Page 32 of Ice Cold, Red Hot
“Evening, gentlemen.”
“Renshaw,” Ethan practically sneered. “How’s all that… hockey stuff?” He and his friends exchanged a look like this was possibly the funniest joke they’d ever managed.
“Good,” I told them, ignoring their little smirks. I stared at Ethan. “What were you saying a minute ago? About Celeste? And me?”
Ethan shrugged and raised his hands. “Meant nothing by it, man. You guys had a moment, I get it.”
A moment?
“You know nothing about it,” I told him, my vision beginning to tunnel.
“I know that Celeste is way too smart to waste her time with a guy like you. Besides, she’s older, focused—she knows what she wants.”
“And that’s you, I guess?” I could barely get the words out with the adrenaline shooting through me.
Ethan smiled, and the smug certainty in his expression sent me over the edge. I didn’t even feel my fist forming, my arm pulling back. But I did feel the satisfying crunch of the cartilage in his nose when my fist connected with his stupid face.
Glass shattered somewhere nearby, maybe I knocked the beers off their table, or maybe it was from when Ethan’s friends jumped to their feet and backed away as blood spurted from his face.
Ethan’s hands went to his nose, his eyes widening as hepulled them back to look at the blood covering his fingers. “Are you insane?”
Fury threatened to swamp me again, but I was beginning to hear the chaos around me now. Chaos I’d caused. People were yelling, my teammates were pulling at me. But my mouth was on its own program. “Say another word about her, Calloway. See what happens.”
I was in his face, leaning forward despite multiple hands tugging at me, pulling me away. Then Frank was around the bar, his bat in hand as he lunged at me. “Out. Now. And you don’t come back in here, Renshaw. You’re banned.”
As the guys pulled me away, I heard Ethan’s voice again as he said to his friends, “perfect demonstration of why she’s not gonna choose that lunatic.”
I struggled to lunge at him again, but Griff had me too tight and was hauling me to the door. “Dude, you’re in enough shit already. Let’s go.”
Griff was right. The next morning, we were awakened by pounding at the front door and a too-familiar gruff voice yelling, “Renshaw, you better open this goddamned door right now!”
Coach.
I got to the door at the same time as Griff, who backed off immediately, moving into the kitchen to the coffee maker. I pulled the door open.
Coach Adams burst inside, not looking at me and nearly knocking me over. He threw a folded newspaper onto thecounter, and spun around, pointing a meaty finger at the headline blaring across the local front page:
COLDWATER HOCKEY STAR ATTACKS GRAD STUDENT AT LOCAL BAR
Shit.
“You better start talking,” Coach said, crossing his arms.
I rubbed a hand through my hair, barely awake enough to form a coherent sentence, let alone to explain myself to my furious coach.
“Shepherd,” his voice calmed a bit. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
I shook my head, wishing I could undo what I’d done. Wishing I could undo so many things I’d done. “Coach, I’m sorry. But it was just one punch and that guy?—”
“That guy wants to press charges.” Coach’s voice was low and cold as he delivered this news.
Shit. If Ethan got the cops involved… I’d be off the team. Even if I could somehow prove myself innocent, there’s no way I could play while the legal shit was going on. I’d be benched — or worse.
“I’ve spoken to your father already, son,” Coach Adams said, and the tone of his voice—not to mention him calling me “son”—made it clear he understood that the potential threat from my father was probably worse than what I’d face if Ethan pressed charges.
My stomach dropped and my skin felt cold suddenly. I did not want to talk to my dad.
“Needless to say, he’s not pleased.”
