Chapter 37
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
Bodi
The arena is quiet when I get there. I try to arrive before most of the other guys so I have a little time to get in the zone.
Sometimes it’s hard to switch from thoughtful, attentive boyfriend to focused professional athlete.
Some of it is second nature after so many years, like putting on my equipment, stretching, things like that.
The mental part is completely different. It was easier in L.A. because I had Blake and even though I’d been playing for the team’s minor league affiliate for most of my career, I’d been part of the organization as a whole for a long time.
I don’t have that familiarity here, so I like having a little down time to get my head on straight. Especially when dealing with someone like Coach Morrison.
There’s a lot of activity even this early, since the trainers and equipment managers have a lot to do before the team arrives.
The door to Coach Morrison’s office is closed, and there’s someone in there with him, so I hurry past it, glancing in just long enough to see him having a lively conversation with Blaze.
God only knows what that’s about.
I keep moving, trying to shake off this weird feeling of doom, like something bad is going to happen. My intuition usually doesn’t steer me wrong, so I don’t know why my body feels like it needs to be on high alert.
I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m in love with a woman that’s essentially off-limits to me.
I keep trying to think of a way for us to be together—openly.
I waffle between wanting to talk to Coach man-to-man, and calling my agent and telling him to get me traded.
I don’t know what to do and there really isn’t anyone to talk to other than Billie.
Do I want to get traded again this soon?
Not really.
I came here for a fresh start.
Falling in love wasn’t on my radar.
Honestly, I didn’t think it would happen. Not even once I met her. I knew she was special, but I didn’t think I’d fall hard and fast the way I have. That I’d be in a position where I’d be considering risking everything to be with her.
If I’m honest, that’s probably what this tightness in my chest is about.
I’m not stupid.
I know things are going to come to a head at some point. We can’t hide forever, and too many people already know about us. West and the others wouldn’t purposely give us away but they can’t be expected to lie and hide things indefinitely. That’s not fair to any of us.
Maybe I need to get my own place, where Jayne and I don’t have to worry about who sees us.
That won’t solve the problem of her father, though.
This is an endless loop running through my head and as I get my equipment on, I know what I have to do.
First, I’m going to call my agent and tell him everything.
Then I’m going to talk to Coach Morrison. I don’t know what I’ll do if he gives me an ultimatum but—
“Michener.” Coach Morrison joins us on the ice.
“Yeah, Coach?” I skate over to him, trying to clear my head.
“How much do you know about Herb Brooks and the 1980 U.S. Olympic team?”
My brows knit together in confusion. “A little. I mean, I know we won the gold.”
He doesn’t smile, and there’s something I would almost describe as sinister in his eyes.
Jesus, he looks mean as fuck right now.
“He didn’t like it when his players fucked up.”
That’s a scary thought. “No, sir.”
“Neither do I.”
Uh oh.
I wrack my brain trying to think what I might have done wrong beyond the obvious. I’m playing well. My stats are actually great. What could he—
“And when you expressly do something I tell you not to do, there will be consequences. Do you understand me?”
“I think so.” My stomach is churning now.
He knows.
I don’t know how I know that but there’s no doubt in my mind.
Fuck.
“Start skating, Michener. Laps.”
“How many?” I ask with as much bravado as I can muster up.
“Until I tell you to stop. And I want to see some hustle.”
Now I know exactly what he’s talking about. The so-called “Herbies,” where the coach of the 1980 Olympic team was pissed about them not performing well after an exhibition match and had them on the ice skating at full speed back and forth for over an hour.
Welp, the good news is that I’m in excellent shape.
The bad news is that very few people can continue at full speed for that long.
And of course, when Herb Brooks did it, it was a team punishment.
This is personal—and embarrassing.
But fuck him. I’ll be damned if I show him weakness, especially when he technically hasn’t even told me what I did wrong.
“Do I get to know why?” I ask, meeting his gaze directly.
He just smiles and it’s even more menacing than before. “Oh, I think you already know.”
So I start skating.
“Faster! Show me what you’ve got!” Coach yells.
I pick up speed and clear my head. I can do this.
I will do it.
“End to end!” he yells. “Not in a circle.”
It’ll put more strain on my thighs and glutes, having to start and stop like that, but whatever.
Even as I’m skating, keeping my head down, focusing on my legs and the motion of my skates, I see the rest of the team gathering around.
After ten grueling minutes, I catch West in my peripheral vision talking to Coach.
“Faster!”
When it’s been a hundred hours—probably closer to fifteen minutes—Coach Panzetti, one of the assistant coaches, gets into an animated conversation with Coach Morrison. I can’t hear them over the roaring in my ears and the scrape of the blades of my skates on the ice, but I can tell he’s pissed.
Things start to get tough at that point.
I’m hot, sweat soaking my equipment and dripping down my face. My legs are starting to burn, and my heart rate has to be way the hell up. But as I pass Coach, he merely yells, “Again!”
The last thing I want to do is puke in front of my teammates, but there’s a good chance that’s happening.
I catch a look of concern on West’s face. His hands are on his hips and he’s scowling, which can look pretty scary too. And he’s a lot bigger than Coach. Unfortunately, I don’t think Coach gives a fuck.
About him or me or anything else.
I hear Coach yell something but can’t quite discern it so I look up just as West falls in beside me.
“If you have to skate, I skate with you,” he growls. “I know you’re tired, but don’t give him any satisfaction.”
“You don’t have to—” I rasp. “This is about—”
“I know what it’s about. But when I say we’re a team, that’s not just talk. You get punished, then so do I.”
Fuck, my eyes feel a little scratchy. Either that or the sweat is blinding me.
“What the hell are you doing, McGregor?” Coach is yelling again.
West ignores him.
A few seconds later, fucking Vik joins us, in full goalie gear.
He’s muttering in Russian, and can’t keep up with us, but he’s doing his best.
God dammit, there go my eyes.
“Fucking prick.” Ashton Knight falls in beside us. “I want to punch his smug, fat face.”
I would’ve laughed if I wasn’t having trouble breathing.
“You’re a good man, Knight,” West tells him.
“You fuckers are crazy,” Felix says, as he skates in beside us. “But I’ll skate. Fuck Coach.”
I love seeing the solidarity, even if they don’t know what’s happening. Or maybe they do. Maybe the whole team knows I’m sleeping with Coach Morrison’s daughter. For her sake, I hope not.
“You guys know I teach a learn to skate seminar every summer in Chicago,” Simon says, joining us. “Even in my gear, I can outskate all your asses.”
Again, I want to laugh but my body isn’t having it.
“How long will he keep this up?” Felix asks, glancing over to where Coach is yelling at Phil, one of the trainers. We can’t hear them but it’s obvious Phil doesn’t think this is a good idea.
“Herb Brooks did it for over an hour.”
“You’re at thirty-two minutes,” West says. “I’ve got a timer going on my phone.”
Jesus. I don’t know if I have another thirty minutes in me.
My gait is shorter now, muscles straining, and I’m not sure if I’m going to make it.
But he wants me to fail, to collapse, puke in front of my teammates.
And I can’t. No matter what happens, I have to keep going.
Half the team is on the ice now, skating alongside me, giving encouragement, trying to show support.
If I had the energy, I’d take note of who isn’t on the ice, but I figure West is watching. He’ll know who did what. And which guys are truly team players.
Most surprising is that Blaze is out here now, skating at the far end of the squiggly line we make as we sprint back and forth between the two goals.
“I’m gonna puke,” I grunt to West.
“Do it if you have to but don’t stop moving. Fuck him.”
It’s hard but somehow, I swallow down the bile and keep skating.
For what seems like an eternity.
Finally—and I have no idea how much time has passed—Coach blows the whistle and motions us to stop. I collapse against the boards, chest heaving, legs like Jell-O, too tired to even take the towel Phil offers me.
“Bodi, talk to me.” Phil looks worried.
“I’m…okay.” That’s a lie, but again, fuck Coach Morrison. I’ll die out here before I show weakness.
Coach is rambling about integrity, trust, and some other bullshit that’s filled with hypocrisy.
“You need hydration,” Phil says. “Let’s go.” He nudges me toward the tunnel.
“Michener, in my office after practice.” Coach Morrison locks gazes with me, and I see nothing but disgust in his.
Yeah, feeling’s mutual, buddy.