Page 14 of Born of Ice

“Sure as fuck is. Who knew Coach was one kinky bastard?” We both break out laughing and get into our positions.

It takes me a second to realize this laugh is genuine, not the forced kind I’ve been pushing out of myself for months now.

Fuck…it feels good. But I know it won’t last. The memories from September are still too raw, four months later.

He just needed to fuck with me one last time. Even when he’s gone, my father refuses to let me move on. And just like that, I’m out for blood.

Fuck. The switch flipped too fast today, and it would be painful to realize what I’ve turned my favorite place into if I wasn’t so far gone in my hate.

I used to love this. The smell of adrenaline and the crowd. The sound of ice slashing against your blades. The thrill. The chase. The blood. Now I need it.

I take a deep breath, desperately trying to remember what I’m here for.

Play hockey. Defend. Score. And yes, fight, but only to defend. Not instigate.

We need to win this game and all the fuckers in my life won’t stop me.

Well, that was a big fat lie…

“WHAT THE FUCK did I tell you before the game?” Coach booms before he even steps a foot into the locker room, and half the guys wince from that tone alone. But I don’t have it in me to wince.

I’m too busy boiling in my own rage over here.

No, I didn’t get into a fight. Yet. But I’ve landed in the penalty box three times already because of the fucker, and we just finished the first period. So, it’s safe to say that fists will be flying in no time.

“I’m talking to you, Exton!” Coach repeats right as he steps inside, but I keep my back to him, not willing to see how pissed he is at me.

Everyone thinks of their coaches differently. Some love them, some hate, respect, or tolerate. But for me, Coach Hill is like a father, and you know when you were a kid and your parents said they were disappointed in you, and it felt ten times worse than if they would actually punish you somehow?

Yeah, that’s how it feels now—have felt for this whole season—only I’m still a little too high on my rage scale to swallow my snarky comebacks.

“Not to paint his face red,” I grumble back. “Which I didn’t. Yet.”

“Oh, you think you’re funny, don’t you, Quinn?” I’m pretty sure that was a rhetorical question. But once again, I can’t keep my mouth shut, preferring to dig a nice deep hole for myself, right along my father. Hell, maybe then it will finally feel better?

“I’m the life of a party.” Yet there’s no humor in my voice.

“I’m going to show you the fucking life of a party. If you as much as breathe his way this next period, you are out! Fooley, you are going to replace Quinn. Jackson, you’ll go in instead of Fooley,” he rambles out the possible changes in lines and that gets me to turn around.

“You don’t seriously expect me to ignore him? This is bloody hockey!”

“Then play it! Not pretend to be the next Muhammed Ali!”

I dig my fingers into the wood of my shelf.

“Coach!”

“WHAT?” he roars again. “Coach, what? Since when are you best friends with Ice Devils?”

“The fuck?”

“Oh, you’re not?” He shakes his head at me with a mocking expression. “Because it sure looked like you were. Gifting them six minutes of power play for bullshit reasons while you rest you pretty ass in the box.”

“I didn—” I start but he doesn’t let me finish.

“Not to mention your interference with Goram’s goal! What the bloody fuck was that? Wait, don’t answer because it couldn’t be any more clear tonight how selfish you are! You wanted to shove that puck up Zima’s ass and stole the perfectly good chance from Goram to even out the score.”

At the mention of it, I catch Goram’s angry eyes and clenched jaw in my periphery. Yeah, I took his goal and ran with it. I had the puck, I was supposed to pass it over to him but instead, I saw it as an opportunity to fly past Zima’s smug face and that was it.

---