Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
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AFTER THE GAME IN THE LOCKER ROOM
Dressing in my game day suit, it’s a struggle to mentally prepare myself for the media, or worse, the inevitable lecture—or worse—from coach.
It’s not the locker room jubilation that distracts me, or because I’m anticipating going home with Brooks later to collect my reward, mostly.
It’s the damn headache. It’s back with a vengeance.
Reaching into the back of my locker, I grab the bottle of Tylenol and spill several tablets into my hand. Before I have a chance to swallow them down, Sabien appears and hands me a bottle of water.
“Take them with water. Swallowing them dry is nasty. Not good for your digestion.”
I do as he suggests.
“Headache back?”
“Don’t tell Doc—or coach.”
Sabe’s expression is pinched with worry, but he nods. “Not today, but if it keeps up—”
I grin. “I’m touched at your concern, Captain.” I pat his shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s getting better. I got through the game with no problems.” It’s true. “This is just an aftereffect of the exertion. I’ll take it easy at practice tomorrow.”
Sabe snorts a laugh and then his face sobers as he glances past me.
I turn in the direction of his eyes and see the coaches coming in, tapping pads and congratulating the guys, each one personally.
When Coach Logan looks at me, he nods. When he reaches me, he says in a low voice, “My office. As soon as you’re finished dressing.
” He moves on, tapping Sabien’s shoulder with a fist as he goes.
“Fuck,” I mutter. All I have left to put on is my shoes.
“Whatever you do,” Sabien says in a hushed authoritative voice, “don’t disagree or make excuses.
You need to take whatever the coach dishes.
And you need to think about what you’re going to say to the team.
” He gives me one of those searing meaningful looks like he’s a wise old man, and I swear he’s channeling his dad, Henry.
Henry is the real deal. Wise like my dad but a hockey genius—unlike my dad.
The door to Coach Logan’s office is open, and he’s waiting for me, sitting on the edge of his desk like he’s waiting to pounce the second I step over the threshold.
“Close the door behind you,” he says. Not the words you want to hear from your coach.
Schooling my features to neutral, a less intense version of my game face, I step inside and close the door. I don’t feel a need to sit or come any further inside. We stare at each other, and I soak in the growing tension in the room while he plays his mind game.
Unsurprisingly, I’ve experienced this coach trick before, the purposeful leaning into the discomfort of anticipating the sledgehammer about to be lowered on your head.
One of the skills I’ve learned, besides how to skate circles around the defense, is how to wait out the silence without so much as a tick in my jaw muscle, not even one tell-tale gulp.
As long as he can’t hear the hammering of my heart, he’ll think I’m as calm as a lake on a summer morning.
“Do you think undermining your coach’s ability to run a game and lead his players is worth your fucking empty net goal?
Do you think undercutting your teammate who was supposed to be on the ice getting his opportunity to score is good teamwork?
” The acid in his voice fills the air, and I swear I can feel it eating at my body, or at least my soul.
I remember Sabien’s words and suppress my stupid need to defy, to revert to being a wiseass.
“No sir.” My voice came out low and raspy, but it didn’t crack. I don’t relish the idea of doing any more talking.
He laughs. “You don’t think parroting the correct answer is going to get you off the hook, do you?” He pauses to stare me down, and this time I decide his question is rhetorical.
“You’re benched for the next game.” He lifts himself from the desk while I try to process his words, but it’s hard because I’ve mentally batted them away, rejected them. Then he turns away and goes around his desk to take his seat.
Without looking at me, he opens his laptop and says, “Get out of here.”
Gulping down the lump of disquietude, I leave his office like a wounded soldier going through the motions. In the quiet hallway, I walk away from the locker room and then stop, leaning against the wall.
Shit. I fucked up. The loss of a game feels like a slash through my gut, but what feels worse is knowing coach is right. I deserve this. I fucked with his authority, and I fucked with my teammates.
Curling my hands into fists, I hold back from punching the wall and will myself to calm down. I messed up like an adolescent idiot, and now I need to grow up and behave like a man, take the punishment, learn the lesson, and do whatever it takes to make up for it.
Turning, I stalk back down the hallway and push into the back door of the locker room. The guys are all still there, dressed and listening to Sabien make a speech or some shit.
Stepping past him, I stand on a bench, and my move has the immediate effect of quieting the room, at least until Windy opens his mouth.
“There he is. Mr. Big Shot who doesn’t have to play by the rules.”
Some of the guys grumble in agreement, but most of my teammates look uncomfortable at Windy’s words.
“Shut up, Wind,” Sabe says.
“It’s okay. He’s partly right. In fact, I wanted to come in here and tell you I’m sorry I broke the cardinal rule of disobeying coach in the game. I shouldn’t have stayed on the ice. No excuse. Unless you count stupid.”
I get a small rise of chuckles from the group and some nods, some acknowledgments that these things happen and the like.
“I can’t make up for what I did except to promise you it won’t happen again.
I hope to gain your trust back by the end of the season.
” I pause and clear my throat because this is tough shit, but it feels good at the same time, like it’s the right thing to do and that I will absolutely keep my word without question. That will be the easy part.
“I love this team. The last thing I want to do is anything that will mess us up. I want to win with you all, and I know I can’t win without you.”
This gets cheers, and Sabe slaps me on the back as I step down from the bench.
“What did coach say?” he asks under his breath.
“I’m benched for the Brawlers game.”
“Fuck.” He kicks someone’s water bottle and spills it. Some of the guys stop and turn.
“What’s up?” Ax says, stopping at my side.
Sabe answers loud enough for everyone to hear as they’re filing out.
“Brody’s benched for the Brawlers game.”
Everyone stops in their tracks. Jason was about to go out the media pit and turns around. “That fucking blows. Shit.” He looks sincerely troubled.
The guys murmur their condolences like I didn’t deserve what I got, except Windy, who I hear saying something about coach putting me up to this.
But it’s my teammates who don’t deserve the punishment, not even Windy. For once, I can’t blame him for his attitude.
“Guys, this is why I’m so fucking sorry. Because I fucked up and we’re all paying for it.”
There are nods and words of encouragement and respect until Coach opens the door. “Press time. Jason, Sabe, let’s go.”
He turns and says over his shoulder, “You too, Brody.”
Following the others, I’m not looking forward to the firing line of the press, but at least Coach doesn’t allow the reporters into the locker room after the games, not usually.
He reserves that kind of access for special occasions.
Instead, the press gets full range of the hallway outside—the media pit—eschewing the official media room after games.
The split second I emerge into the pit, the shouted questions begin, along with flashing lights and multiple TV cameras pointed my way. This is crazy because Portsmouth has only one local news station covering sports.
It’s easier to answer the reporter’s question about why I stayed on the ice after my shift than it was to face Coach and my teammates.
That’s at least partly due to spotting Bianca in the crowd and focusing on her kind face.
My answer takes away the sting of the follow-up questions, like wasn’t it selfish, wasn’t it against the most important rule, am I a team player, do I think I’m more important than everyone else, and on and on.
My answers are predictable and sincere and less exciting than they’d hoped. They were looking for a fight, and I have none. I fall on my sword completely until it goes all the way through and comes out the other side. Considering I’ve been lanced so thoroughly, I feel pretty good.
Coach finally deflects reporters to Jason Hall as they get to the question about what the consequences are, what Coach is doing about it. It’s funny, but there wasn’t one question about my hat trick, and I don’t even care.
Jason and Sabien keep the reporters busy, especially Jason because he likes to talk, but Coach doesn’t dismiss me from the informal firing line, and I’m not about to budge until he does.
When Coach finally points to a widely respected senior reporter he considers reputable, the man asks the question I’ve been dreading.
“What are you going to do about Brody not coming off the ice?”
“He’ll be benched for the next game.”
The look on the reporter’s astonished face would have been comical if Coach’s words didn’t slice a fresh wound through my gut. The gasps and subsequent shouting of questions rose in a furor until the mob of press sounded like an army of monster bees buzzing furiously.
Coach doesn’t try to answer any of the follow-up questions while the media jostles and shouts. With a stern face, he nods at me, Jason, and Sabien, dismissing us. Following my teammates, we plow through the noisy throng, not stopping to answer questions.
When I spot Brooks, I follow my eyes to where she stands in a group outside the mob, close to the exit hall. She looks uncomfortable and yet deliciously sexy in my jersey.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say. Sabe and the others agree, and we move.