Page 3 of Dirty Pucker

That sick feeling is gone, replaced by an empty feeling I’ve felt almost my whole life.

I take a deep breath in, then exhale. I’ll take it out on the ice, like I always do.

Coach Porter blows his whistle. “Nice work, gentlemen. Hit the showers.”

My chest is on fire as I head toward the edge of the ice, I’m panting so hard. I worked my ass off this practice, sprinting as hard as I could through the drills. Every time I shot the puck at the net, I managed to score, which I hope Coach Porter noticed.

I want him to see that I’m a solid two-way center. I want to show him that despite the trouble I cause on the ice with all the fights I get into, I play hard, and I score points. I want to show him I was worth the trouble of trading for at the last minute, right before playoffs.

I need him to see that I’m worth keeping around, because I need to be here in Denver. I need to be near my mom and my sister so I can look after them. I can’t have him be disappointed with me and want to get rid of me.

“Richards, hang back for a sec,” Porter says.

I skate over to where he’s standing at the edge of the ice as everyone leaves.

“How are you settling in?” he asks.

“Fine.”

He frowns like he doesn’t believe me. “Skyler told me that you had a quiet welcome from the team.” He studies my face.

I instantly tense. Porter is well-known in the league for his no-nonsense demeanor. I’ve played for all sorts of coaches in my career. Ones that lost their shit over the smallest things, ones that yelled until they lost their voice, ones that got into it with the refs and would get tossed out mid-game.

But Porter’s different. When I’ve seen him coach the Bashers during the times that I’ve played them, he’s hardly ever lost his cool, on his players or the opposing team or the officials. And something about that unnerves me. I can’t read him. I can’t tell if he’s pissed at me or unimpressed with me or just lost in thought.

I clear my throat. “I don’t know if the team is thrilled to have me.”

“You can’t blame them. You’re a polarizing player.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“You had a strong showing today.” He juts his chin at the ice. “Nice work.”

“Thank you.”

He looks me in the eye. “But I want to make something clear: I’m not a fan of your behavior on the ice. I never have been.”

I tense. “Right.”

“It’s not the fighting. This is hockey, after all. Fights happen. I understand that. What I am against is all those cheap shots you’re known for. Late hits, dropping the gloves for every little thing. That doesn’t fly with me. So if you’re interested in playing for this team long-term, you need to clean up your act. Understand?”

I nod, that unnerved feeling within me intensifying. “I understand.”

That pointed look in his gaze remains. “Step one is getting along with your teammates. It’s up to you to change their minds.”

I tell him I will, even though I have no idea if I’ll be able to do that.

I head for the locker room.

“One more thing,” Porter hollers.

I turn back around to him.

“You need to meet with our head of social media tomorrow morning to film some content,” he says.

I hold back a groan and nod, even though the thought of doing that makes me want to smash my head into a wall.

God, I fucking hate that social media is such a huge part of the sport now. I signed up to play hockey, not make TikToks about dancing or singing or whatever the fuck is trending nowadays.

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