Puck Drills & Quick Thrills (CU Hockey 5)

I do have the right office, then, and his reputation precedes himself. “I am. I’m Westly, Asher’s—”

“Assistant coach. I remember the dean telling everyone at a function—that you didn’t attend—how great it is to have a recent NHL player at the school. And then he actually boasted about how much they’re paying you while simultaneously telling me there’s no room in the budget to expand the math department. So yeah, I know who you are.”

Okay, I think his reputation is actually understated.

“Asher is—”

He cuts me off again. “Not suited for my class. He still has time to drop it, and it won’t affect his grades. He can keep his precious spot on the hockey team and pick up a different class next semester.”

“His schedule is too tight as it is. All he was asking for was an extra-credit assignment to boost his grade.”

“Not my problem. I don’t give extra credit. That’s what I told him, and I’m not going to change my mind simply because he sent his big brother to fight his battles.”

I cock my head.

“You don’t think I missed the same last name, Coach Dalton?”

“What is your problem?” I snap.

“You jocks are all the same. You think you can bully your way into getting what you want, take without asking, and demand exemptions because you can balance on skates and put a disc in a net. I don’t give preferential treatment to anyone, let alone those who don’t deserve it.”

“We’re not asking for preferential treatment. Just for some help.”

“Which is why you muscled in here without knocking? Look, I’m going to tell you the same thing I told your brother. I can’t help you.”

A big fuck you is on the tip of my tongue, but I can see the official HR complaint now.

“Why do you work at a sports-dominated school if you hate it so much?”

The question is rhetorical, but when I turn on my heel to leave, I swear I hear him mutter, “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

I know I’m more than a little tightly wound when Coach Hogan tells me to let up on the boys. I’ve been barking drills at the team for over an hour with barely a break to catch a breath. Or hydrate.

Asher seems to be the only one enjoying it because it’s getting all his anger out from his run-in with Eckstein.

The guys hit the showers, and I help the equipment manager, Kole, put away all the cones and nets so I can resurface the ice, but I need to skate for a bit first. I move around the rink, and the phantom sounds of a packed arena fill my ears.

Back when I attended this school, we were a good team but never the best. I only ever saw a Frozen Four my senior year, the year Coach Hogan first started at the school, and even then, we were knocked out in the first round. These boys … there’s so much talent on the team, so much potential. A few of them have future NHL prospects, and as much as I’d like to say I’m nothing but happy for them, a pang of longing stabs at me when I think about their futures in pro hockey when mine was cut short.

Then the longing gets squashed out by guilt because I don’t want my siblings to ever think they ruined my life. They’re going through loss and grief, and I’m here whining I don’t get to be a fuckboy anymore.

I push my legs harder and keep going until my thighs and calf muscles burn, my chest rises and falls in quick pants, and sweat drips down my forehead.

The ice beneath my blades, the sting of temperature-controlled rink on my face … I miss playing. It’s a vicious cycle. I miss my carefree life and then feel guilty for missing it. Over and over again, I put myself through this emotional torture, but I don’t let it show on the outside. I can’t.

It’s my job to keep my shit together. For our family’s sake.

And speaking of family, I realize I need to get home to relieve the babysitter. Last year, our fifteen-year-old sister, Zoe, would look after the kids until Asher and I got home from practice, but it all became too much for her. Amen, sister. A-fucking-men.

We’ve hired a nice recently retired woman who lives down the street to watch them in the afternoons. She makes sure Rhys, the thirteen-year-old, doesn’t run off, Hazel, the eleven-year-old, does her homework, and Bennett and Emmett, the nine-year-old twins, don’t kill each other.

Just an average day in the life of a single legal guardian.

Welcome to my hell.

2

Jasper

Why am I always the goddamn bad guy?

I push back my anger long enough to go over tomorrow’s lesson plan, but it doesn’t take long to bubble to the surface again.