I don’t care.
I don’t fucking care.
“Whatever, man,” I grumble. “We have this shit handled. You can crawl back to your fancy-ass house in St. Louis and leave us the fuck alone.”
His jaw clenches, one of his familiar tells when he’s pissed. In high school, I used to taunt the fuck out of him until I’d see that muscle tick. It’s how I knew I’d pushed him over the edge. He’s not a hothead like me. A master of controlling his anger. But once he loses it…
It proves pretty brutal on the ice.
It’s why his nickname from high school—Destroyer—always seemed funny on the perfect golden boy with his one-dimpled grin. That was until he Hulked out and literally destroyed your ass. We’ve been known to throw down a time or two in our past, both of us bearing scars to prove it.
He stands and clears his throat. “Coach Garrison isn’t coming back. I’m your coach now whether you like it or not. If you have a problem, you can ride your whiny ass on the bench for the next game.”
Holden cackles like it’s the funniest shit he’s heard in his entire life. All it takes is a death glare from me to have him swallowing down his laughter.
Shoving past Holden, I storm across the ice toward the locker room. Thompson can fuck right off if he thinks I’ll ever listen to him. I want to know why the hell he’s here. There’s a story behind his abrupt arrival, and I’ll dig until I find out what it is.
I strip out of my skates and gear, beating everyone to the showers. They’re probably out there fangirling over our new ex-pro coach because when I finish my scalding hot shower, they’re just making their way into the locker room.
Like a fucking douchebag, Thompson saunters over to Coach’s old office and uses a key to let himself in. I quickly dry off before throwing on some sweats and a hoodie. Once I’ve stuffed my feet in some socks and my tennis shoes, I pull on a Hawks ball cap, flipping it backward to cover my messy wet hair. After my shit is put away, I tug my backpack on over my shoulders and make my way into his office.
A derisive snort leaves me when I see him sitting in Coach’s chair, looking very much like a kid who’s not supposed to be in Daddy’s office. I cringe inwardly because even my inner joke isn’t funny considering he lost his dad a few years ago.
“Why’d you leave?” I demand.
His lips press together and his nostrils flare. “Can we not do this right now?”
“That sounds familiar.”
Hard eyes snap to mine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, you said the same fucking thing to me back then.”
We have a silent, heated standoff. He remembers as well as I do. When I confronted him about him taking the offer to go pro. In high school, we weren’t as close as we used to be, but it was always unspoken. We were supposed to go off to college, most likely separate ones so we could get the most play out of our positions, and then work our asses until we got drafted by the NHL. I always had these visions of us on the ice, him playing for the St. Louis Blues maybe, and me with the Michigan Wolves, the two of us showing the world how badass we were until one of us led our team to the top. Imagine my shock when he skipped ahead on our dream without me.
“Because you always do this,” he grits out, keeping his tone low so the other teammates don’t hear us arguing. “You fly off the fucking handle and don’t let me reason with you.”
“Abandoning your best friend is not reasoning. It’s cruel.” Familiar emotions from the past—back when everything was horrible—begin to resurface. No matter how hard I try to stuff the lid on them, they bubble over like boiling water in a pot.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “We weren’t best friends.”
Even though his words are the truth, they still sting. Sure, we weren’t close like we were, but our pact was an unspoken one. Our friendship was in a phase, because of me, but it would have eventually dug its way back out.
Only he didn’t give it time.
He left me in that hole to go skate off into the motherfucking sunset without me.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “That was mean.”
I shake my head. “Nope. You’re right. We were nothing. Not since…” My chest aches when I think about my brother Ben. “Whatever.” Turning on my heel, I start for the door, eager to get the fuck out of here.
“Bray, wait.”
I freeze, hating how young his voice sounds. Like when we were in middle school and he tried to comfort me when my heart was shredded to pieces.