Page 3 of Overtime
“Captain, a word.” He motions with his finger at me to follow.
Mierda, this will hurt much more than the slap.
“Yes, Coach.”
“Oh,nowyou’re in trouble.” Edwards laughs.
The urge to tell him to piss off is strong, but I ignore him.
I’m missing my top pads and jersey, but when the Coach says to walk, I walk. We don’t make it far from the locker room, just enough that eavesdroppers won’t find satisfaction.
“What the hell was that?” is the opener of the conversation.
“I’m still wondering so myself,” I mumble.
“Rodriguez, you’re the captain of the Thunder Bolts. I’ve never seen a guy who can command a room without a word the way you do. And I’ve never met a more talented goalie in my life.” His eyebrows are as pinched as they get during bad games. “But what kind of example are you setting by bringing your girlfriends into the locker room?”
“First of all,” I say, shifting my weight to one leg. “I didn’t bring her in. She sneaked in all on her own.” And now I wonder if it was when I badged in, but that’s irrelevant. “And second, she’s not my girlfriend.”
“Well, obviously not after that slap.”
“Or before.”
He gives me a pointed stare. “The point is that this isn’t the first time one of your girl-space-friends has pulled some kind of stunt that disrespects this institution.”
He’s referring to the time during my sophomore year when some freshman girl I didn’t even know wrote my name across her chest and flashed everyone during a game.
I scowl. “That wasn’t my fault either.”
“It’s never your fault, but somehow it keeps happening to you, huh?” Coach sighs so hard he blows a raspberry. “I’m going to give you a warning, and this time, if you don’t follow it, I will suspend you for three games and put Edwards in.”
I grow as stiff as a plank.
“His save percentage is one point four below mine. You’d hurt the team to teach me a lesson?”
“Yes, I would if it means you’ll finally keep it in your pants and focus only on school and hockey. I’m doing this for your own sake. Women, alcohol, drugs, or whatever can completely derail your career now and in the future.” He points at me and lowers his voice. “One more scene that messes up this team or your studies, and you’re suspended for three games. Even if it’s in the playoffs. And even if there are scouts watching. You understand?”
“Crystal clear,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Hockey. School.” He punctuates each word with a slash of his hand. “Nothing else.”
“What about family?”
“Don’t be cheeky with me, boy.”
I press my lips into a tight line. It was a legit question. “Hockey and school, got it.”
“Good.” Coach Green nods. “Now go get ready for practice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Now my bad mood is set at a firm seven on the scale. About to turn seven point five the second I step into the locker room and face the hyenas. But I’m not that worried about that part.
If Coach finds out I got an F on a paper—in a class that is graded entirely on essays—he’s going to bench my ass and put in our subpar goalie who hates my guts and got drafted thanks to his daddy’s connections. I can’t let that happen. I have scouts to wow becauseIdidn’t get drafted.
In the quiet of my mind, I make up a plan. Step one, swear off girls for the rest of the season. Step two, do some overtime schoolwork with the help of a tutor to salvage the useless elective. Step three, tell no one about steps one or two so people keep their noses in their own business.
Should be easy.
