Page 7 of Rosie and the Beast Next Door

I stood, my hands balled at my sides. “You can’t be serious.”

“Sit down,” Coach barked. Conditioned from years of being yelled at by coaches, I sat, even if every nerve screamed to escapethis room, run, and keep on running until my brain felt only a numbing buzz.

“This is bull—”

“We’re not done.” Coach raised both of his eyebrows and motioned for Ms. Lincoln to continue.

I clenched my jaw shut.

She clicked on her laptop, and a spreadsheet was projected onto the screen behind her. “Your sales numbers are down, Dylan. No one’s buying your jersey—and in fact, there’s been a huge influx of people returning it. There’s a petition going around online to get you kicked off the team. And …” She paused, looked to Coach as if for courage, and then turned back to me again. “You’re a meme.”

“A meme,” I repeated. Who cared if everyone hated me? I didn’t need friends. I didn’t need fans. I was just there to play hockey. Something I was dang good at—I’d made sure of that.

A reel began to play on the projection screen. It was me, looking unhinged as I smashed a camera against the wall, superimposed over the image of a set of bookshelves.

This one was captioned: “When an author kills off your favorite character.”

Slow blink. “I’m supposed to care that a bunch of book nerds are mocking me?”

“Keep scrolling,” Coach told Ms. Lincoln.

The same image of me smashing the camera, but with several different captions, followed: When you give your toddler the wrong cup. When you make the mistake of talking to your teenager first thing in the morning. When your teacher tells you it’s an assigned group project.

Over and over, I’d become the face of irrational anger.

“It’s trending on every video platform right now,” Ms. Lincoln said quietly. “And this next image is on the rise.”

She flipped to the next meme, and my heart sank. This image was different. A gut-punch.

It showed a group of pre-teens dressed head to toe in Peaks gear, shrinking away from me in the arena hallway as I stalked past. They’d gone from excited to scared in a matter of seconds. I hadn’t even seen them there.

This time, the reel showcased that video superimposed over an image of a dark, Gothic castle. “When ‘The Beast’ isn’t just a nickname but who you are.”

She flipped to a video clip of two commentators from Sports Media’s most popular sportscast. “He’s letting what happens off the ice affect him,” one of them said.

The other leaned closer, playing devil’s advocate. “Which is normal. Right? We’re humans, not robots.”

“It may be normal. But is it safe?” the first one countered. “Look at those kids, man.”

The haunting image of the kids going from excited to scared as I blew past them was shown again.

“That’s enough,” I growled.

Ms. Lincoln turned off her tablet screen, and the room was silent.

Coach leaned forward, his voice cutting through the thick tension. “We’re worried about you, Dylan.”

“Well, don’t.” I folded my arms and stared straight ahead at the wall. The only thing keeping me in my seat was how they’d react if I left. Between Coach Perkins, the GM, and the team lawyer, this was a room of passionate hockey fans and players. Hockey was my life, and I couldn’t jeopardize that by storming off and proving their point.

Mike, the GM, leaned forward, his expression intense. “It’s not just the reels and the commentary. The Peaks have weathered bad press before, and we can do it again. Ms. Lincoln is a miracle worker, and she can find a way to spin it positively.”

Ms. Lincoln swallowed hard and wouldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. That was really encouraging.

Mike continued, “It’s how out of control you are on the ice. It’s how you act like everyone is your enemy—even your teammates. Even us, when we’re the ones who have your back. Someone is going to get hurt, and it might be you.”

I had to choke down a scoff. Mike was trying to play it like they had my back? After this ambush? I slammed my hands on the table. “I’m in full control out there.”

“You’re not even in control right now,” Coach bit off, his face red.

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