Page 52 of The Jester and His Outlaw: Part 2

I do another sweep of the hallway to find Jensen, which isn’t hard because he’s so tall. You just have to look for the head bobbing over the crowd.

He’s nowhere in sight. Maybe he forgot about me, or they mixed up who was supposed to take over for Kai.

It’s fine. All I need is an escort to the rink. It’s on the other side of the campus, but if I move fast and keep my head down, I can go unnoticed.

I fish my keys out of my pocket and stuff one between each finger. Probably a bit overkill, but I want to be prepared for anything. A couple of friends from last year wave at me and just to be polite, I return the gesture, acting like I don’t hear them when they ask how I’m doing. They’re not people I want to talk to.

A long, covered walkway spans the gap from building to building. It’s open on either side and I relax when I’m the only one out here. Exhaling, I straighten my spine, thankful I carried my bag of gear all the way here this morning. Carrying it now would be a colossal pain in the ass. The guys have spoiled me as of late lugging it around for me.

The air conditioning blasts me in the face when I enter the rink, sending a welcomed chill over me. It’s not as hot outside, but it’s still humid and my skin is tacky from walking all this way. Doesn’t help that I’m wary of something happening.

I slip into the locker room, the stench of soiled gear and body odor swarming me. The girls are all in various stages of dress, the early birds already taping their socks in place over their shin guards. No one notices the captain is even here. They couldn’t care less. The team this year is a rowdy bunch, no one interested in listening to a freshman captain. They’re all bitter that Coach chose me instead of them.

Can’t say that I blame them. Some of these girls have put in serious work to get where they are, and I waltz in and snatch up the title. I tried to turn it down, but Coach insisted. I’ve played with some of the girls since we were young, even though they are older than me, but a fair amount of them came from high schools all over the state.

Practice goes as smoothly as possible. We can’t hit during the after workout scrimmage thanks to Layla and her chippy bullshit. Sometimes Coach lets us because we can’t hit during our games, but he put us on the same team so we couldn’t attack each other either way.

Like every other practice, sweat drenches my overachieving ass, and I’m breathing heavily because I refuse to let any of them think I am skimping on my title.

It does nothing to earn me any respect, though. They all still leave me hanging before I even have my debrief with Coach, all on their way to hang out and drink, get dinner at the diner where most of the school meets up on Fridays.

“Good work today, kid,” Coach says, but he sounds choked. He pats me on the shoulder. The look I toss at him is gloomy, and I swing around to make my way out the door.

“Yeah, thanks.” He’s not lying, it’s just that my teammates are bitches. I’ve never struggled so much with a team as I have this year. On top of that, I still remember Coach’s lack of pulling Layla off the ice during our last scrimmage.

Before I make it to the door, he calls me back. When I turn around, he’s looking at the floor next to my feet, a cavern forming between his brows. Nervous energy pours from him, and he grips his clipboard harder than I’ve ever seen him do it before.

“What’s up, Coach?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. Coach is a confident person, not one easily messed with. Seeing him like this sets my nerves on edge.

“I—I uh, there’s something else we need to discuss,” he stammers and clicks the pen that is clipped over the edge of the paper. The sound draws my attention for a moment before I flick my eyes back to the anxious man before me. What the hell is happening? I haven’t known him for long, but he scouted me on the high school team. I’ve watched him during his games as well. Coach doesn’t crack.

“Okay, go on.”

“Because of unforeseen circumstances,” he starts, then scratches the back of his neck, running his hands over his cropped gray hair. “I have to remove you from the top of the team.”

“What?” I shriek. “Are you kidding me? Unforeseen circumstances? What the hell does that even mean?” He shifts from foot to foot, then back again. His mouth opens, then shuts again. His brown eyes are pleading with me. For what, I’m not sure. Probably for me to just take the cut and back down. He doesn’t want to get into this with me, but I need a fucking explanation.

I’m the hardest worker on this team, the most dedicated to hockey here. I deserve to be the captain, and he knows it.

“We’ve had some complaints.”

“Some complaints…” I scoff, shaking my head. I know damn well what is going on here. Fucking Layla. My laugh is venomous and full of disbelief. I should have known. “This is just great.”

“Miller, I’m sorry. I’m just doing my job.” I huff a laugh, pinning him with my glare.

“Right. Your job is to coach this team, but I should have known that your pockets need filling as well.” Coach chokes on nothing and moves to straighten his shirt as he squares his shoulders, giving me every answer I need.

I flick my hand at him. “You’re still first line for the game tomorrow,” he calls after me.

I toss my head back and chuckle. “Of course I am, because I’m the best center you’ve got, but that doesn’t mean shit. Next you’ll have the back-up goalie filling in for me.”

“Miller,” Coach bites out in warning.

“Don’t worry, I know how it works. You need the money, just like everyone else.” I turn back to look at him. His face is pale, his jaw clenched, the muscle there ticking. I’ve hit a nerve. Good. The asshole deserves it.

For a moment, I wonder if Riggs is right. Are Jonas and Layla working together? I wouldn’t put it past them. They’re both slimy.

He inhales a breath of courage, tilts his chin up, and hardens his eyes. “You’ll be there or you’re off the team.”

---