Page 51 of He Has Pluck

“What’s your excuse?” He pauses while I give him a death stare. He laughs. “Never mind. Easy solution.”

I fucking wish it was. God only knows what he’s thinking as he heads for the other end of the locker room where he finds Rafe, and they have a quiet conversation. Most of us are quietly undressing, muttering to ourselves. The cameras come in the room, and it’s all I can do not to look up, not to scream at the top of my lungs for them to leave us the fuck alone.

Getting involved with Juliette fucking Sullivan, the coldest ice chip I’ve ever met, was the biggest mistake of my life. And yet…my body physically protests with a gnawing ache in my chest at the idea of not being with her, not sharing a bed ever again. Fuuuck.

Carlos follows her around the room, and he tries to prompt comments from the guys. He avoids me, and a surge of animosity overtakes my despair. I’m angry. I stand abruptly and pull off my T-shirt and then my jockstrap, not caring if I’m on camera, not caring about a goddamn fucking thing except getting my life back, getting back to hockey. I pull a towel around me, but it doesn’t matter.

Her camera avoids me. She keeps it above the waist anyway per instructions from Delaney that we’re making a PG documentary, and it’s bad enough there’s so much swearing. That’s what Juliette told me the last time we talked about it, which feels like a fucking millennium ago.

Coach comes in the room, and if it was subdued before, it sinks into funeral-like silence now. “I don’t have to tell you I’m disappointed. I’m sure you’re all as disappointed as I am. We were supposed to sweep this series. We let this goddamn game go down the chute on pure lack of guts. Lack of something. Get your heads on straight. You’re all prepared for this, and if you aren’t, you should get up and leave now.” He stares at me, and I force myself to stay put, halfway to the showers. The sound of spray shuts off, and O’Rourke makes an appearance.

“I sucked tonight, Coach. I haven’t been sleeping well, but I’m going to stay at a hotel starting tonight.”

Coach nods. “Anyone else have a problem at home or something bothering them physically—or mentally...” He pauses to roll his eyes. “Deal with it. Fucking deal with it. Look around the room and ask yourself if the rest of the team deserves to go down because you can’t put aside whatever fucking problem you’re having for a couple of hours and play fucking hockey like the pros you are. You need motivation? I’ll give you some. Report tomorrow morning at six am for films.”

He walks through and has some quiet words individually with some of the guys. I’m on my way to the shower, trying to keep my rage at myself under control when he taps me on the shoulder and asks me to see him in his office. Fuck. But hell if I don’t need a talking to.

It’s easy to avoid Juliette, the object of my self-destructive obsession, physically, even in the closed space of the locker room as I dress in my street clothes. Normally, I would have had Vicki work me over and maybe taken a soak in the whirlpool, but I let it go in favor of making my appearance at Coach’s office sooner rather than later.

Hitching the small team duffel with some personal stuff over my shoulder, I leave the locker room, mumbling a quiet goodnight to Finn and a couple of other guys. I’m not the first one out of the room, which is emptying fast tonight. I brace myself to face the media and avoid commentary, but luckily for me, they’ve latched onto Rafe, and he’s doing his duty as team captain. I walk fast down the corridor to Coach’s Garden office.

The door is half open, and I push through it.

“Close the door and take a seat,” he says, putting down his phone. He has no personal effects on his desk, I guess because he only uses this office occasionally on game days.

I sit.

He says, “Tell me about her.”

My gut feels like he just shot a cannon through it.

My head literally fucking spins, and I open my mouth but don’t have a fucking clue what to say. So I treat his question as if it’s rhetorical.

“I know it’s a woman causing you problems because it almost always is with kids like you.”

“I…how—” I try not to feel like a cliché and, instead, sound more like a cartoon character. Stupid. Fucking stupider than dirt.

“Process of elimination. It’s not an injury or death in the family or money. Of course, I’d know about an injury, same with a death in the family, and you’re too young for money to be a problem. You don’t have any bills or responsibilities yet.”

I snort. I have nothing else to say. My self-disgust tempers because his face doesn’t hold judgment or hostility. Right now, Coach seems more fatherly than anything, and I wonder if he knows my dad is gone, if he knows the circumstances.

“Women problems are the worst,” he says like he knows, and my rage at my folly fades. “All I can say is, whatever the problem is, you’ll have to put it aside until after the playoffs to deal with it. If she’s worth anything, she’ll understand and wait. If not, then she’s not worth it.”

“Simple,” I say, meaning anything but.

Doesn’t mean he’s not right.

Chapter Seventeen

JULIETTE

I wait for him, without Carlos, but I have my camera. He went to Coach’s office, and I need to film the post-reckoning. I need to ask about the game. The minute he steps into the hallway, I meet his eyes. The devastation stops me, but only for one breath. Then I raise the camera to my shoulder.

“What happened tonight, Jason?” My words are softer than they should have been. He gives me the finger anyway. I lower the camera and grab onto him as he walks by, stopping him. There are a few other guys still around with their families coming our way. Is it censure I see on their faces? So I take my hand off him and ask him to stop and talk.

“I have nothing to say.” He stares at me, his eyes accusing me, telling me he thinks it’s all my fault that he played sucky and the team lost. Hell, maybe it is. But so what? He pushes through the garage door, and I follow, giving Carlos a look to say if he follows me I’ll crush his balls.

We get to Jason’s Mustang, and he stops, leaning against it, staring me down with those dark accusing eyes, but I see the pain underneath all the anger. Is he hurting because of me? Because he cares? Shit. No. It’s about the game. Don’t be a fool.