Page 75 of Her Name in Red
“Good hockey,” I answer flatly.
“Good hockey?” Coach laughs, but there's no humor in it. He slams his hand down on his desk hard enough to make his coffee mug jump. “You call that good fucking hockey? That wasn't hockey, Rhodes. That was a goddamn one-man demolition derby.”
I shrug, leaning against the wall. “Got results, didn't I?”
“Results?” His face is turning an interesting shade of purple. “You think hockey is just about scoring? You alienated every teammate out there. Hockey's a team sport, and you were being selfish out there.”
“They're too slow?—”
“Shut the fuck up.” Coach's voice drops to the kind of quiet that used to make me straighten up. Now it just washes over me like white noise. “I've seen you play for three years and coached you for half of that. I know what you can do. This isn't it. This is something else.”
“I'm playing better than I ever have,” I counter.
“You're playing like you don't give a shit if you hurt someone.”
That hits closer to home than I'd like. I glance away.
“Look at me, Rhodes.” He waits until I do. “I don't know what the fuck has gotten into you lately, but I'm gonna need you to take a test.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
He pulls open his desk drawer and slaps a plastic cup onto the desk between us. “Standard procedure. You know the drill.”
“You think I'm on something?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “That's bullshit.”
“Is it? Because the Riggs Rhodes I know doesn't go from a team player to whatever the hell I just saw out there overnight.” Coach crosses his arms. “Unless you've got something to hide?”
“Fuck you,” I spit, but I snatch the cup off his desk. I know I've got nothing to hide—at least not chemically. My vices run darker than pills or powder.
I stride into the attached bathroom, leaving the door wide open. Let him watch if he's so fucking concerned. I unzip, aim, and fill the cup to the line, not bothering to be neat about it.
“Can I go wash my ass now?” I ask, setting the cup on the edge of his desk with more force than necessary.
Coach's eyes are cold as he seals the sample. “You're dismissed. But listen to me carefully, Rhodes. You better keep your nose fucking clean, your anger in check, and get a fucking attitude adjustment, or you're out of here. I don't care how many goals you score.”
I turn to leave, hand on the doorknob when he adds, “And Rhodes? Those marks on your neck—whoever she is, she's bad news.”
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere dark inside me. If only he knew.
“Thanks for the advice, Coach,” I say, the sarcasm thick enough to choke on.
Chapter 25
Maren
Itoss my phone onto the couch and stare at the ceiling. Fuck. I shouldn't even be thinking about him. I shouldn't care if he wins his stupid hockey game or gets body-checked into the boards or whatever the hell happens in that glorified knife fight on ice.
But I do. And it's annoying as shit.
The Pho he left yesterday was exactly what I wanted. How did he know? I didn't tell him. I haven't told him anything in two days, just read his texts and ignored them like the emotionally stunted asshole I am because I’m still pissed about the tracking bullshit.
My apartment feels too quiet. I turn on the TV just to have noise, but it's some home renovation show where impossibly attractive people pretend to be surprised by perfectly staged reveals. I last about three minutes before switching it off.
I catch myself touching the bruise on my inner thigh. It's fading now, yellow-green at the edges, but still there. A reminder of how his fingers dug into my skin when he?—
This is classic me. Push away the one person who somehow makes the empty feeling less empty, then sit here missing themlike some pathetic teenager. I wasn't even this needy when I was an actual teenager.
My phone lights up with a notification. Not from him. Just my banking app telling me my balance is low. And tomorrow when I wake up, it’ll be full again because my uncle knows I won’t take a dime from my mother.
