Page 50 of Charming Crosschecks

"All right," Coach Mike snapped, his voice a sharp crack in the tense silence. He drew in a long, deliberate breath, his chest rising as he visibly forced himself to rein in his emotions. His jaw tightened, and his hands clenched at his sides before he slowly relaxed them. After a moment, he closed his eyes, his grimace deepening as though the weight of the situation was physically bearing down on him. When he finally opened his eyes, they locked on the right side of the locker room. His voice was steadier now but still edged with steel. "I need to know how long this has been going on – and why you didn’t come to me."

The words seemed to hover in the charged air, echoing off the concrete walls like an accusation. Molly’s stomach churned as she stole a glance at Gerry, who shifted uneasily. His mouth opened as if to explain, but the sound didn’t come. Instead, another voice broke the silence.

Lafreniere.

From his place on the bench, Lafreniere lifted his head slowly, deliberately, as if the very act of meeting Coach Mike’s gaze required summoning some inner reserve of strength. His shoulders hunched forward, and his hands rested limply on his knees. He looked like a man who had been carrying a secret too heavy for too long.

“My hip is still bothering me," Lafreniere began, his voice low but steady. It wasn’t an excuse—it was a confession. "And I’m not sure how much I have left in me, Coach. It’s getting better, but..."

"But what?" Coach Mike’s tone was razor-sharp, demanding answers, unwilling to let the matter slide.

“But…” Lafreniere hesitated, his eyes dropping to the floor again. He exhaled heavily, as though releasing the truth might ease some of the pressure crushing him. “But they said they’d pay me more to be a backup goalie – so I took the shot. I’m trading to the Quebec Wolverines.”

The words hit the room like a thunderclap. Molly froze, her breath catching in her throat. His tone was flat—no emotion, no regret, no remorse. Just a simple, matter-of-fact statement that shattered the fragile stillness. It was like a ripple, the shock spreading outward through the room, growing into something uncontrollable.

“Eh,” Batiste barked, breaking the stunned silence with a disbelieving laugh. He stood, his arms crossing over his chest as he glared at Lafreniere. “Quebec does not ‘ave a ‘ockey team since the Nordiques moved to Colorado…”

“They do now,” Coach Mike replied grimly, the words heavy with resignation. As if choreographed, Lafreniere, Boucher, and Coeur echoed him in unison.

"Theydo now."

The weight of their confirmation crashed over Molly like a wave. Her eyes widened as realization struck her like a slap, the truth dawning in jagged, painful clarity. It wasn’t just Lafreniere. Quebec had stolenthreeof their players, right from under their noses.

The uproar was instantaneous, a chaotic explosion of emotions that filled the room. Batiste surged to his feet. His face contorted with fury as he screamed at the trio, his hands gesturing wildly as though the sheer force of his anger might undo what had been done. Giroux leaped up, throwing an arm around Batiste in a desperate attempt to hold him back, his own face a mask of frustration and shock.

Gerry, pale as a ghost, slumped back against the lockers. His expression was one of utter devastation like he’d just been blindsided by a freight train. Molly could see the realization dawning in his eyes—the what-ifs, the bitter consequences of his own decisions. If he’d accepted that contract with Calgary, their team might have been reduced to rubble, a shadow of itself next season.

The room was alive with noise now—shouts, accusations, disbelief—but Molly’s focus remained locked on Lafreniere. His face was unreadable, a stoic mask that betrayed nothing of what he might be feeling. No regret. No sadness. Just the cold, calculated look of a man who had made his choice and stood by it, no matter the cost.

Molly’s heart pounded as she glanced around the once-united team now splintered and raw, their bonds stretched to the breaking point. And in the center of it all, Coach Mike stood silently, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his face a storm of emotions he wasn’t ready to unleash.

This wasn’t just a trade. It was a betrayal. And no one in that room would ever forget it.

“Boucher?” Gerry rasped, stunned. “When does… when did this all happen? I mean, Batiste is getting married in less than two weeks, and we’re the groomsmen. Lafreniere, what about our conversation to keep Boucher here, you know, the whole ‘Project: Boy Scout Reform’ to redeem his image?”

“Turns out I might not need it,” Boucher said bluntly, looking at Gerry – who looked green.

“What about the widow and her children?”

“Mind your own business,” Boucher muttered, getting up and effectively turning his back on the team, mentally and physically. “I’ll be at Batiste’s wedding unless he doesn’t want me there anymore – and I’ll keep my word. She was the first to know about the offer and the reason I took it.”

“You could have talked to me,” Coach Mike said hoarsely, his voice thick with disappointment and frustration. The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. His usually commanding presence seemed deflated as he rubbed the back of his neck, searching their faces for answers. “I would have gone to bat for you—any of you. What’s your excuse, Coeur?”

Coeur shifted uncomfortably, his usual playful confidence replaced by a quiet, almost fragile demeanor. His shoulders slumped, and he kept his gaze fixed on the floor like the linoleum held the answer to an unspoken question. “It’s private,” he said quietly, the words barely audible but loaded with tension. His voice cracked slightly, betraying the storm roiling beneath the surface. “Look, it’s done. I’m sorry, but I have my reasons, and I’d rather not share them.”

Molly swallowed hard, feeling the sting of the strained atmosphere like a thousand tiny pinpricks against her skin. The room felt unbearably small. Every breath labored with the weight of unspoken words. She glanced around, her eyes darting to Gerry, whose brows knitted together in worry. His tension mirrored her own, but she knew someone had to take control before the situation spiraled further. She raised a hand slowly, the motion tentative but deliberate, a lifeline in the turbulent sea of emotions.

“Coach Côte,” Molly began, her voice steady but careful like she was stepping across a minefield. “If the trades are a done deal, I assume you have some leads on a few new players? When do I get to start working with them and evaluating their conditions?”

Her question was like a pebble breaking the surface of a still pond, ripples of tension radiating outward. It wasn’t much, but it redirected the focus, giving everyone something practical to latch onto.

Coach Mike turned his gaze toward her, his eyes dark with disappointment. He drew in a long, measured breath before nodding curtly. “You three,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with resignation as he addressed Coeur, Lafreniere, and Boucher. “You may leave. You won’t be needed at practice, and I’m sure you all need to start packing and making arrangements for your move.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and the three men rose from their seats slowly, their movements heavy with the weight of finality. The locker room seemed to grow colder as they stood, their expressions a mixture of sadness and quiet defeat. They looked like men who’d just lost a family, not teammates.

Gerry stepped forward, his face pale as he hugged each of them tightly. “This isn’t how it should be,” he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking with emotion.

The men exchanged quick, somber goodbyes. They patted each other on the back with a tenderness that spoke of years of camaraderie, their rough gestures masking the raw emotion in their eyes.

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