Page 5 of Blindside Me
“I asked you a question, Klaas!”
“No, sir,” I mumble, swallowing the bitterness in my throat. “Won’t happen again, Coach.”
“Damn right, it won’t,” he barks. “Benched next game. Hope your little fan club was worth it.”
The words punch me harder than any hit that motherfucker landed. But benched? He can’t bench me.
If I’m not playing, then I’m not winning. And if I’m not winning, I have nothing. “But sir?—”
“Get your act together, or you’re off the ice permanently.”
That gets me. I shift my weight. Pain shoots through my dick, and instead of focusing on my future, that crazy, hot chick from last night fills my head. It was all good until it wasn’t. But isn’t that how it always goes? The mark she left is a constant reminder that my life sucks. I should care more about this meeting, but I’m too pissed. At Coach. At my teammates. At that girl from Saturday night who started it all.
“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again.” That’s a damn lie. No matter how much I push myself, I always need some relief. This time, it just happened to be with our rival’s younger sister. And then the girl from the dance club last night. Maybe Coach is right. I should slow down. Two girls in one weekend is a lot, even for me. Does it count if I didn’t blow my load?
“I need everyone one hundred percent focused this season. No exceptions.” His stare drills through me. “Least of all, you.”
His voice is low and fierce. I don’t answer. I can’t. The threat sits between us, heavy as the stink of the locker room. Benched? No. He wouldn’t really do it. He taps his clipboard, setting off warning bells in my head. But yeah, he just did.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I’m tired. More than tired. I shift, but my feet slide a little on the rubber floor. Another jolt of pain shoots from the tip of my dick, and I almost whimper. I shut it off and rein in my grimace.
He glances down at the clipboard. “And despite everything, you show up late to practice today.”
Not that late. Maybe half an hour. But late is late, and Coach doesn’t need to say more. I’m screwed. Completely screwed.
My fingers dig into my palms, remembering the feel of the other guy’s shirt as I swung him into a wall. The crunch of my knuckles into his jaw. Negative attention is the last thing I need right now, and I should’ve been able to stop myself.
“Do you even care about this season?”
I flinch. I fucking care more than he knows. That’s why I was out there just now, beating the shit out of myself even with my dick throbbing like a goddamn drum. That’s why I did three more sets of sprints. That’s why I couldn’t breathe after the game Saturday night. I had to go somewhere, anywhere, to blow off steam. Had to feel like something more than just a disappointment. I say none of this.
“It won’t happen again,” I finally manage. My voice sounds weak. Uncertain.
Coach grunts. “Yeah. You’re damn right it won’t. You’re lucky I’m not cutting you completely.”
I rock back on my skates, biting back a gasp. That’s twice in five minutes he’s threatened to cut me, and the word echoes louder than the Zamboni as all the energy drains from my body. He’s serious.
I stay quiet, letting him think I’m a lazy, reckless piece of shit because arguing won’t change his mind. He knows my dad’s counting on me not to mess this up, and he still stands there, arms crossed, beyond frustrated. But that isn’t what gets to me. Nope. It’s the hint of pity buried deep in his gaze.
“Is this about the new kid?” I ask, teeth gritted. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Maybe Coach wants to give him ice time and get me out of the way.
Coach Howell just stares at me. I stare back. There’s no give in his face. He taps the clipboard again. My hands clench and release. Clench and release.
“We’ve got enough problems to solve without you running wild,” he says.
The corridor spins, and I’m not at the bar after the game. I’m back at the club, lights flashing and bass pulsing through my veins. The girl’s lips on my ear, promising things I shouldn’t have listened to. I tried not to, but her body pressed against mine did things. Made me lose control. One more drink. One more hour. One more stupid decision.
I shove the thought away.
“How long am I benched?” My voice shakes, trying to ignore the pain shooting through my cock.
“That’s up to you,” Coach says.
It feels worse than getting hit on the ice. Worse than getting hit Saturday night. I have to know. I have to see if he’s serious. “Next game?”
“You think I’m bluffing?” He glares, shaking his head again. “Consider this your last warning. No game against Austin State. Maybe more if you keep this shit up.”
I stare down at my feet, heart thumping. I worked too hard to blow it like this. To be like my brother Jake. I need to reassess what I’m doing and lock it down.
