It’s seven a.m. when we touch down. There’s a text from the coach on Eli’s phone. It says to come to the rink as soon as we land. We pick up Eli’s car from the airport parking and drive straight to the rink. We don’t even stop for coffee first, which is a damn shame because I could use one before Coach chews my ass out.
When we walk into the rink, it’s dark, save for the light from Coach’s office. I rap on the door, and he yells, “Get the fuck in here already.”
He looks like he’s baying for blood. “Sit the fuck down.”
We don’t need to be told twice. Eli sits in the chair, and I take the one on the other side of the room, dragging it in front of his desk until I’m beside my wingman. “Coach, he doesn’t need to be here. This was all my idea.”
“The hell he doesn’t.”
“It was my—”
“Ross, shut the fuck up. I asked Boucher here to keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t flee the country, and what the hell does he do? Go along for the ride? Fuck me! It’s like trying to herd cats with you boys. You two need to seriously quit the fucking around and get your heads in the game. I got Gagnon asking me to trade the both of you.”
I gulp. Eli leans forward in his seat. “But you’re not, right?”
“No, Boucher, I’m not trading you—either of you—but I will. If you don’t get your heads on straight, I’ll trade you both so fast you won’t have time to grab your nuts before I cut ’em off and hang them from my rear-view mirror like a pair of fluffy dice. Are we clear?”
I nod, and say somberly, “We won’t let you down, Coach.”
“Yes, you will. I have no doubt about that. But you’re good for this team, both of you. Sure, you’re hot-headed and too quick to throw down the gloves, and come on, punching Gagnon in the face? What the fuck was that? If it ever gets out that there’s animosity between the team captain and his best players, other teams are going to exploit that. You two gotta quit thinking with your dicks.”
“Yes, Coach,” Eli and I say as one.
“Now Boucher, get the fuck out. I need to talk to Ross alone.”
Eli shoots me a wary look, but he doesn’t say anything as he stands and leaves the room. I have no doubt he’s standing on the other side of the door eavesdropping anyway.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Ross? You hide a damn country superstar in your house, tear my office apart when she leaves—which you’re paying for, by the way—and then you get into it with your team captain and fly to Nashville overnight for some girl? Just what the fuck are you thinking? I thought you lived for the game, son.”
“I do.”
“Yeah, well it sure as fuck don’t seem like it.”
“I . . .” I pause and rub my chest as if I could ease the ache that’s been there since Stella left, and then it dawns on me. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I’ve never been willing to sacrifice my career for the love of a woman. Jesus. Fuck. Love. “I love her, Coach.”
“Jesus Christ. You can’t love her. You’ve known her what, a week?”
“Three.”
“Three. Okay, great. And how many other lasting relationships have you had?”
I swallow hard. “None.”
“So, what makes this one any different? What makes her so special that you’d jeopardize your career, a career you’ve worked for since you were six years old?”
“It doesn’t matter anyway. She turned me down.”
He sighs and looks at the wall with the signed prints of his previous Crushers captain holding the Stanley Cup above his head. “You see that trophy?”
I nod. “Yes, Coach.”
“You wanna know what it feels like to hold it? To feel its weight in your hands?”
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” I say adamantly.
“Then forget Stella Hart. Focus on getting that injury out of the way and getting back on the damn ice. And for the love of god, Ross, no more impromptu trips to Nashville. Got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get the fuck outta here. You may be injured, but you and Boucher can still skate suicides. Get your gear on.”
I nod and leave, running into Eli in the hall. “Dude, suicides? You fucking owe me.”
Yeah, I owe him. I also want to hold him down and set fire to the hair on his nut sack for not talking me out of going to Nashville.