.”
He nods, but I know he doesn’t buy it. I don’t know if I do either.
We head to the locker room. Bosko hypes up the team with another one of his legendary speeches, and by the time he’s done, we’re ready to head out to the ice.
“Uh oh, Murphy’s in trouble again,” Connor Fitzgerald jokes.
I check the tape on my stick one last time. “It’s fine.” I can’t find it in myself right now to make a joke. I play damn good hockey. What does it matter what I do off the ice if I’m bringing us to championships?
“Someone’s panties are in a bunch because he hasn’t gotten his rocks off.”
I glare at the rookie, Noah Chaplin. “Ready to go home to Montana yet? You know you have to score to get ice time.”
Chaplin smiles around his big bite of beef jerky. It’s always a weird flavor like horseradish or peanut butter chili crisp. Then he winks.
Alex stretches. “Murphy, suddenly celibate?”
“Ever since that auction, he’s been preoccupied. Got a crush on that bookstore chick.” Chaplin squirts water into his mouth from his water bottle, waggling his bushy brows at everyone.
I don’t have a crush. I’m not in high school. Jesus.
“Chick?” I nearly growl. “You’re just jealous you still sleep in your mom’s basement.”
Laughter erupts around me, and I ignore it, pushing to my feet. I’m going to have a great season. I know that.
As I head out onto the ice a few minutes later, my heart drumming loud enough to drown out my thoughts, everything finally calms.
I can play hockey, and I can fuck. And I can do those two things well. But at the end of the day, neither feels like enough anymore.
I drop to the ice and stretch, cracking a joke with my defenseman, before I skate past the seats I lined up for Ethan tonight. Still empty.
Shit.
“I’ll race you,” another teammate taunts. It pulls my focus, and I do, winning easily, before I crash into the board just as Jason Winthrope drifts past and clips my shoulder.
Winthrope, the prodigal forward for New York, and former fiancé of Sloane.
“Watch it, Murphy.”
“I know you’re not looking to start shit with me. Didn’t think you knew how to pull out.”
He digs his skates into the ice and glares at me from across the line.
“You thought I wasn’t going to say anything?” A hot burst of anger rips through my chest. “You fucking broke her heart, you piece of shit. You never deserved Sloane.”
“Just giving you an opportunity for seconds.”
I’m about to skate over that line, damn the consequences, before Bosko hooks an arm around my chest and yanks me back. “Now, boys, we’re going to behave, and we’re going to play a good, clean hockey game tonight.”
Right. Sure we are.
No promises if he keeps opening his mouth though.
I spin, skating to the other side of the rink and shaking off the hit. Then I catch sight of Sloane and Annie walking to their seats, my brother Ethan following them with his hands full of snacks and beers.
I wave, and my sister flips me off.
“Those are free seats,” I yell as if she can hear me.
The woman behind my sister peeks up, and a bright-red bow catches my eye before her blue eyes meet mine.
She came.
I skate closer.
“Izzy!” I bang my stick against the glass. “Hey, Izzy!”
She sinks into her seat, ducking behind the shaggy fur lining of her suede coat. Penny Lane with bright-red lips.
“Your girlfriend’s here,” Chaplin taunts, skating past me.
Girlfriend is a stretch, but I’ve seen the videos this past week about the bachelor auction. The press ate it up. And why wouldn’t they? It’s so wholesome it could almost be a Hallmark movie.
Well, with me involved? Okay, maybe not.
My teammates are busy wrapping up warm-ups. The arena’s pumped, and I can tell tonight is going to be great, but my focus is solely on her, on getting her to acknowledge me.
“Izzy!” I juggle the puck before her eyes meet mine, and I flick it to them over the boards, showing off. She reaches up and catches it.
I’m waiting for a smile or a laugh. Instead, she keeps her eyes steady on me and hands the puck to a little boy in front of them. He spins around and cheers, jumping up and down.
Damn.
Annie throws her head back and laughs. Sloane only shrugs.
And Izzy…
She tilts her head, mouth twitching.