2. Cooper

2

Cooper

I didn't want to be here.

John Walker's office was stuffy, cluttered with too many books and awards that meant nothing to me. A thick mahogany desk dominated the space, papers strewn across it like leaves after a storm. Framed photos of his family and his time on the Chicago Honeybears — big fucking whoop — lined the walls, mingling with degrees and accolades. The carpet beneath my feet had seen better days, worn down by years of shuffling feet and restless pacing.

Walker himself sat behind the desk, leaning back in his chair like he owned the world. He reminded me of a cowboy—rugged, with light brown hair and a stern expression that suggested he'd seen it all and wasn't impressed by any of it. His eyes, sharp and blue, seemed to pierce right through me.

"You're probably wondering why I asked you to come here," Walker began, his voice steady, carrying the weight of authority.

I shrugged, crossing my arms over my chest. "Not really."

John clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw twitching. "You know," he began, his voice dropping an octave, "after your little stunt in Texas, you're lucky to even be here."

I rolled my eyes, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. This spiel was old news. "Don't do me any favors, Walker."

His eyes narrowed into icy slits. "That's Dean Walker to you," he said with a sneer. "You're only here because of the affiliation this academy has with the NHL. To be honest, you should be in jail for assault."

"Fighting is part of the game," I shot back, meeting his glare with one of my own.

"There's fighting and then there's what you did," Walker retorted, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the desk. "What did Matthews do, huh? Talk about your fiancée— ex -fiancée, I should say."

My teeth clenched together so hard I thought they might crack. Ashley. Just hearing about her made my blood boil.

Walker's gaze drilled into me, those damn sharp eyes of his not missing a beat. "So, he did," he concluded.

I turned away, fists tightening at my sides. The room felt even more suffocating now. The walls closed in with each passing second.

"You're a liability, Sinclaire," Walker continued, his tone cold and unyielding. "This isn't just about your career; it's about the reputation of this academy and the league itself."

"Save it," I snapped back, not caring about whatever self-righteous lecture he had lined up next.

Walker leaned back again, a smug look creeping across his face as if he had won some kind of silent battle. "Get your act together or you'll be out on your ass faster than you can say 'Stanley Cup.'"

I wanted to punch that smug expression right off his face but restrained myself—barely.

"You'll be a washed-up has-been, getting drunk in a bar and telling stories about the only good ten years in your miserable life," he said. "Is that the life you want? You're a goddamn legacy, and you don't give a shit."

"I am nothing like my father," I growled through clenched teeth.

"Clearly," Walker said. "Your father had class. He played the game for the game, not as a way to take out his aggression on assholes who run their mouths."

"Just because you coached my father doesn't mean you know shit about him," I spat back.

"Maybe not," Walker conceded after a moment, leaning back in his chair. "I took this meeting because of my obligation to the NHL. I don't like you, Sinclaire. I never have. And that brother of yours? I'm waiting for him to give me a reason to expel his ass."

A smirk crept across my face. "How's Holly?" I asked.

John's jaw ticked, and his eyes darkened like a storm brewing on the horizon.

"What?" I pushed, enjoying the crack in his composure. "You want to hit me, Dean Walker? Maybe a few times?"

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk, but he didn't move from his seat. The tension between us was thick enough to choke on, and for a second, I thought he might actually swing at me.

"Funny," I said, a smirk curling my lips. "If someone talks about my fiancée, it's unacceptable to put them in their place. But if I even mention your daughter? Look at how angry you are, Dean. You want to hit me something fierce, don't you?"

Walker's face flushed red, veins standing out on his neck like cables ready to snap. "I know kids like you," he growled. "Though, at 28, you shouldn't be a kid anymore, should you? You've got a chip on your shoulder because of some childhood accident that left you scarred and ugly. You pretend you don't give a shit about it, but the truth is, you do."

His words hit like a slap. My fists clenched tighter.

"Unfortunately for you, Sinclaire," he continued, his voice like ice, "you're just as ugly on the inside as you are on the outside. And if you don't get your shit together, no one's going to love you."

I scoffed, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over my chest. "You think I care about something as stupid as love?"

"I know you do," Walker said, eyes narrowing. "You want to know how I know? Because Matthews spoke about the only good thing in your life. What did he say, hmm? That she was fucking around on you?"

My jaw tightened, but I kept my face impassive.

If Ashley had been cheating, I would have understood. Hell, I looked at myself every day in the mirror and saw the scars from when I was ten. Sure, I was tall and lean, packed with corded muscle from years of playing hockey. But my face? It looked like someone had tried to carve it into something unrecognizable and then gave up halfway through.

But she hadn't been cheating.

And Matthews knew it.

Walker's eyes bore into mine as if trying to pry open my thoughts and read them like a book.

"You think you can get under my skin?" I finally said, my lips twisting down. "You're not half as good at this game as you think."

His expression didn't change; he just leaned back in his chair again and steepled his fingers together. "I don't need to get under your skin," he said calmly. "You're doing a fine job of destroying yourself with no help from me."

I leaned back in my chair, a smirk playing on my lips as I watched Walker's face contort with barely contained rage.

"And that girl must have seen it," he said, his voice dripping with disdain, "because the second the NHL released you from your contract, she left as quick as a rat fleeing a sinking ship. Was it necessary to do what you did to Matthews? A few punches would have done the job just fine."

A growl rumbled in my throat. "He needed to know he can't talk about her."

Walker sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "You aren't wrong," he finally admitted, his tone grudging. "But those lines shouldn't be crossed. You're not easily rattled, Sinclaire. But the second they found something… hoh boy, they knew how to press your buttons. And now look. A goddamn Sinclaire, in my damn office." He shook his head, a look of disgust crossing his features. "I should make you clean toilets. Out of respect for your dad, I'm going to actually challenge you. Because I think you're more than this pathetic sack of shit sitting in front of me."

I cocked an eyebrow, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Should I feel privileged?"

He shot me a look.

Good. At least I knew I could get under his skin too.

"I told you, don't do me a favor, and don't do me one for him ," I added, my tone turning icy.

Walker's eyes narrowed. "What's your problem with your father? I know he and your mom divorced, but that?—"

"You don't know shit," I cut him off, my voice low and dangerous. "So I'd shut your fucking mouth unless you want me to show you just what I did to Matthews. You think I give a shit about hitting an old man? I don't. Especially not one that's fucked with me and my brother."

"Your brother was out of line," Walker said, his jaw tightening.

I fired back without missing a beat. "Maybe your daughter was."

"Enough," Walker snarled, slamming his hand down on the desk.

I leaned forward, my eyes narrowing to slits. "Would you look at that? Seems like you're just as needled as I am, hmm?"

"Is this really what you want out of your life?" Walker asked, his voice low but intense.

"Why do you care what I want?" I shot back, my tone bitter and sharp.

"It's my job to turn young adults into productive members of society," he said, his eyes boring into mine. "Contributing in a positive, constructive way. When I was your father's coach?—"

"Assistant coach," I corrected, lifting a finger with a smirk.

Walker continued, unperturbed. "It was my job to do the same," he said. "Don't you want to go back to the NHL?"

"I doubt Texas misses me," I said bitterly.

"It pains me to admit it, but you actually have a fanbase there, Sinclaire," he replied, leaning forward slightly. "You're not just a goon. You have skill. And you're throwing it away because you're a petulant child. So what if you have issues with your dad? If you have issues with the NHL or Matthews or even your fiancée?—"

" Ex -fiancée," I interrupted again. "That bitch left the second they dropped my contract."

Walker stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "What did Matthews say about her?" he finally asked.

"Fuck off, Walker," I snapped, feeling the anger surge inside me like a wildfire. "You care so much, go ask him. What's said is said. What's done is done. Get to the part where you tell me what I'm doing here so we can both hate each other without dealing with each other."

Walker sighed deeply, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples as if trying to ward off a headache. He opened his mouth to speak again but seemed to think better of it, closing it with a frustrated click of his teeth.

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest and staring him down. The silence stretched between us like an unspoken challenge.

Finally, Walker spoke again, his voice tinged with resignation. "All right then," he said quietly. "Let's cut the bullshit and get straight to it."

I gripped the armrests tightly, feeling the rough leather bite into my palms. The urge to launch myself across the desk and wipe that smug look off Walker's face simmered just below the surface.

"The only reason you aren't in jail is because of this," Walker said, his voice steady, almost bored. "This opportunity the NHL granted you. In fact, if you really gave a shit, you could work your way back to the NHL."

"By kissing their ass? I don't think so."

"Quite frankly, I don't give a shit," Walker shot back. "You're going to teach skating to a bunch of kids who are trying to get credit for physical education. And you're going to be nice."

"Isn't this a hockey school?" I asked, my eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Did that change since I attended? Why am I teaching kids how to fucking skate?"

"Not all students who attend are players," Walker said, his tone matter-of-fact. "You know that. You'll be provided housing and food. And you'll stay away from any illicit relationships?—"

"I'm not interested in kids," I said, cutting him off.

Walker gave me a pointed look. "These kids are eighteen. Legal. But just because it's legal doesn't mean it's appropriate. Hear me?"

Out of everything he was worried about, it was that? "Come on, Walker," I said, incredulous. "Even you know none of those little girls would want me. You've been staring at my face since I walked in here. You think anyone wants to wake up to this?"

Walker said nothing, his silence more damning than any words he could've mustered.

"You worried about the puck sluts?" I asked with a smirk creeping across my lips. "Well, you aren't wrong. They will sleep with anything in the NHL, won't they? Trust me, I've had my fair share of them. I don't need to piss in my pool."

Walker's eyes hardened but he remained silent.

"So what's it going to be?" I pressed.

He finally leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply as if weighing his next words carefully.

"Do your job right," he said slowly, enunciating each word as though speaking to a particularly dense child, "and maybe—just maybe—you'll earn back some respect."

I gripped the armrests of the chair, my knuckles turning white. "You think I give a shit about respect?" I asked, my voice dripping with disdain.

Walker leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "Yeah, Sinclaire, I do. Whether I like you or not doesn't mean you're not part of society. You're an asshole. And after what you did to Matthews? Hell, you're a monster. But that doesn't mean you have to stay that way. You have to put effort into it, though. You can't just bitch and moan about how unjust the world is and expect that everyone is going to coddle you. You actually have to man up and do something about it."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Oh, I know it's not unjust," I said, my tone laced with sarcasm. "It's fucking fair. Every good deed gets a consequence just like every bad one gets a pass, am I right? That's the way the world works. Look at me. I beat a player almost to death, and there's a chance I could go back to the NHL. Fair, right?" I scoffed, shaking my head. "This whole world is a fucking joke."

I stood up abruptly; the chair scraping against the floor.

"Sinclaire," Walker said, his voice stern. "The quarter is almost over. I'm having the students next quarter come in now and get accustomed to the ice so by the time classes start after break, they'll be as comfortable as they can. It won't be new to them." He fixed me with a hard stare. "Don't be an asshole."

I met his gaze, my jaw set. "I make no promises, Walker. I'm going to call it as I see."

"Tomorrow, three in the afternoon," Walker said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You better be there."

Without responding, I turned on my heel and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind me. The sound echoed through the hallway, a punctuation mark on the tense conversation that I was glad was fucking over.