Page 91 of Full Tilt
Ten seconds later, we’re practically alone.
Sawyer doesn’t bother to move or show any sign of heading for the rink; his attention is locked in on me.
I pick up my training jersey and throw it overhead.
“Which begs the question …” I lift a brow at my former captain. “Why do you give a shit about me?”
Sawyer props his hands on his hips, kind of how I imagine he would with his teenage son. He’s reaching the end of his patience.
“Does your particularly bad mood have to do with the scratches on your back, or were you really in a bear fight?”
Right at that moment, the locker room door opens, and Coach Morgan walks in.
I deflate, knowing being late on the ice won’t go over well when I’m already on a warning. Friday’s game is my first one off suspension, and I’m already fucking things up.
Although the look on Coach’s face isn’t mad; it’s more empathetic.
“Bryce”—Coach thumbs over his shoulder toward the door he just came through—“can you give me a second with Schneider?”
Like the perfect team player Sawyer is, he nods once and drops his hand from my shoulder, exiting and leaving me and Coach on opposite sides of the room.
Coach blows out a long breath and sets his iPad down on an empty section of the bench. He takes a seat next to it and rests his elbows on his knees.
He looks torn up over his thoughts—or maybe whatever is about to leave his mouth next.
An icy-cold trickle chases a path down my spine.
Coach points to my section of the bench, lifting his gaze to look at me. There’s only sincerity in his eyes, and that kicks up my trepidation.
“Take a seat, Tommy. My staff is running the first part of practice so I can speak with you.”
I do as he asked and wait for Coach to elaborate. Whatever he’s about to say can’t be good. Coach rarely hands practice over to his team—and only under serious circumstances.
“I swear I arrived on time for practice, Coach.” I begin talking, the nervous silence proving too much for me to take. I need my place on the team, and I’ll be goddamned if I lose it because I got held up, talking in the locker room.
He shakes his head, running a palm over the scruff of his jaw. “It isn’t to do with practice.”
My mouth runs dry. “What is this about?” I ask, mentally cycling through the events of my life the past few days.
Jenna.
Fuck. Did something happen to her?
Coach twists his hands together in front of him. “Does the name Ethan Hadley sound familiar to you?”
At first, the name means nothing to me … and then … my eyes grow wide as I take in Coach’s concerned gaze.
He takes my expression as confirmation that I’ve heard of him.
“He’s a former semi-pro soccer player with a decent following on social media.”
My heart hits the fucking floor.
“Anyway, around a half hour ago, he made a post, claiming you had beaten him up on a night out and included images of his broken and bloody nose. He states that the attack was unprovoked and over an undisclosed girl he was innocently walking home after she drank too much.”
If my stick was next to me right now, I’d launch it against a wall since I won’t be needing it any longer. My career is as good as fucking over.
Leaning back, I can’t help the wry smile as it traces my lips. It’s effectively my word against his. I know there isn’t any CCTV footage outside Jenna’s apartment door—I already checked. No one is going to take my word—one that’s already tarnished with a bad rep—over an “innocent” member of the public’s. Why Ethan waited until now to post, I have zero idea. Perhaps he was hoping to catch our PR team or my agent off guard. Or maybe he sat in his rage and finally decided he’d go for the jugular.
