The Game That Breaks Us (Us 3)

“And I’m about to go and murder my coach for telling everyone I’m doing steroids when I’m not.”

“Wait, your coach is the one that lied about the drug test? It’s not some fuck up somewhere else?”

My jaw clenches. “It’s him,” I say in a rough tone. “He’s fucking up my life. If I hadn’t gotten injured, he would’ve found a way to get me off the team then. This is his latest ploy because I’m getting better—good enough to go back.”

“I didn’t know that,” Grace says softly, and I swear there’s sadness in her gaze when she looks at me.

“Aw, are you going to miss me, Princess?” I mock. I know I shouldn’t have said it, but that’s what I do—I always fuck up a good thing.

“Only in your dreams,” she shoots back.

I grin. “You love me, admit it.”

She snorts. “Now you’re really stretching the truth.” She picks a piece of lint off her book.

We grow quiet and I let her study, but about an hour into the drive, I break the silence. “Thank you,” I say softly.

She looks up from her book with tired eyes. “For what?”

“For coming with me.” I swallow thickly, my fingers tight around the wheel. “This … This is hard for me. This whole situation. And I probably shouldn’t even be doing this, but I have to speak to the fucker and I know … I know if you’re waiting for me I won’t do anything stupid.”

Grace’s tongue slides out the barest bit to moisten her lips. “You’re welcome. I could tell you needed me, so I’m here. I’m here for you, Bennett,” she reiterates.

“Thanks.” I reach over and take her hand in mine, entwining our fingers together

“Bennett …”

“Yes?”

“You know no one can see us, right?” she asks.

“Yeah?” I say, a questioning tone to my voice.

“Then why are you holding my hand?”

I let go like my hand has caught on fire. “Oh, sorry,” I mumble awkwardly.

“It’s okay,” she says, and I swear she’s blushing but it’s too dark to tell.

We don’t speak much for the rest of the trip. I arrive at Coach Matthews McMansion in the suburbs a little before midnight.

“Sit here,” I tell Grace.

My blood is boiling once more. Coach’s shiny red Ferrari sits in his driveway—the man likes his cars—and I wish I had a fucking baseball bat so I could beat the car to a pulp. It’d be a shame to hurt a car that nice, but it’s tainted with Matthews’ filth so it’s already ruined.

I march up to the door and ring the doorbell again and again and again.

I’m not worried about waking up his wife and daughter. He doesn’t have a family anymore. Just an endless barrage of perky-boobed blondes since he divorced his wife two years ago.

I see a light flick on and then Coach Matthews appears through the glass in the door. It distorts his image, but I’d know the man anywhere.

He’s a legend. He played professionally as long as he could and was one of the best players in history—still is, I guess. When he couldn’t play any longer, he turned to coaching.

Before I became a part of his team, I revered him. I wanted nothing more than to be Joseph Matthews. The way he commanded the ice was unparalleled.

When I first joined the team, he was just your normal hardass coach.

But then things changed and I found out who he really is.