Page 56 of The Trophy

A weight is lifted off my shoulders. “Good. I messaged her to ask her out for tonight. I hope I’m not too late?”

Luca’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Nah. We figured you’d want to catch up with her after yesterday, so we resisted the urge to make plans.”

That’s very considerate of them and I’m about to crack a silly joke about them being on their periods or something, but we reach the edge of the ice rink.

Coach, flanked by two of his assistants, is glaring at us from center ice, his arms crossed over his chest and a few bags at his feet. “About time you decided to grace us with your presence, ladies. What took you so long? I hope you’re done braiding each other’s hair and getting makeovers, because today we’ll find out if there’s any men in your sorry bunch.”

I’m surprised by his tone. Our old coach would yell at us after a loss, never after winning by two goals.

“I know a couple of your teammates graduated or were drafted last year. But aside from a couple of freshmen and our new left winger,” he continues with a nod in Luca’s direction. “The core of the team is unchanged. Am I right?”

There’s consensus about that; a few of us nod, some answer yes to his question.

“I’m glad we’re all on the page,” Coach bites out. “That however doesn’t explain what happened on the ice last night.”

We might have had Coach Harrison just for a couple of months, but I’m surprised that some of my teammates can’t tell that his last question was rhetorical.

“What do you mean, Coach?” Jagger asks.

If a look could kill, our D-man would turn into a neat little pile of ashes thanks to the scathing look he receives from our coach.

“If you really have to ask me,” Coach seethes. “Then we have an even bigger problem than I thought.”

Some more of my teammates voice their perplexity and I have to seriously wonder if they have a fucking death wish.

“QUIET!” Coach roars. “First off, most of you look like shit. I thought the coaching team passed on my instructions to keep your celebrations to a minimum last night. And yet, some of you look like they’re still drunk.”

He glares at us and I stifle an eye roll, since I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol last night.

“What’s the first rule for this team on and off the ice?” Coach asks.

Tucker, my second string must definitely have a death wish. “That we don’t talk about the team?”

There are a few laughs, but Coach nips it in the bud.

“We aren’t fucking Fight Club!” He snaps. “The first rule each of you should abide by is ‘don’t do anything to embarrass yourself or the team.’ But I guess the real issue is that this group of men is everything but a fucking team.”

Fuck.

Coach isn’t wrong.

“The fact that you won last night, means absolutely diddly squat. This team has individuals with outstanding talent and potential. But if you think that your individual skills will take us all the way to Frozen Four and win us a championship, you’re in for a rude awakening. The draft is going to be in June and for many of you, this is your last chance to be picked. Scouts are going to come to our games and have their eyes on each of you. The spectacle you offered last night, isn’t going to convince them to use one of their picks on any of you. You were in each other’s way, creating obstacles to your teammates rather than working together. This has to end now.”

Everyone has the decency to keep their mouth shut, except the main culprit for Coach’s reprimand.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, Coach,” he starts, not picking up on the murderous look in Coach Harrison’s eyes. “Things were fine last year but I think my line needs work. I’m not sure Luca’s addition is a good one. Yeah, he might be good at faceoffs, but he was in my way a lot yesterday. To be honest, both my wingmen don’t seem to understand my game and they kept passing me over every time I was wide open. It’s no surprise they got intercepted a bunch of times when we could have scored?—”

Coach Harrison must be forty, maybe even a few years younger and he’s in very similar shape to all of us, obviously he’s still working out despite retiring from the NHL. However by the vein that’s bulging dangerously on his forehead and the livid color of his face, you’d think he was about to have a cardiac episode.

“You don’t say, Mumford,” Coach seethes. “Is that why you think we’re here this morning?”

I meet Cole’s eyes and he shakes his head in a barely perceptible way.

I know what he means. I’ve always thought that Topher was arrogant but this is beyond any shitty thing I’ve seen him doing lately. Luca is a hundred times the player Topher will ever be.

“Are you for fucking real?” Blaze snarls.

Oh, no.

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