Page 1 of My One & Goalie

CHAPTER 1

XANDER

“Kovac! In my office—now!” Coach barks at me as I skate off the ice.

Two minutes ago we lost the Chicago series in overtime. Judging by the look on his Marzano tomato-red face, he’s not too happy about it. A pit yawns open in my stomach as I skulk into the small office and sink down into a chair.

I stare down at my bloody knuckles, a souvenir from busting the lineman’s nose. One hundred percent worth it, even though the move got me benched. Knee bouncing from leftover adrenaline, I wait for the stern warning from Coach.

No more fights. Watch your temper. Keep your cool out there.

I’ve heard it all before. But I rarely bother listening.

“Kovac.” Coach’s voice is low, ominous. He slams the office door behind him and plops into his seat behind the desk.

This isn’t going to be good.

Scowling, Coach shakes his head, running his fingers through his thinning hair. He’s clearly disappointed, I’m just not sure how much of that feeling’s aimed at me. I mean, I didn’t single-handedly lose the game for the team. Sure, it didn’t help that I was benched during overtime and he had to play therookie goalie in my spot. But if the guys didn’t fuck up before then, we wouldn’t have been in such a tight position.

Coach slaps a tabloid down on the desk in front of me and the pit widens.

Oh shit.

There I am, front-page news. Me and Axl, drunk and disheveled, getting thrown out of The Cellar last night. A wave of nausea rolls through me as I stare down at the unflattering photo.

“I can explain.” I hold my palms up and act innocent, although I’m anything but. Truth is, we did get into a bar fight. The cops came and everything. But I’m not about to launch into the nitty gritty.

“Save it,” Coach growls. “You’re suspended, effective right the fuck now.”

“What? What about due process and all that shit?”

“Kovac, between your fights on the ice and your run-ins with the law outside of the rink, I’m beginning to think you’re more trouble than you’re worth. Take the suspension. And be happy you still have a damn job.”

Fists balled, I press my lips together hard to keep from saying something I’ll regret.

“Pack up your stuff. Go home and reflect on your behavior. Maybe try therapy—hell, I don’t give a flying fuck what you do. Yoga, jiu jitsu, go get laid. Whatever it is, get your damn act together if you want to stay in the league. Because this shit isn’t going to fly anymore. You got it?”

I nod, hot anger flooding through me. “Yes, Coach. Heard. Loud and clear.”

“Good. Now get the fuck out.” He shoots me an icy glare and I take the hint, hustling out of the office.

Eyes glued to the floor, I shuffle to my locker and shove a few personal items into my bag.

Fuck him.

Last night, I did what any guy with an ounce of testosterone would do. Some losers heckled me and Axl about the game and I told Axl to hold my beer. Then I punched the shit talker right in his ugly, smug face.

Shut him up real quick.

Unfortunately, I guess the paparazzi caught the altercation on camera as the bouncers hauled us out.

Stupid fucking media.

Slamming my locker shut, I storm out to the parking lot, my mood as dark as the cloudless Boston sky.

I’ve been in trouble before, but never like this. Benched is bad; suspended is worse.

Unlocking my Porsche, I chuck my duffel into the backseat and slide behind the wheel.

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