Page 11 of Full Tilt
I’d never outwardly admit it, but the first seasons of my pro career have been harder than I thought they would be. At one point, I didn’t think I’d make it out of Detroit’s farm team, having been sent there as punishment for fighting in my first NHL season. Then came a trade option to New York, and my agent took it with both hands, reminding me this was a second chance to get my career back on track.
Trouble is, I don’t know any other way of playing. Brute force is what my game is centered around. It’s who I am and what I do.
“I know where the line is,” I tell Coach.
He twists his lips in thought. “Do you? Gentry might say different tonight. Your teammates might say different too. You’ve got an anger problem. I don’t know why, but I’m pretty sure I know where it comes from.”
Unease gives way to rage, only proving his point right.
“I don’t have an anger problem!” I yell, earning a smug smirk from Coach. “I …” I grip the back of my neck so hard that I regret it as my healing skin stings beneath the pressure. “I’m not going the same route as my dad. Although I’m not about to switch up my game because you tell me I need to start taking it easy on fuckers like Gentry, who like to get in my face every ten seconds. At least my punches are open and honest, unlike his snide comments.”
Coach’s brows pull together. I know he used to play with my dad in college, so if anyone can compare our games, it’s him. That’s not what he’s thinking about right now though.
“What did Gentry say to you?” he asks, care threatening to bleed into the conversation again.
“Nothing.” I shut down the question quickly.
“What did he say, Tommy? That’s a fucking order.”
I can feel the flush of embarrassment as it heats my cheeks.
Fuck me, she’s a fucking menace. Even when she isn’t trying to be.
“Jenna Miller,” is all I say.
Coach scratches at his chin, understandably lost.
I puff out a single laugh and stare at the photo of Coach’s wife, avoiding all eye contact. “Gentry seems to think I have a thing for Jenna Miller, the New York Storm goalie who hangs out with?—”
He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Yes, I know who she is and that she’s tight with Darcy and a number of the guys’ wives. What I want to know is, what the fuck does she have to do with the five minutes you spent in tonight’s penalty box?”
I might be a questionable thug on the ice, but I’m sure as shit not a liar.
Puffing out my chest, I continue, “Like I said, apparently, he caught wind that I’d made a move on Jenna last season and she turned me down.” I clench my jaw so fucking hard that the tendons ache. “Allegedly, he banged her when the Storm traveled to Philly earlier this season. They were laughing about me and the way she’d burned me out. He said I’d missed out because she was phenomenal.”
Coach clears his throat as his eyes track around the room.
“This is probably none of my business, but do you have a thing for her? Is that what got under your skin?”
I scoff, more heat pooling throughout my body. “Jenna Miller is talking shit. We don’t get along—we never have. If anything, I was the one who blew her off last season, and shecouldn’t handle the rejection, so she decided to play petty games and make shit up.”
Okay, maybe I am a little liberal with the truth when I need to be.
Like he’s done with the conversation, Coach stands from his chair, gathering the paperwork he pushed away earlier.
“Somehow, I doubt you’ll ever take advice from me, and personally, I think that will be your downfall, Tommy.” He slides a single sheet of paper across the desk, and I read the first line.
Tommy Schneider: first formal written warning.
The letter is one page long with the GM’s signature at the bottom. I don’t bother to read its contents; I’ve seen this kind of thing before.
“But from a guy who knew your father and has witnessed enough shit go down between players over girls to last him a fucking lifetime, let me tell you this. You are quite literally skating on thin ice. One more misconduct like we saw tonight, and you’ll be benched, fined, and maybe even sent to the farm team in Connecticut. I don’t know if you have a thing for Jenna Miller, and quite frankly, I don’t give a fuck.”
He towers over me as I drop the written warning back onto the table.
“Get your head screwed on straight and drop the fucking act. It doesn’t impress anyone, not even Adrian any longer. You have the bones to be one of the greats, better than most I’ve coached and played with, but your attitude stinks, and I’m tired of dealing with your bullshit. Your job as a professional is to hold your tongue and keep your fucking head when players like Gentry try and mess with it.”
I want to scream at him that I do. The only exception to that rule is Jenna Miller.
