Page 116 of The Love You Win

fifty-one

MADDOX

We’re all suiting up for practice on Saturday morning when Coach storms into the locker room. His face is red with fury, his eyes spit fire, and he’s got a stack of papers clutched tightly in his fist. “You got shit for brains, Graves?”

Every eye turns to me, bounces to Coach, then zeroes back in on me. I pause what I’m doing, dropping the laces of my skates to meet Coach’s glare. “Excuse me?”

“I told you at the start of the season that everything anyone writes about you reflects on the team. Everything.” He throws the papers at me and I instinctively grab for them. They’re printed news articles pulled from online blogs, magazines, and news outlets. And all of them feature me in less than flattering ways.

There are articles featuring photos of me with female fans, including the one where the woman had perched herself on my lap. One article talks about how I’ve become a grade-A agitator in the past few games. How I’ve started more fights this season than the last two combined, and we’re still in the early stages.

And then there’s the article that details the fight I almost got in with a fan. What it doesn’t say is that the guy asked about Isla and whether she was open for new business now that I seem to have grown tired of her.

I may hate what she’s done to me, but that was a bridge too fucking far.

“No one is talking about your playing or the games we’ve won,” Coach continues. Steam will start pouring out of his ears at any moment. “And our legal team just heard that you’re being dropped from consideration for that sponsorship deal you’ve been working on for months.”

Fuck.

“According to their legal team, you’re too volatile. They’re concerned about your recent behavior damaging their family-friendly brand.”

Well, shit. Shit!

“What do you have to say for yourself, Graves?” Coach crosses his muscular arms over his barrel chest.

“Coach, I didn’t do anything with any of those women, and as far as the fights go, the fans love it.”

“It doesn’t matter if you did anything with those women,” he shouts. “Don’t you get that by now? I don’t care if you’re fucking half of Minneapolis as long as you keep it out of the tabloids.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And what about the fight you almost started at that bar, huh? I suppose you have some excuse for that, too.”

“That prick said some disgusting things about my girlfr—my ex. I won’t stand for that.”

Coach throws his hands in the air. “So the twit’s not even your girl anymore and you’re trying to start fights over her? Jesus fucking Christ, Graves. How many times do I have to tell you idiots that no pussy is worth hurting your career over!”

“You gotta stop referring to women as pussy, Coach,” Wright grinds out. “They’re fucking people.”

“I don’t care!” Coach roars. “I care about this team and the game. And that’s all any of you should care about, too.” His head swivels as he levels all of us with the kind of stare that shrivels your balls before settling it on me. “Pull your head out of your ass and get your act together or you’re benched.”

“What? That’s bullshit, Coach.” I stand, the damned news articles crumpling into balls in my fists.

“That’s business, son.” He turns and storms through the locker room. “You morons have five minutes to get out on the ice or you’ll be skating suicides until you puke!”

My teammates pat my shoulder and offer words of support as they file out of the locker room and onto the ice. Except for Navarro, Wright, and Byrne. They hang back.

“What?” I grunt. “Whatever you want to say, say it.”

“We’re going to your place after practice,” Navarro informs me. “We’re talking about whatever this is before you leave tonight to get your sister.” He waves his hand in my direction when he says this. Like I’m some kind of problem to be solved.

My eyebrows rise. “Oh, we are, are we?”

“Yeah, man,” Griffin says seriously. “We are.”

I stare the three of them down. But if they even have Logan on board with this little intervention, there’s no way I’m getting out of it.

“Fine,” I grumble. “But my flight is at six, so you have until four to speak your piece.”

“That will work,” Bash says, clapping me on the back. “Now let’s get out there before Coach rips us all new assholes.”

I feel like I’m walking toward a firing squad, but I follow them onto the ice.

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