Page 120 of Don't Let Me Go (Don't Let Me 2)

“The kid looked up to you. I could see it from my truck.”

“He’s a sweetheart,” I say.

“Seemed like it.” Russ pats my shoulder. “If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He turns toward the parking lot but stops and looks at me again, his gaze filled with pride. “You ever need anything…you call me.”

He heads back to his car, and I’m left reeling.

37

THEO

With a deep breath, I tap my knuckles against Coach’s office door. It’s propped open with an old puck shoved beneath it, but Coach is reading something on his desk, too engrossed to notice me.

I clear my throat. “Coach?”

He looks up. “Yeah?”

“Can we talk for a sec?”

Motioning to the chair opposite his desk, he replies, “Take a seat.”

I collapse into the chair as if my body weighs a thousand pounds and rest my elbows on my knees.

“So?” he prods, when I’ve been quiet for too long.

“I want to date Blake.”

Leaning forward, Coach steeples his fingers in front of his chin. “You made it clear at last week’s game.”

“I know. And I was wrong to ask your permission in front of everyone.”

As stoic as ever, the bastard stays quiet but continues staring at me, making me squirm.

“And I’m sorry I went about it the wrong way,” I add.

“Apology accepted.” He looks down at the paperwork in front of him. “You’re dismissed.”

I stay seated, my annoyance simmering just beneath the surface, but I force myself to keep it in check. I didn’t come back to the arena after talking with Blake. I was too frustrated. Too amped up. To be honest, I was afraid I’d lose my shit on Coach and wind up spending the night in jail for assault. So instead, I visited Mack. He let me drown my sorrows in the beer in his fridge and forced me to spend the night to sleep off my hangover on his couch.

The next morning, we talked, finally opening up to each other. And even though it almost killed me, I told him everything, including how I’d screwed up with Blake. He’s the one who convinced me to come back here. To Coach’s office. He’s the one who convinced me to fight for my future––both on and off the ice––and to apologize for being an ass.

And so, even though the words taste bitter, I clear my throat and say, “I’d like to come back and play on the team. I shouldn’t have walked out.”

Coach looks up at me again, his expression unreadable. “You’re right. You shouldn’t have. It wasn’t fair to me, and it wasn’t fair to the team.”

My molars grind against each other. “You’re right. It wasn’t.”

“Glad we can agree. You also shouldn’t have missed the last few practices.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have.”

“Good. You’re benched for one more game, but if you can make it to all the practices, I’ll let you start against the Wolverines.”

It sucks being benched, but after the shit I pulled, it feels more like a slap on the wrist than anything else.

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