Page 10 of Full Tilt
I shrug like a petulant teenager, unable to stop myself. It’s like I’m daring to see how far I can push this guy before he snaps. But I know he needs me on the team just as much as I need my position. With Sawyer Bryce playing out his final season and Emmett Richards on the slow path to recovery, following a serious knee injury, he has very few options. That, and the GM seems to back me each time Coach and I come to blows. I’m aware my trade to the Blades last season was unpopular at best, driven solely by the guy at the top, calling the shots.
“Because you always summon me here like some kind of principal or something,” I reply, gazing around the room.
A picture of his wife, Felicity Morgan, sits in an emerald frame on the corner of his desk. She’s got her arm wrapped around her daughter, Darcy Moore. Last season, Archer was the bad guy in town for secretly hooking up with their golden girl. Although that was quickly forgotten when he made a bunch of declarations about promising to love her for eternity or some shit like that. The fact that he had gotten her knocked up didn’t seem to matter.
I wonder if I start fucking a teammate’s sister, will I suddenly enter the magic circle of trust?
Coach sits back in his black leather chair, despondency flowing off him. “Why is it that your main priority is to piss off everyone around you? At this point, I’m wondering why you chose to play a team sport like hockey.”
It’s a fair question, one I can answer easily. I focus back on him and away from the image of his family. “Because I don’t like people and because I’m really fucking good at hockey.”
“Is that genuinely your full answer?” He sounds more desperate now.
I shake my head and lean my elbows on the desk. “Listen, if this is your version of a pep talk to get me to see reason or want to start making friends around here, then I’d save your breath. I’m here to play hockey and earn money.” I drop my palms to the desk, and as I lean back into my chair, I slide my hands until they fall off the edge and slap against my thighs. “Being liked is overrated.”
“I’ll agree with you on two points.” Coach holds up a couple of fingers. “One, you’re right. You are a good hockey player. I can see it beneath the layers of unnecessary bravado you bring to the ice. You’re the fastest I’ve ever seen going backward, and you’re advancing game is some of the best out there.”
I agree with that.
“Two, being liked is most definitely overrated. But proactively trying to make everyone hate you is worse. You call yourself a serious player, but all I see is a kid throwing his weight around, both in the locker room and in the rink.” He leans forward, lips pressed into a thin line. “I mean, why?Whydid you drop your gloves today? We could’ve been looking at a draw tonight instead of a loss since we were beginning to turn the screw on them. Instead, Philly is thinking their Christmas just came early since we were odds on to clinch the W.”
I clear my throat as I think of a valid excuse. I don’t have one. Their center had been in my ear all game, and for the first time since I can remember, I didn’t know how to handle it.
“Why, Tommy?” Coach repeats.
I look up at him then, surprised at the use of my first name. I don’t like his coaxing tone, even less the understanding edge it carries.
“Gentry had it coming,” is all I can manage. “The opposition can’t be allowed to believe that they can talk shit when they play on our home ice. Someone has to put the hammer down, and that someone is me. Bryce is past his best with one eye on retirement, and no one else has the build or the balls to bring the intimidating role our GM asked me to fulfill when I was brought on board. I’m doing my job, simple as that.”
Satisfied with my response, I sit back and rest one leg over my knee.
Coach doesn’t seem to share the same opinion as he drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I hate to burst your bubble, kid, but even Adrian is growing tired of your antics. Our GM only has so much patience, and he’s part of the reason why you’re in here tonight.”
A kernel of discomfort blooms in the pit of my stomach.
“That’s not the impression he gave me,” I argue. “I only spoke with him last week. He wanted to see more of the same this season.”
“Yeah, well …” Coach blows out a low breath. “Opinions change, and I gotta be honest with you …” He pauses, looking me dead in the eyes. “Tonight’s hit stunk of your father.”
The slight unease I was feeling earlier morphs into something way worse as cold shivers trickle down the length of my freshly tattooed spine.
“It was a clean hit,” I insist. “He had the puck, and I was the obvious player to tackle him. The penalty was unjustified and only because the ref panicked. The entire league is turning soft.”
Coach quirks a brow. “The hit was questionable, but Gentry has a bad concussion and a twisted knee. He’ll be out for multiple games.”
I lift a single shoulder. “And?”
“And you just lost us the fucking game! Moreover, I don’t want this team to go back to what it was when I was playing. The Blades were nothing but animals. As an opposing player, the aim was to leave the rink with all your limbs still attached. That was considered to be a win when you traveled to Brooklyn.”
I make a face akin to pride. “Sounds like a great way to run an NHL team.”
When he pushes a hand through his silky brown hair, I can tell Coach’s patience is wearing thin.
“Is that what you want? To follow in your dad’s footsteps? To have your career cut short because no team wants to sign you?”
Shortly after I turned eighteen and changed my last name to Schneider, I didn’t hesitate in confirming my relation to my dad. What I didn’t tell the world was that my father wanted nothing to do with me. Naturally, he wasn’t going to publicly denounce that I was his son since that would make him look like a grade-A asshole—and even he’s not that stupid. In truth, I don’t wantthe world to know about how I got rejected either. That’s not something I particularly want splashed across the internet. All I care about is being the better Schneider—the one who hit harder, secured more shutouts, was feared the most and talked about in bars after each game. Call it poetic justice.
“That won’t happen,” I reply, feeling less assured than I sound.
