Page 17 of These Wicked Games
An Otters practice jersey, along with his old helmet in his hands. Seeing it up close, It looks fucking cool, too—green and black swirls around a striking viper. The left side has his father’s numbers. His long curly brown hair is up in a bun, sweat beads along his forehead, and his skin looks a little flushed.
No. No fucking way. “Hey, teammate.” He winks. “I’m sorry, forgive me, I’m new here but . . . is the captain always so unprofessionally late?”
My hands ball into fists so hard they crack.
No. Mother. Fucking. Way.
My vision tunnels as I storm down the hall to Coach’s office, where I burst my way inside without knocking. “No fucking way.” Looking as unimpressed as ever, Coach drags his gaze away from his papers to eye me. “Coach—”
“Oli, whatever this is, shut up.”
“Are you joking? Thousands of fucking assholes would die for this job, and you draft him?!”
Whipping his glasses off his face, Coach Lafleur pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oli—”
“Anyone else. Literally anyone else.” There is no way I’m playing on the same fucking team as Andre Tavares. “Fuck it! I’ll be a goalie. How hard can it be?”
He blinks at me slowly. “What’s done is done. He’s on the team, Oli. The trade went through with the possibility of a trade in the future from us. I have no control over it, you know that.” He sighs. “Besides, the publicity this will bring will be great for the team. This is media gold.”
“Coach—”
“Rocky’s not coming back!” he shouts, and he rubs his eyes, shaking his head. “Sorry. I just . . . I found out only a little while ago. I’m dealing with shit right now, okay?”
All my anger morphs into confusion. “Is he okay? What the hell happened?”
Coach Lafleur sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I don’t get enough sleep for this shit,” he grumbles. “Rocky’s wife called, and he’s going into early retirement. He’s not coming back.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Oli. He got his brains bashed into the crease while he has a newborn at home.” He takes a deep breath. “He could have died. I don’t blame him. The thought of leaving his wife to raise their baby alone scared the shit out of both of them. He’s done. He’s had an amazing career, and ten years is more than a lot get. I haven’t told the team yet, though, so please keep this between us. Rocky’s going to tell the guys when we’re allowed to visit. Landon and Andre are what we have. Deal with it.”
I can’t process all of this. While I understand where Rocky’s coming from, a pit forms in my stomach. I can’t believe this. How am I supposed to just work with him? I can’t trust him. There’s no way I’ll be letting my tests out of my fucking sight. I’ll walk my piss cups over myself and watch them get tested right in front of me. “How the fuck did this even happen? He was on the Vipers.”
Coach shrugs, leaning back in his chair and glaring at me. “We got a call. Andre requested a trade. It’s his business why, but we agreed for a future trade. We needed a goalie and Andre is one of the best.”
“You’re being way too generous.” I brace my hands on his desk. “You can’t be fucking serious?”
“Oh, I’m fucking serious,” he grits. “And you will do yourself a favor and get the fuck over it. We have a game in two days, and being late—something Andre wasn’t today—is not very professional.” He glowers.
I’m going to hit something. Or someone. Hey, at least Andre will be within punching distance at all times now. “How am I supposed to just play with him on this team?”
“Like you’re afraid to become a healthy scratch,” he dares, but I know he won’t do that to me. I’m too valuable to this team. I don’t like the implication, though.
I burn with rage. I feel like I’m about to burst into flames. This isn’t fucking happening. The coach’s door opens with a loud creak. “Hey.” I turn to see Atlas and Grey in the doorway. “Not to interrupt the screaming that we all definitely can’t hear but . . . we’re going out after practice, Kuli. Want to come?” Atlas asks me. I know he’s trying to calm me down, but I can’t. I feel betrayed. This ismyhouse.Myfucking home.Mymotherfucking team. Andre is going to kick the door in and tread all over my floors with muddy fucking boots. “Looking a little purple there, Kuli. Why don’t you give us all a deep breath.”
“No. And I’m not going out!”
“Yes you are,” Coach says at the same time I decline. “Get out of my office, Kuli. Go practice. End of discussion. Get over it.”Get over it?!You get over a fucking cold; you don’t just get over your fucking rival playing on your team. The same guy who almost destroyed your dream. “Don’t get too fucked up, though. Game in two days, and I expect everyone hereon timeand in top condition, with a smile on their fucking face,” he warns us all.
This is a nightmare.
“Whoa, slow down.”
I slam another drink down, ignoring Grey.
“You don’t need to spend your day off sick,” Atlas warns. I can’t fucking believe this. Coach has to be fucking with me. AndremotherfuckingTavares. No fucking way. How can I deal with this?
Well hey, it means Tripp may be around, I guess. But not even that can lighten my mood. Tripp is the reason why I got into hockey to begin with. One day my mother was flipping through channels and a game was on. I asked her to stop, and I sat there for nearly three hours and watched that game. From that day on I was hooked. Tripp’s story is inspiring, much like my own. He came from nothing, worked his ass off, and is one the best players to ever grace this game.
