CHAPTER FOUR
SAM
There’s a jackhammer pounding inside my head relentlessly. My mouth is dry, and my body aches. It takes a few seconds for the fog to clear from my brain after my eyes open. I’m lying in an unfamiliar bed. I don’t recognize the patterned wallpaper or the desk across the room. Sunlight is penetrating through the sheer curtains, doing a poor job of blocking out the sun. I squint, which only makes my head hurt worse. The room is hot. Too hot. And it smells of sex and something fruity.
Someone shifts on the mattress beside me.
I glance over to see auburn hair draped across purple sheets. I don’t remember leaving the party last night, and I sure as hell don’t remember ending up here. But judging by the two used condoms in the wastebasket next to the bed and the fact that my clothes are strewn across the floor haphazardly, we must’ve had a good time.
“Morning,” the redhead moans while sliding her hand across my bare stomach.
I have no idea what her name is.
“Morning.” My voice is rough and scratchy, which is exactly how my entire body feels.
She shifts until her cheek is resting on my chest. Yesterday’s makeup is smeared beneath her eyes, and one of her fake eyelashes looks like it’s about to jump ship.
“Last night was fun,” she purrs.
Her hand slides south along my abs until her palm wraps around my cock. I’m hard already. I blame the morning for that even more than the naked woman lying in bed with me. She starts rubbing me from root to tip. I throw an arm behind my head and let her.
“It was,” I agree, though my memory of the night is basically nonexistent. I can thank the ten beers and the multiple shots for that. I’ve always had a high tolerance for alcohol, but lately, I seem to be testing that line more and more.
I close my eyes and focus on the feel of her hand gliding along my sensitive length until it dawns on me that it’s Sunday morning. I have a meeting with Coach Hardam today. Eleven a.m. sharp. He’s the one who scheduled it, but I’m expected to rearrange my schedule to accommodate him regardless of the day and time.
My eyes shoot open, and sharp pain radiates through my skull from the motion. I glance around until I spot my phone on a side table, grabbing it to see that I’ve got exactly thirteen minutes to make it. My sudden movement forces my bedmate to drop her hand onto the mattress.
“What are you doing?”
I ignore the question as I jump up and start throwing on my clothes.
“You’re leaving?” she asks, her full mouth in an unhappy pout.
“I’ve got a meeting with my coach at eleven. He gets pissed if we’re late.”
That’s the understatement of the century. If we were in the middle of the season and I wasn’t on time, he’d bench my ass. I’m not sure what he’ll do now that the season is over. But I don’t want to find out. Coach Hardam is known for holding grudges. And his memory is long. Very long.
I sit on the edge of the bed to tie my sneakers, and the redhead wraps her arms around me from behind.
“Don’t go,” she whines. “I had plans for you this morning.”
I stop her hand before it reaches my cock again. She thinks she’s being seductive, but all she’s doing is wasting my time. My irritation grows as another minute passes.
I finish tying my shoes and stand, dislodging her hold in the process. I don’t care if I’m being rude. It’s morning, I’m hungover, and last night is over. I grab my keys, wallet, and phone, shoving them into my pockets as I glance over at her.
The sheet is pooled around her waist, and her large tits are on display. She’s hot—there’s no doubt about that. She makes no attempt to cover herself, but I guess at this point, I’ve seen it all anyway. Only I don’t remember any of it. And I don’t have time for this or her.
“Thanks for last night,” I mutter, shutting her door and leaving her to sulk alone in her bed.
“Wait! Let me at least give you my number …” Her voice is muffled through the closed door, and I’m already halfway down her stairs.
I’d never call her anyway. If I see her out and the moment is right, we’ll hook up again. I don’t really care one way or the other.
These women are a dime a dozen. Does that make me an asshole? Probably. But the way they throw themselves at me, they aren’t demanding my respect. They want a piece of me the same way I want to use them. I’m under no illusion that this is anything more. They shouldn’t be either.
When the cool late morning air hits my face, I realize that I don’t have my car here. I didn’t drive to the party, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to steer a vehicle by the end of the night. I recognize the neighborhood though, and luckily, it’s at the edge of campus. Trying to ignore the pounding in my head, I start running down the sidewalk. Every bone in my body protests, and my muscles ache like I played a game last night. I didn’t. I haven’t stepped foot on the ice since we lost our ticket to the Frozen Four. I haven’t wanted to.
Two minutes after eleven, I’m running through the front door of the arena. My head hurts even worse, and last night’s dinner is creeping up my esophagus, but I do my best to ignore the physical agony. Skates slice through the ice to my left. Without slowing my pace or really looking, I already know it’s Ollie.
He’s the only one who would be up here, practicing on a Sunday morning. He’s headed to Chicago soon, but even if he wasn’t, his dedication to the sport is unmatched. I’ve admired his drive in the past, but this morning, it grates on my nerves. I guess in some small way, it’s a reminder of my many shortcomings. Ollie’s pursuing his goals with fire while I’m stumbling out of the bed of a woman whose name I can’t remember. And it isn’t the first time. I’m sure it won’t be the last. If I was half as driven as him, I’d probably be headed to the professional league next year too. Somehow, I’m expecting to make it on my God-given talent alone. It hasn’t failed me so far. But the stakes are higher now, and the competition is greater. I wish that realization was enough to light a fire under me. So far, it hasn’t.
I slow to a walk as I approach Coach Hardam’s office and take a few fortifying breaths, running a hand through my hair. I’m sure I look disheveled at best. The door is partially open. I knock anyway.
“That’d better be you, Anderson,” his gruff voice answers.
I push the door all the way open. “It is, Coach.”
He’s sitting at his desk, shuffling some paperwork. He doesn’t bother to look up, instead motioning with his hand for me to take a seat.
“You’re late,” he points out.
“My car wouldn’t start,” I lie. I find that the lies come more readily these days.
He pauses to look at me. His steely gaze judges my appearance without saying a word, like he knows I’m not telling the truth. I’m not sure how coaches can do that. They annihilate you with a hard glance until you feel small and scolded. And he hasn’t spoken another word yet.
“Did you run here?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling the sweat beading on my forehead. But I think it’s more from the scrutiny than the exertion. I wonder if he can smell the alcohol seeping from my pores.
“Hmm,” is all he says while leaning back in his chair.
I can’t tell if he believes me or not. The silence extends as he studies me, and I sit here, pretending like I’m unaffected by it.
He angles forward again, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Do you know why I called you here today?”
“To talk about next year?” I guess.
“I got a call from the Falcons,” he reveals.
“Anaheim?” My eyebrows shoot up my head. The Falcons are a professional hockey team in California.
“Do you know another Falcons hockey team?”
I don’t answer his rhetorical question. I’m used to his sarcasm. But I’m surprised one of the pro teams is inquiring about me. I didn’t think we’d be having this conversation for another year or two.
“Their center broke his tibia. He’s out for the rest of the season, and he likely won’t make it back.”
I don’t follow the West Coast hockey teams as closely as the East, but I did hear that their star forward was close to retirement. I guess with a big injury like that, he’ll likely go ahead and hang up his skates. Which means Anaheim will be looking for a replacement.
“They’re interested?” I ask, shifting forward and placing my elbows on my knees. The pounding in my head is forgotten, but my mouth just went even drier.
“They’re interested,” he confirms.
I smirk. With everything that’s happened here lately with Oakley and Chase … my mom … it’d be nice to be thrust into a new reality. One with a big fat paycheck.
“They asked me what I thought of you,” he continues, and my chest tightens as I wait for him to elaborate.
I haven’t been a model teammate lately. With all the turmoil between Chase and me right before our playoff game, I didn’t exactly leave the animosity off the ice. Hockey is a team sport. You live as a team, and you die as a team. When one link of that is broken, it affects the entire group.
Chase and I were completely out of sync in our final game. Mostly because I couldn’t stand his ass after the Oakley situation. If I were a bigger man, I would’ve left our personal drama outside of the arena. But I’m not. I’m petty, as evidenced by the several times I kept the puck rather than passing to him in that final game. Or took a shot when I didn’t have the angle just because I was selfish and pissed and not thinking straight. Or those two penalties I racked up and the three that landed Chase in the sin bin, which resulted in three power play goals for our opponents. It wasn’t a good look for either of us. Maybe I should’ve cared a little more at the time.
But I know I’m destined for bigger things either way. A Frozen Four title would be fun for bragging rights. But at the end of the day, this college team is just a stepping stone to a bigger future.
“What did you say?” I ask with clenched fists.
“The truth,” he scoffs, “that you’re an incredible player with loads of natural ability. That you’re one of the best skaters on the ice at all times and you can handle the puck better than most of the players I’ve coached over the years. Your speed is unrivaled.”
My chest swells with pride with every word.
“But …”
My stomach sinks, the nausea returning.
“I also told them that you lack maturity at times, as evidenced by our last game. That you’re an eighteen-year-old kid and you have some growing up to do.”
“I’m nineteen, Coach,” I say flatly.
“Whatever,” he dismisses me. “The end result is the same.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk while looking me in the eye. “You’re an incredible player, Sam. You have talent that a lot of men in the league would die for. But you’re wasting it. You’re late to practices. You’re late to meetings.” He looks at me pointedly. “I try to stay out of your personal lives, but I hear about the partying. The drinking. The girls. And I get it … you guys are treated like celebrities around campus, especially since we’ve had winning seasons for the past five years. But you have to learn how to control that part of the hockey world rather than letting it run you. Are you hearing me?”
I hear him. The accolades he started with fade behind the criticism. My jaw clenches as my anger boils. I’m sure I’m not hiding my true feelings well either. What really registers is that Coach blew up any chance I had at heading to the league next year. That he threw me under the bus to an inquiring professional team. I’m one of the best players on the ice—arguably the best. Partying and women haven’t changed that. It’s none of his business how I spend my free time. He’s my coach, not my conscience. It crosses my mind that he might want to sabotage my chances just so I stay another year, increasing his odds for a Frozen Four title next spring.
He sighs when he notices the obstinacy accompanying my stony silence.
“Look, they haven’t made a decision yet. But the last thing they said is, they’ll be following your season next year. You’re on their radar and, if I had to guess, on other teams as well.”
As we stare across the desk at each other, I notice the age lines across his face that have deepened since last year, the stress of coaching a successful Division 1 hockey team taking its toll on his appearance.
“I want to see you succeed, Sam. I want to turn on the television at night and watch you playing four nights a week in the league. But you’ve got to put in the work.”
“I do put in the work, Coach,” I counter.
He nods slowly. “You’re a good player, Sam—there’s no doubt about that. But the difference between being good and being great is whatever you were doing this morning and what Ollie’s doing out there right now.” He points in the direction of the ice. “It’s your choice. You have to want it more than the next guy because everyone’s talented at the next level.”
I do want it.
Coach watches me for a few moments. When he realizes I have nothing else to say, he seems done with me. He nods toward the door. “You can go. But keep in mind that if next season goes well, you’ll have endless options.”
I rise and walk toward the hallway. I can feel Coach’s disappointment in me, and it only fuels my self-righteous anger.
“Anderson,” he calls out right before I round the corner. I stop and glance over my shoulder defiantly. “Anaheim will be watching you. Prove me wrong. Show them you’re worthy.”
I nod stiffly and walk away, fuming. If this was Coach’s way of trying to motivate me, he failed miserably. I just need everyone to focus on what I do on the ice, not how my time is spent off it. Who cares if I drink too much some nights as long as I perform when I need to? Who cares if I hook up with strangers? That’s my business. And I know for a fact that I’m not the only hockey player to work hard, play hard. It’s my prerogative how I live my life. I don’t need my coaches or my teammates or any of my so-called friends putting their two cents in, kicking me when I’m down.
When I walk into the arena, I see that Chase has joined Ollie on the ice, and I ignore them both. Seeing them smiling and laughing together is a reminder of how much distance is between me and my friends these days. Ollie never liked me with his sister. Yet Chase is with Oakley now, and Ollie accepts him into the fold without question. I guess Chase has always been accepted by Ollie. Dating Oakley is apparently okay for anyone other than me in Ollie’s eyes.
I leave the arena and sit on the steps outside of it, angling my face toward the sky. The sunlight warms my skin. I pull out my phone and message Mike, asking for a ride home. He answers a minute later, saying he’ll be here in five.
I lean back with my elbows on the hard concrete and stew over Coach Hardam’s little speech. I think through the last year … the classes, the team, the parties, and the people. It’s all been fun, but maybe my time at Sinclair has run its course. It’s feeling like there’s nothing left for me here. I have an emptiness inside of me now.
My mom started treatment, and it’s just as harsh as you would expect, though she tries to hide her pain from me. Dad isn’t handling things well, and he takes it out on me a lot. I’ve hardly ventured home since moving to college, but now, I avoid it even more. I can’t bear to watch my mom going through that. And I still haven’t told any of my friends about it. It feels like everything is falling apart.
Mike’s sports car rumbles to a stop in front of the steps. I rise and walk over to the passenger side, opening the door, and drop into the seat.
“Well, hello sunshine,” he quips as the car idles. “You look like complete shit.”
I snort, too drained to spar with him. “Thanks.”
“Did you meet with Coach this morning?”
“No,” I deadpan. “I’ve been up here, skating sprints all morning.”
Mike rolls his eyes and shifts the car into drive. “Don’t be an asshole. I didn’t have to pick you up.”
“I know,” I sigh, sliding down in the seat to rest my head on the back of it. “I’m just tired. I woke up in some girl’s bed this morning, and I forgot about the meeting. I was a few minutes late.”
Mike whistles low, knowing how our coaching staff prioritizes punctuality.
“Then, Coach proceeds to tell me that Anaheim was asking about me. Their center got hurt, and they’re looking for a replacement.”
Mike glances over at me, pausing before he turns onto the street leading away from the arena. “That’s awesome. And?”
“Coach didn’t exactly give me a glowing review.”
The engine revs as Mike accelerates. He’s quiet for a few beats. “Can you blame him? The last game wasn’t your best.”
I narrow my eyes at my friend. “What about all the other games we played this season? And last time I looked, hockey is a team sport. I’m not the only one who had a less than stellar performance on the ice that night.”
“No one’s saying the loss was your fault. But you and Chase getting into it right before that game didn’t help matters.”
“Why does all the blame seem to be landing on my shoulders?” I practically pout. “Chase was just as much to blame as me.”
“Maybe,” Mike says. “But either way, we lost. No Frozen Four. No championship.” He sighs, flipping the turn signal on as he reaches our street. He pulls the vehicle into the driveway next to mine and shifts into park, but doesn’t kill the engine. He studies me for a few beats. “What’s with you, Sam?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I answer defensively, not meeting his gaze as he scrutinizes me.
“I mean … is something going on? You’ve had a giant chip on your shoulder lately. It got worse during that whole mess with Oakley, but it’d started even before that.”
“I don’t have a chip on my shoulder,” I argue. And after Coach’s lecture, I’m not in the mood to hear it from my friend too.
“Yeah, no chip at all.” The mirth is easy to spot in Mike’s tone.
“Look, I’m hungover, tired, and starving,” I say suddenly, wanting to be done with this conversation. I don’t have the energy to fight. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
“I’m not your Uber driver, asshole,” Mike says, the weight of the conversation instantly lighter. He shifts the car into reverse despite his grumbling and looks behind him as he backs the car into the street again. “You’re paying.”
I sink back down into my seat and watch the houses pass by, hoping the grease I’m about to consume will soak up some of the alcohol from last night and take my mind off everything that’s happened since. Anything has got to be better than the way this day started.