Page 19 of Knotted Laces

I’m really not in thefucking—no pun intended—mood. Especially, when this vitriol is coming from the man who’s supposed to have my back, who’s supposed to support and encourage?—

Ha.

Yeah, that’s not the reality on most sports teams.

I’m a commodity, a resource to be used—even if Rome is trying to change things, trying to shift the back office dynamics so we’re more of a family than just a group of guys spending nine months together doing the same thing.

Frankly, it’s not working all that well.

Oh, we’ve been winning.

And we have a small subset of like-minded guys.

But we still have Coach. Still have Pat and his idiot crew. Still have?—

“Are you even fucking listening to me?” Coach screams, throwing his pen and nearly hitting me with it.

Luckily, I dodge, manage to not lose my fucking eye. “I’m listening,” I say quietly, after he’s finished his screaming fit. “I’ve got it. And I’ll fix it.”

“See that you fucking do,” he snaps, slamming down the tablet he’s been using to show me replays of my indiscretions on the ice (as though I didn’t fucking know them already, as though they weren’t already on repeat in my mind). “Dismissed.”

Cool. Cool. So.Much. Fun.

I inhale. Exhale.

Shove down my anger.

Then push up to my feet and move out into the hall, nearly running into Pat.

Of coursehe’s fucking here.

Wearing his trademark smirk.

Unfortunately for me, the fucker played great tonight—he seems to do better the worse I play, like he’s loving every bit of my torment, like he senses the shit tearing me up inside even though no one aside from my doctor and I know what’s going on.

It doesn’t impact the team.

It’s none of their business.

Except…itisimpacting the team, isn’t it?

A throb begins in my temple—or maybe it’s always there and it just ramps up being in the presence of this asshole.

“Jackson,” he begins, his condescending tone telling me he heard every fucking word of Coach’s verbal reaming even before he finishes the statement. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of disgusting-looking tissues. “Do you need to go cry about it?”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I can’t with this asshole.

I start to push by him, but he puts up his hand, as though to stop me.

“Touch me, fuck face,” I growl, “and I’ll fucking break it off. I don’t care how many goals you’ve scored this season.”

His brows shoot up. “Tsk. Tsk. So touchy.”

Luckily, before he can say anything else—or I make good on my threat and break it the fuck off—Coach bellows, “Franklin, get your ass in here!”

Pat smirks and salutes me, disappearing into Coach’s office. Though, he doesn’t close the door all the way, and I hear Coach take on a decidedly friendly tone as he says, “Nice going out there, Franklin. I really liked your intensity and…”

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