Page 62 of Never Your Girl

How many of the goals the other team scored were on me?

At least two.

It’s only when Coach clears his throat that I blink out of the thoughts circling around in my head. He pauses, eyebrows drawing together when I meet his gaze. His usual no-nonsense expression softens just a fraction.

“Sanderson.” His voice is steady, not sharp like it was during the game. “What are you still doing here? I thought everyone had taken off.”

With a shrug, I glance away. “Guess I just needed a minute.”

Coach Philips walks over, his footsteps deliberate, the sound of his shoes against the tile echoing in the emptiness of the room.

He settles beside me on the bench. “You played a decent game, but I’ve seen you play better.”

I let out a bitter laugh and shake my head. “Last I looked, decent didn’t win championships.”

“True,” he admits. “I know when a player’s head isn’t in the game. And tonight, yours wasn’t.”

I grit my teeth and stare at the floor. As much as I want to argue, it’s true. “I’ll do better next time.”

“Bridger.” The way he says my name, not my last name like usual, makes me look up. His eyes meet mine, steady and unwavering. “I’ve been doing this a long time. I know what it looks like when someone’s carrying more than just the weight of the game on their shoulders.”

My chest tightens. “It’s nothing,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “There’s just a lot of pressure right now. That’s all.”

With a sigh, he drags a hand down his face before dropping it back to his side. “Pressure is part of the game. Whatever’s going on outside the rink is bleeding in.”

I straighten as my defenses snap into place. “I’m handling it.”

“Maybe you are. But here’s the thing, handling it alone isn’t the same as handling it well. Just remember that my door’s always open if you need to talk. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be me. Find someone you trust and get it all out.”

The words hit harder than expected and sit heavy in my chest.

I swallow hard. “Thanks, Coach.”

He rises to his feet before clapping a firm hand on my shoulder. “You’re a damn good player. But more than that, you’re a good man. Don’t forget that.”

I nod, my throat too tight to respond. He doesn’t linger, just gives my shoulder a squeeze before stepping back.

“Go home and rest up,” he says as he heads for the exit. “And remember, nobody wins every game. You’ve got what it takes to bounce back. Prove it to me next time.”

The door swings shut behind him, leaving me alone again. This time, the quiet doesn’t feel so heavy. Everything he said stays with me, cutting through the noise in my brain.

Coach is right. I need to go home and get out of my own head.

Maybe the person to do that with is the girl sitting in the stands wearing the jersey I gave her last night. The very same one who I had my hands on this morning.

Fuck.

Just thinking about the way I rubbed my cock against her has the game fading to the background.

When the locker room door swings open again, I glance toward it, expecting Coach to walk back in. He probably forgot something in his office.

Instead, I find my father.

He strides in like he owns the place, his polished shoes clicking against the tiles. His suit is immaculate, and there’s not a single hair out of place. He looks every bit the man in control, down to the frigidness in his eyes.

“You almost fucked that up,” he says, his voice low and cutting, laced with barely suppressed fury. “You’re lucky your teammates picked up your slack. Otherwise, they’d be blaming you for that loss. It would be the first time in ten years that this school didn’t make it through the playoffs.”

“My game was off tonight,” I mutter. A conversation with him is the last thing I need right now. I’m well aware of my failures on the ice. I don’t need him to point out each one before ramming them down my throat.

---