Page 69 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Enter," he barks.

I step inside, standing awkwardly as he looks up from his desk, his expression darkening as he takes in my appearance.

"Sit," he orders, pointing to the chair across from him.

I comply, bracing for the explosion.

"Do you know what I heard yesterday?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm. "I heard that my right wing, the player I'm counting on to lead us to a championship, got into a fistfight in the middle of campus. With his own brother. Over a girl."

"Coach, I—"

"I'm not finished," he cuts me off. "Do you have any idea how stupid that was? How irresponsible? You could have been seriously injured. You could have been suspended. You could have jeopardized everything this team has been working toward all season."

I drop my gaze to my hands, unable to argue with any of it.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he demands.

"I’m sorry," I say quietly. "It won't happen again."

"Damn right it won't," he agrees. "Because if it does, you're off the team. I don't care how many goals you've scored this season. I don't care if you're the best player I've coached in twenty years. I will bench you for the championship if you pull another stunt like that. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Coach."

He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. "Is this girl worth it?"

The question catches me off guard. I expected more yelling, maybe punishment laps or extra drills. Not this unexpected moment of almost-fatherly concern.

"I think so," I answer honestly.

He nods slowly. "Then be smarter about it. Fighting your brother in public isn't going to win her over, and it sure as hell isn't going to help this team."

"Yes, Coach."

"Now get out of here. Trainer's room, have them look at that eye. I need you at one hundred percent for practice tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" I ask, surprised. "Not today?"

"You're taking today off," he says, already turning back to his paperwork. "Rest. Take care of yourself. Be ready to work twice as hard tomorrow."

"Thank you, Coach."

He grunts in response, dismissing me without looking up.

I leave his office feeling like I just dodged a bullet. No suspension, no being benched for the championship. Just a warning and a day to recover. It's more than I deserve, and I know it.

The trainer's assessment is less forgiving than Coach's. "Bruised ribs, minor contusions to the face, possibly a slight concussion though you're not showing symptoms. What the hell happened, Sanderson?"

"Family disagreement," I mutter.

"Hell of a disagreement," he says, applying butterfly bandages to the cut above my eye. "Your brother do this?"

"News travels fast."

"Small campus," he shrugs. "Hold still."

I wince as he prods my ribs. "Anything broken?"

"Don't think so, but we should get an X-ray to be sure. Can't have you playing with a fractured rib."

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