Gage (Pittsburgh Titans 3)

“Amen to that, brother,” he says.

I continue to pull on my practice gear, flipping through the stats in my head that will either launch us into the playoffs or send us home at the end of the regular season. The Titans were at the top of their conference before the plane went down. The league graciously instituted a points freeze until we were able to get a team back on the ice, which meant we stayed at the top once the new team was ready.

But in the last month and a half we’ve been playing, we’ve won precious few games, and some of the other teams are surging. We’re currently sitting in fifth, and we need to be in the top eight to make the playoffs, with only twelve games left to play.

It’s going to take every single one of us playing our hearts out, and a few other teams to either slow down or stumble, for us to make the playoffs.

No one in this league with an ounce of reason thinks we could ever win the Cup this year. It’s just not physically possible with the team we’ve patched together. It would be an amazing feat, though, to land a playoff spot. So amazing, that it would actually go down in the history books, and though it looks like our chances are slim every single player on this team has that prize in sight.

Except maybe Coen. I’m not sure he gives a fuck about anything, to be honest.

Speaking of the man, I look over to his cubby and see that it’s empty. He tends to slide in at the last moment, always dangerously close to being late. This earns him the wrath of Keller, but Coen doesn’t care about that either. He doesn’t take shit from the coach or anybody else.

He’s a walking time bomb, ready to detonate.

Perhaps because I’d been thinking about him, or perhaps because there are five minutes until we’re due out on the ice, Coen strolls into the locker room, his gear bag slung over his shoulder. He looks like hell—his hair is a mess, clothes are wrinkled, and he’s got a bruise in the center of his forehead.

As he walks by me, I ask, “You good?”

His head twists my way, and although his eyes might be bloodshot, they’re clear of any intoxicated fog. His speech is smooth and articulate when he says, “I’m totally good. Why?”

I give it to him straight. “You look like shit.”

Coen shrugs and walks toward his cubby but not before stopping in front of Hendrix Bateman, who is fully dressed and scrolling on his phone.

Coen pulls keys from his pocket and jangles them under Hendrix’s nose. He looks up in surprise and catches the keys as Coen drops them. “Thanks for the test drive.”

“What did you think?” Hendrix smiles.

Coen moves to his cubby, drops his bag to the bench. “Drove like a dream. Right up until I ran into the back of another car.”

“What the fuck?” Hendrix snarls as he steps closer to Coen. “You wrecked my fucking car?”

This seems to get everybody’s attention, and the locker room goes still. Everyone knows Hendrix was trying to unload one of his cars—a Porsche he rarely drove.

Coen tilts his head and looks Hendrix in the eye, not an ounce of remorse or apology. “I don’t understand what the big deal is. Insurance will cover it, and I’ll pay the deductible.”

“Did you hurt anybody?” Hendrix growls, taking another step and getting in Coen’s face. Coen straightens up, angles toward him, and pushes out his chest.

“How the fuck would I know if I hurt anyone?”

“You are an unbelievable prick,” Hendrix yells, giving Coen a push to his shoulder.

Immediately, everyone jumps in and pulls the guys apart before they can throw fists.

And then Coen does something I’ll never forget. He shakes off the guys who are holding him and growls, “I’m cool. Let me go.” They step back cautiously. Coen then spreads his arms and does a slow three-sixty, taking note of everybody watching him. He knows he has the attention of the room, and his next words are meant to make clear exactly how he feels. He laughs… a bit maniacal, in my opinion. “Why’s everybody so dour looking? It’s a lovely fucking day. I’m alive. Alive, breathing, and not a puddle of bone and blood and gore splattered on the tarmac.”

I wince as I scan the room for Stone. Luckily, he’s not present to hear the grim reminder of his brother’s death.

I know if he heard that, he’d probably kill Coen.

Expression going dark and flat, Coen brings his gaze back to Hendrix. “I’ll cover the cost of everything, even if I fucking hurt the people who I hit. It’s not something you have to worry about. And why would you be pissed, anyway? I’ll pay you the value of the car, and you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”