32. Russ
CHAPTER 32
RUSS
“All right, that wasn’t what we wanted it to be,” Coach barks as he strides into the dressing room. He doesn’t wait for the door to shut behind him, so guaranteed that’s the lead quote in the sports press tomorrow. “But this is what the pre-season is for, working out the kinks. And tonight, there were a fuck ton of kinks. Tiller, I don’t know who you think was going to pass to you while you hid behind their D-core, but that’s not a system we’ve ever practiced. Gusty, Mitchie…if we’re not checking, we’re not winning. Right? Throw your bodies around more.” He glances at his notes. “Hooner, good goal. But you were still a minus one for the night. You can do better, too.”
Calhoun hangs his head. “Yes, sir.”
“If you played less than fifteen minutes tonight, the trainers are going to put you on the bikes. Everyone else, grab some food. Tilman, Calhoun, Hale, and Zondi—press room. And we have a practice in the morning. If you’re not early, you’re late. That’s it.”
Nobody says anything until he’s gone, then the volume rises quickly. I’ve already stripped down to my base layers, so I get up to head to the training room.
Max gets in my way, frowning. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“Bike,” I growl. “I only played fourteen minutes tonight. No thanks to you.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Nothing.” I go to step around him, and he shoves his arm out, putting his palm in the centre of my chest.
The room goes quiet.
“Hey,” someone says behind me. Kieran, I think.
“Get your hand off me,” I say tightly.
“Your ice time is your own fault,” Max snarls. “Don’t put that shit on me.”
“You saying you didn’t tell the coach I was too slow to practice with the A-squad?”
He laughs. “Do I live rent free in your head, Rusty?”
I’m not laughing. I’m wondering if he watched any part of the game tonight when he wasn’t actively on the ice. Because I might be a gentle giant, but I am still a giant. I don’t care if someone postures. I don’t care about chirping or smack talk. But the second someone drops their gloves and comes at me, it’s on.
And Tilman’s hand in the middle of my chest is the dressing room equivalent of flinging his gloves across the ice behind the ref’s back.
I grab his wrist and remove his hand from my body, squeezing tighter than I need to. “Projecting much, Tiller?”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Okay,” Gustafsson says as he and Marsh get between us, and Hale starts barking orders to everyone else. “Move along, nothing to see here. Shouldn’t you be on a bike? Calhoun, press room, now.”
The room mostly clears out, until it’s just the veteran core, and Jenson because he’s an alternate captain.
“I didn’t start it,” I point out.
Marsh rolls his eye at me. “Can you fucking finish it? Politely?”
He means I should apologize to Tilman for a perceived slight.
Except Max and I both know this isn’t about his usual diva feelings. There’s nothing perceived about the beef between us.
“Politely, I’ll just ask our captain to keep it professional in here.” I shrug. That’s as good as they’re going to get from me.
Everyone waits.
Max doesn’t say shit.
So I shrug Gusty off of me and stalk out of the room.
While I’m on the bike, I can see on the closed-circuit TVs that he goes into the press room next. He looks pissed off, and manages to make the press think that’s aimed at himself.
I know better.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell the trainers.
Quickly, I head to the locker room, adjacent to our dressing room, where our street clothes live—and where we usually lock up our phones.
I grab mine and head back before I get in trouble. This late after a game, nobody cares if we’ve got our phones on us. Other teams have different rules, but the Highlanders are pretty flexible as long as we’re doing what we should be.
Hopping back on the bike, I fire off a warning message to Shannon.
Russ: Got into it a bit with your husband tonight. Sorry.
Shannon: What does that mean?
Russ: He got in my way. Said some shit about my game. Put his hand on my chest.
Shannon: Please tell me you didn’t smash him like that poor Montreal kid
I grin. She watched me play.
Russ: I did not. But that Montreal “kid” deserved it, and he also started it.
Shannon: Not the point
Russ: I just wanted to give you a heads up that he’s mad at me
Shannon: he’s just…mad in general
Russ: Will you be okay?
Shannon: I don’t expect him to come home tonight
I frown.
Russ: Why not?
Shannon: Don’t worry about it
Shannon: I’m going to sleep now, try not to get into any more fights
My frown deepens.
I finish up my workout, then roll well and get some work done on my glutes before I head to the shower.
Most of the team is gone, so the last person I expect to see again is Max. He’s just finished showering, and he’s only wearing a towel, so I don’t think he’s going to pick another fight with me—not before he gets dressed.
Still, I try to give him a wide berth.
Hostility rolls off him in waves, and he doesn’t carry on to the locker room.
I sigh. “Given the circumstances, I get that I’m not your favourite person. But this…” I make a little buzzing insect noise at him. “Attention seeking bullshit needs to stop.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, Tiller.” Suddenly, I’m so fucking tired. “Be as mad as you want. I don’t care. But stop making it my problem. You made your choices and now you have to live with the consequences.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Fucking quit it with the victim mentality, Max!” I’m breathing hard. And I’m shouting. Any minute, someone is going to come to find out what the commotion is. I lower my voice. “Bottom line: you put another hand on me, and I will smash you. Understood?”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a fucking promise, asshole.” I give up on the shower and go straight to my locker. I’m not changing, either. I just need to get out of here.
He watches as I grab my keys and wallet. I’ll get my suit tomorrow. “You shouldn’t have watched us that night.”
I cannot believe how badly he misunderstands where that night went wrong. But that’s not my problem. I shrug. “You shouldn’t have fucked your wife on my terrace. Have a good night, Captain.”