Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Cam

We won.

Barely.

But we sneaked out the win and I wasn't the cause of anything that directly led to our team getting scored on.

Of course I also didn't do anything that helped the Eagles win.

Which is why Coach calls me into his office to talk before media.

To talk being code for being torn to pieces.

So now I'm grinding my back teeth together, sitting in the chair in front of his desk in sweaty undergarments, and listening to a lecture on protecting the puck.

And getting my fucking head in the game.

And pulling my fucking weight if I want to stay on the fucking roster.

"…I fucking mean it, Cam," he screams, spittle flying across the air to land in gross droplets on top of his desk and the plethora of papers and the tablet he's been shoving in my face. "You need to figure out what the fuck is going on in that big brain of yours and fix it. The team needs you and you're not doing enough."

Not enough. Not enough.

Right.

Exactly what I want to hear after my doctor's appointment this morning—something I squeezed in between morning skate and coming to the arena for warmups, hoping that this time it might be different news, that something might have changed. But it's the fucking same. It's been the fucking same for the last year and?—

"So get your fucking head out of your fucking ass and do fucking something out there on the ice. Or you're fucking gone come next season, Cam. I fucking mean it."

Normally, I'd be amused by the sheer number of f-bombs that Coach has managed to insert into this conversation.

But…

I'm really not in the fucking —no pun intended—mood. Especially, when this vitriol is coming from the man who's supposed to have my back, who's supposed to support and encourage?—

Ha.

Yeah, that's not the reality on most sports teams.

I'm a commodity, a resource to be used—even if Rome is trying to change things, trying to shift the back office dynamics so we're more of a family than just a group of guys spending nine months together doing the same thing.

Frankly, it's not working all that well.

Oh, we've been winning.

And we have a small subset of like-minded guys.

But we still have Coach. Still have Pat and his idiot crew. Still have?—

"Are you even fucking listening to me?" Coach screams, throwing his pen and nearly hitting me with it.

Luckily, I dodge, manage to not lose my fucking eye. "I'm listening," I say quietly, after he's finished his screaming fit. "I've got it. And I'll fix it."

"See that you fucking do," he snaps, slamming down the tablet he's been using to show me replays of my indiscretions on the ice (as though I didn't fucking know them already, as though they weren't already on repeat in my mind). "Dismissed."

Cool. Cool. So. Much . Fun.

I inhale. Exhale.

Shove down my anger.

Then push up to my feet and move out into the hall, nearly running into Pat.

Of course he's fucking here.

Wearing his trademark smirk.

Unfortunately for me, the fucker played great tonight—he seems to do better the worse I play, like he's loving every bit of my torment, like he senses the shit tearing me up inside even though no one aside from my doctor and I know what's going on.

It doesn't impact the team.

It's none of their business.

Except…it is impacting the team, isn't it?

A throb begins in my temple—or maybe it's always there and it just ramps up being in the presence of this asshole.

"Jackson," he begins, his condescending tone telling me he heard every fucking word of Coach's verbal reaming even before he finishes the statement. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of disgusting-looking tissues. "Do you need to go cry about it?"

Jesus fucking Christ.

I can't with this asshole.

I start to push by him, but he puts up his hand, as though to stop me.

"Touch me, fuck face," I growl, "and I'll fucking break it off. I don't care how many goals you've scored this season."

His brows shoot up. "Tsk. Tsk. So touchy."

Luckily, before he can say anything else—or I make good on my threat and break it the fuck off—Coach bellows, "Franklin, get your ass in here!"

Pat smirks and salutes me, disappearing into Coach's office. Though, he doesn't close the door all the way, and I hear Coach take on a decidedly friendly tone as he says, "Nice going out there, Franklin. I really liked your intensity and…"

I don't bother to hang around and listen to the two assholes jerk each other off, just haul my ass to the showers, thankful that most of the guys are gone—having either moved on to be seen by the training stuff or already heading home.

Unfortunately, most isn't all.

And when I come out of the showers, it's to find King and Rome sitting on either side of my locker.

Jesus Christ. I don't have the time or patience for this shit.

I grind my teeth together—something that seems to be my M.O. of late—and try to cheer myself up by thinking my dentist will be happy with the extra work. Then I move over to them, trying to make short work of getting dressed so I don't have to deal with this shit.

Shit , of course, being my friends concerned about me.

It's just…

I was fine.

Totally fine.

And then…I wasn't.

"What the fuck's going on with you?" King asks with all the directness of an older brother with a gaggle of younger siblings. My oldest bro, Carter, has that too—the innate candor and limited patience for bullshit. The difference is that King and all of his brothers play hockey, so he knows there's something affecting my game and it's not the normal ebb and flow of a season—something I could slip by my siblings without them really knowing.

They love me, love what I do…they don't know the sport like King does.

Like Rome does.

Who's fixing me in place with an expression I don't fucking like. It tells me he's seeing far too much. Again . And it tells me that he's running out of patience for my avoidance.

"Look," I hedge, "I know I've had a couple of rough games, but I'm tired."

King's mouth kicks up and Rome's expression doesn't change—their ways of telling me that they don't buy that bullshit excuse at all.

"It's true," I say. "My family was here and they're a lot, even when they're trying to be unobtrusive. So, I'm out of my normal routine and haven't been able to catch up on my sleep. But they're home now and I've got nothing but video games, gym time, and bed rot for the next two days. I'll be back to myself by next game."

King's mouth has flattened out during that verbal vomit.

Rome's still looks exactly the same.

Not buying it. At all.

But if I've learned anything from being the youngest in my big ass family, it's that to show weakness now is to forfeit all right to privacy and self-actualization.

They're already up in my shit.

If these two know something is really going on, they'll be so entrenched in my life that I won't be take a piss by myself.

So…I need to distract these assholes.

Who are my friends.

Who I care about.

Who are… fine .

All right.

Who are not assholes.

They're family, but still, I need to distract them so I can fuck off out of here, go home, and get my shit together.

Which is why I drop my towel—knowing they'll look away, that they'll give me a second to think—and start getting dressed. I take a breath, think fast, and ask, "What have you two got going on our days off?"

"Gym," Rome says. "But mostly recovery and Chrissy's got a climb she wants to try, so I'm on kitten duty," he adds. "Unless you want to come over and scoop those litter boxes?"

"No thanks," I mutter. "Though I can employ my feather toy skills."

King snorts.

I yank down my sweatshirt as I turn to him and continue with Operation Distraction. "What are you and Rory up to?"

"Recovery too," he says. "Just not at home."

I lift my brows.

"I'm taking her to the coast for the day," he says, softening in a way I've only ever seen him do with the woman he loves. "She's never been down to Carmel. Can you believe that? We'll go, soak up the beach for a few hours and eat some good food, and then I'm going to fuck her while listening to the ocean from our hotel room."

My mouth twitches. "King Bang strikes again?"

He socks me, albeit not that hard. Mostly because Kingston Bang has been known around the league as King Bang for as long as I can remember—the infamous womanizer who's finally succumbed to love.

He's heard the nickname far too often to truly be bothered by it.

"Then it'll be like that one"—he nods to Rome—"gym, fuel up, recover, and get ready to win the next game."

"What hotel are you taking her to?" I ask.

He tells us and then Rome asks about restaurants, and pretty soon the distraction of their women means that I'm able to finish getting dressed without an inquisition, able to get in my car, drive home, and walk into my quiet house without further delay.

I grab my post-game snack, and head for the den.

I just want to kill some fucking monsters, want to focus on anything except the game, on anything but the secrets that have been tearing me up, on anything except the news I got this morning. The final news—no more chances, no more changes, no more tests to be run.

That's that.

Now I just…need to deal with it.

Put it behind me.

Buck up and move on.

Which would be a little easier if it was something I didn't realize I wanted until too late.

I pick up the controller, start logging in to my game.

Then realize it's fucking late, we have a playoff game that can end our season in three days, and…

I'm using my toys to soothe me.

Like a child.

"Jesus, man," I mutter, dropping the controller and pushing up from the couch. I just need to cut the crap, go the fuck to sleep, and wake up with a better mindset.

Easy. Done.

Sure it is.

But it's something for me to focus on as I head upstairs, eat my snack, and then climb into bed.

Something for me to cling to as my dreams are filled with…

Nightmares.