Chapter 36 – Waylon
chapter
thirty-six
Waylon
Practice was a shit show.
Coach was in a mood, and nobody on the team would look at each other.
The AD had reviewed the game film last night. The email hit my inbox first thing this morning. Our suspensions had gone up.
Marcus, the instigator, got two. I got three.
Fuck.
It wasn’t a death sentence, but it wasn’t good either.
Aaron had already filed a response and set up a couple of interviews with the press to discuss it. He’d even brought on a publicist to handle the scouts who were asking questions.
I just had to believe that shit was going to work out. My one rule this season had been that nothing came before the draft. Somewhere between her doorway and this morning, I’d broken it without even noticing.
You just have to be sure that she’s worth it.
She was worth it. And soon, Kane wouldn’t be able to touch me. I could have it all. I just needed time.
Coach Patton ran us through the standard warm-up, and I went through the motions.
Crossovers, edge work, the figure-eight sequence we’d done so many times that my feet could do it without my brain being involved.
Which was good, because my brain was busy replaying Josie saying she wanted to be with me.
I’d stopped counting the replays somewhere around forty.
To my left, Marcus was running drills with Kowalski and Petrov like nothing had happened. Which, for Marcus, probably felt true.
Trace was across the ice working a puck cycle with Jimmy that was technically flawless and as far from Marcus as the rink allowed. I hadn’t told him to do that. He’d read the room and picked a side without anyone having to say anything.
Ryder pulled up next to me during the transition drill, close enough to talk without being obvious about it. He didn’t say anything, just nodded at me. He was on my side. Hell, most of the team was. Kane had been a dick to every one of them at some point.
But me losing my shit could cost me everything, and them right along with me.
And you’re sure she’s worth it.
Fuck. Yes. That little voice of doubt wouldn’t shut up. It was like my own head couldn’t stand to see me happy.
You can be happy. But are you happy because you’re in love or because you get to take her from him?
Coach blew the whistle, and we moved to power-play sets. I locked my brain back into the rink.
We ran the five-on-four sequence three times.
The second run, I fed a pass to Trace that was three inches off and he buried it anyway because Trace was built for exactly that situation.
The third run, Marcus positioned himself at the top of the circle to take the shot, and I sent it to Ryder instead. Ryder buried it.
Way to be subtle.
I didn’t care.
I caught Marcus watching me once during the reset. Patton had eyes on all of us, and I had a hearing on Wednesday, and I was not — under any circumstances — giving anyone a reason to make it worse.
“Johnson.” Patton’s voice cut across the ice. “You with us?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Then play like it.”
The chirps started, low. Caldwell from somewhere behind me, “Damn, Johnson, your mind on something else? Maybe the hot blonde from the last party?”
“More like his mind is on your mom,” somebody else said. Petrov. Of course it was Petrov. He always had one in the chamber.
Trace, mild and clear from across the circle, said, “Petrov, speaking of moms, yours is pretty—”
“Coulter—” Coach called out.
Trace only shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
A laugh bounced from Reyes’s corner of the ice. Trace skated past me without looking and bumped my shoulder with his on the way to the next drill.
We ran another twenty minutes. Breakouts, then a one-touch passing drill where Marcus and I had to be on the same blue line for a six-puck sequence.
Nobody dropped a pass, and nobody talked.
The puck went tape-to-tape six times, and then we skated to opposite ends of the bench without looking at each other.
During our break, Trace dropped onto the bench beside me without looking, peeled his glove off with his teeth, and uncapped his bottle.
On the other bench, Marcus said something to Kowalski I couldn’t hear. Kowalski laughed too loud. Petrov did not laugh. Jimmy had discovered something fascinating about his stick tape.
Trace took a long pull from his bottle, then said without looking at me, “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” He spit a stream of water onto the rubber mat. “What the hell is going on with you? You talk to Josie?”
I stared at the boards across the ice, at the Zamboni door, the scuff marks at the base, the faded sponsor decal that had been there since my freshman year. Anywhere but at him.
“I went to see her.”
There was a long pause, the kind Trace did when he was working something out in his head.
“Oh.” He capped his bottle. “I see now.”
“Trace—”
“No, no. I see it.” He turned his head finally, looked at me sideways. “You think that’s wise? Kane is insane, man. Like, actually. In the ’I will key your car and also maybe burn your house down’ way.”
“I know.”
“Do you, though?” He set the bottle down between his skates. “Because I watched him at that party look at her like she was a possession he’d misplaced. That’s not a guy who’s going to shrug and wish you both well.”
“I know, Trace.”
“And the suspension—”
“I know.”
He blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand through his hair where his helmet had matted it down. Across the ice, Coach was demonstrating something with his stick, gesturing at Reyes. We had maybe sixty seconds before we got called back.
“Okay,” Trace said. “Okay. So if you know all that, and you went anyway.” He angled toward me, elbows on his knees. “This is the real deal, then? Like, for real for real? Not a ’fuck Kane over’ thing. Not a ’prove a point’ thing.”
I finally looked at him.
“It’s Josie for me.”
I didn’t know how else to say it. It was the truest thing I’d said out loud in months, maybe longer. Saying it felt like setting down something I’d been carrying around for so long I’d forgotten how heavy it was.
Trace really looked at me. Whatever he was checking for, he must have found it, because he stopped looking like a skeptical big brother and went quiet. He looked a little relieved, maybe, or resigned. Hard to tell with Trace.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Yeah, I see that.”
“You do?”
“Way.” He huffed a laugh and shook his head at the ice. “I’ve known you since you were a freshman, and I have never once heard you talk about a girl like that. Not Kennedy. Not the puck bunny from sophomore year you swore was the one for, what, three weeks?”
“That’s not—”
“I’m not shitting on you. I’m saying I believe you.” He picked his bottle back up and rolled it between his palms. “So tell her.”
“I did.”
“Tell her again. And then keep telling her until she gets it.” He shrugged like it was the simplest thing in the world. “If it’s Josie for you, then make it work. Quit half-assing it because you’re scared of what Kane’s going to do. He’s going to do it anyway. You might as well have the girl.”
I stared at him.
“That’s your big advice? Have the girl.”
“That’s my big advice.” He took another swig of his drink. “I seem to remember you pushed me to tell Lena how I felt. Despite her dating my brother.”
“Well, you were moping and playing like shit without her.” I laughed.
“Tell her, man. Do what you need to do. But make sure she knows how you feel.”
“I need to see her first. I’m getting the vibe none of this is going to come easy.”