4. Dylan

Chapter 4

Dylan

May 17

DYLAN “THE BEAST” SAVAGE IS OUT OF CONTROL, AND IT COULD COST THE PEAKS THE CHAMPIONSHIP.

After three turnovers at last night’s game against the Grizzlies, Savage was ejected from the game for excessive penalties. “He’s always been an assertive player. And we all like some aggression on the ice,” stated retired Grizzlies forward and two-time cup winner, Briggs Rigdon, “but Beast is veering toward dangerous.”

We reached out to Coach Perkins, but he has declined to comment at this time.

–Hot Goss Magazine

I adjusted my tie as the elevator ascended to the third floor of the arena to the athletic offices.

Coach Perkins’ phone call had been as terse as his expression last night when I’d been ejected from the game. Meeting at three. Don’t be late.

At 2:55 p.m., I stepped off the elevator, my shoes squeaking on the cream-colored tile hallway toward Coach’s office. No one worked Sundays, unless we had a game, leaving the Peaks office feeling like a ghost town. Normally humming with the sound of voices, phones, and electronics, today, open doors led to empty offices with lights turned off. The silence was unnerving.

Except for my uncomfortable leather dress shoes, loudly announcing my arrival.

My gut churned. I knew I’d gone too far the second Bret and Gage pulled me away from the fight. A little skirmish on the ice might get me a penalty, but it got the crowd riled up in a way that fed into our energy. I hadn’t realized this had veered past skirmish into all-out fight until I came out of whatever haze I’d been in when the Grizzly player had mentioned Shiloh.

My jaw tightened. Maybe I hadn’t gone far enough.

I knocked, my knuckles raw and stinging against the hardwood door.

I’d take their anger like an adult—it wasn’t the first time I’d been chewed out by a coach, and it wouldn’t be the last—and then we could both go about our day. Coach, to his huge happy family, and me avoiding mine.

“Over here,” Coach called out.

I glanced around the corner to the lit-up conference room. Coach stood in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face as he ushered me inside. Every seat was taken with someone who had a title to their name. Mike Jacoby, the team’s GM, sat at the head of the table, and to his left sat the team’s lawyer and the Peaks’ media specialist. My agent, Harry, was on video chat.

I frowned at Harry. A heads up about this ambush would have been nice.

“All of this for a game ejection?” I asked mildly as I took a seat beside Coach. My fingers drummed against the table with the rage that simmered just below the surface lately.

“We need to talk.” Coach clasped his hands in front of him, his face as serious as I’d ever seen it. Not the angry serious I was used to. More like, tragic serious. My leg bounced as wildly as my fingers.

“Ms. Lincoln?” Coach motioned for the Peaks media specialist, Chrissy Lincoln, to speak. Ms. Lincoln, as she insisted we call her, was in her mid-twenties and with her buttoned-up cardigan and tight bun, she looked like she’d be much more at home in a library than anywhere near an ice rink.

She turned to me with a nervous expression behind her huge glasses. “Sports Media Company is threatening to sue the Peaks.”

I blinked. “Why?”

Gretta, the team lawyer, answered in her no-nonsense way. “Because you assaulted one of their photographers after our game against the Grizzlies.” She glanced down at her tablet. “It was not only destruction of expensive property but a breach of contract.”

Wait. This had nothing to do with the game ejection, but was because of the camera? He’d stuck it in my face aggressively, and after his question about Shiloh, he was lucky I hadn’t done something worse. “I didn’t lay a finger on him.”

Gretta met my angry stare without blinking. “You ripped the camera from his neck, and the strap gave him a leather burn.”

I stood, my hands balled at my sides. “You can’t be serious.”

“Sit down,” Coach barked. Conditioned from years of being yelled at by coaches, I sat, even if every nerve screamed to escape this room, run, and keep on running until my brain felt only a numbing buzz.

“This is bull—”

“We’re not done.” Coach raised both of his eyebrows and motioned for Ms. Lincoln to continue.

I clenched my jaw shut.

She clicked on her laptop, and a spreadsheet was projected onto the screen behind her. “Your sales numbers are down, Dylan. No one’s buying your jersey—and in fact, there’s been a huge influx of people returning it. There’s a petition going around online to get you kicked off the team. And …” She paused, looked to Coach as if for courage, and then turned back to me again. “You’re a meme.”

“A meme,” I repeated. Who cared if everyone hated me? I didn’t need friends. I didn’t need fans. I was just there to play hockey. Something I was dang good at—I’d made sure of that.

A reel began to play on the projection screen. It was me, looking unhinged as I smashed a camera against the wall, superimposed over the image of a set of bookshelves.

This one was captioned: “When an author kills off your favorite character.”

Slow blink. “I’m supposed to care that a bunch of book nerds are mocking me?”

“Keep scrolling,” Coach told Ms. Lincoln.

The same image of me smashing the camera, but with several different captions, followed: When you give your toddler the wrong cup. When you make the mistake of talking to your teenager first thing in the morning. When your teacher tells you it’s an assigned group project.

Over and over, I’d become the face of irrational anger.

“It’s trending on every video platform right now,” Ms. Lincoln said quietly. “And this next image is on the rise.”

She flipped to the next meme, and my heart sank. This image was different. A gut-punch.

It showed a group of pre-teens dressed head to toe in Peaks gear, shrinking away from me in the arena hallway as I stalked past. They’d gone from excited to scared in a matter of seconds. I hadn’t even seen them there.

This time, the reel showcased that video superimposed over an image of a dark, Gothic castle. “When ‘The Beast’ isn’t just a nickname but who you are.”

She flipped to a video clip of two commentators from Sports Media’s most popular sportscast. “He’s letting what happens off the ice affect him,” one of them said.

The other leaned closer, playing devil’s advocate. “Which is normal. Right? We’re humans, not robots.”

“It may be normal. But is it safe?” the first one countered. “Look at those kids, man.”

The haunting image of the kids going from excited to scared as I blew past them was shown again.

“That’s enough,” I growled.

Ms. Lincoln turned off her tablet screen, and the room was silent.

Coach leaned forward, his voice cutting through the thick tension. “We’re worried about you, Dylan.”

“Well, don’t.” I folded my arms and stared straight ahead at the wall. The only thing keeping me in my seat was how they’d react if I left. Between Coach Perkins, the GM, and the team lawyer, this was a room of passionate hockey fans and players. Hockey was my life, and I couldn’t jeopardize that by storming off and proving their point.

Mike, the GM, leaned forward, his expression intense. “It’s not just the reels and the commentary. The Peaks have weathered bad press before, and we can do it again. Ms. Lincoln is a miracle worker, and she can find a way to spin it positively.”

Ms. Lincoln swallowed hard and wouldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. That was really encouraging.

Mike continued, “It’s how out of control you are on the ice. It’s how you act like everyone is your enemy—even your teammates. Even us, when we’re the ones who have your back. Someone is going to get hurt, and it might be you.”

I had to choke down a scoff. Mike was trying to play it like they had my back? After this ambush? I slammed my hands on the table. “I’m in full control out there.”

“You’re not even in control right now,” Coach bit off, his face red.

The tension was palpable, the only sound heavy breathing, as everyone waited to see how I’d react.

Which was the moment my turncoat agent finally decided to speak. “Look, Savage, no one wanted to be the one to tell you this, but since I’m not there for you to punch, I volunteered.” He chuckled at his own joke, but no one else laughed. My hands tightened into fists until my knuckles were white.

Harry’s laughter petered off and he continued, “You’re done for the season. Go home, see your family, take time to grieve …” Blood rushed through my ears. “We think a break will—”

I stepped back so fast, my chair fell backward and clattered to the ground, silencing Harry. “We’re in the play-offs. You can’t pull me.”

“We can, and we are,” Mike said with the finality of a missile hitting its target. “Clear out your locker. We’ll see you in the preseason.”

As if they’d planned it, everyone bustled from the room while I stood there in the wreckage, my palms pressed to the table, my heart beating so fast I could die on the spot.

And who would care if I did?

A heavy hand gripped my shoulder. “This is for your own good.”

I shook Coach off. “Watching from the sidelines as my team plays. How is that good?”

Coach paused. “No, Dylan. You won’t be here at all. You’re on a mandated leave until preseason practice starts.”

The room spun like I was back in the ancient tilt-o-whirl at Winterhaven’s nearly-abandoned fairground, reaching the end of my endurance through rotation after rotation, but unwilling to cede victory to Shiloh, Hudson, Charlie, Lily, or any of our old group.

I stared at the table as if it might hold the answers, my words bitter as I spoke. “You’re going to lose without me.”

“Maybe,” Coach threw back tightly. His face was the kind of bright red it got when we were floundering on the ice, making stupid mistakes. “But I’m trying to hold this team together after Shiloh, and you seem determined to tear it apart.” He glanced away as if he couldn’t even bear to look at me. “Take a break, Savage. Get some help.”

“I don’t need help. I need to play hockey.”

Coach set up another missile. Took aim. “If I see you at the rink before the preseason, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

Target hit.

The front lights of the townhouse I shared with Bret and Gage were on when I got home from a twelve mile run. I winced. They were still awake. Waiting for me. We were all early risers, and during hockey season, it was rare to see any of us after nine. But they knew I’d been called in to speak to Coach, and they’d want to hear about it.

Word would be out soon enough anyway, but saying it out loud made it feel too real. Like I still stood at the precipice of possibility, but once the words were out, I’d plunge through thin ice into freezing cold water with no lifeline. Hockey had always been my lifeline. It saved me when I left home. And it would save me from losing Shiloh—if they hadn’t just ripped it away.

I bent over my knees and sucked in the fresh mountain air while my heart rate calmed down. A punishing work-out at the gym followed by a run at my top speed had managed to quiet my brain. But the effects would only be temporary. I had to face this at some point.

The door beeped as I punched in the code and pushed it open into the kitchen. Gage and Bret sat at the table, each eating a huge carne asada burrito from our favorite Mexican restaurant. Gage kicked a chair out in invitation to join them. “Ordered your favorite.”

My burrito was still warm, and my stomach growled despite the stress churning in it. I dropped into the chair and tore off the greasy wrapper.

“Long run,” Bret commented through a mouthful of steak and guacamole, but I’d known him long enough to hear the subtext: Take care of your body, Dylan. Our health affected one another. We were all on the same team. Or had been on the same team.

“Stalking my location?” I took a huge bite of my burrito. I was as hungry as I felt after a long game.

“Nothing better to do.” Bret finished his burrito and fished around in the greasy bag for another one.

I grunted and focused on eating. Bret had insisted the team share their location with one another, for emergencies. Apparently, this qualified as an emergency.

“Coach messaged us,” Gage said, and I started to choke on my food. He slammed my back a few times, and I finally got it down.

I set my burrito down, not hungry anymore. “Did he tell the whole team?” Why did it matter? They’d know soon anyway. The whole world would know.

“Not yet,” Bret said. “He’s worried about you, so he reached out to us.”

Some of the numbness from my run was wearing off, and the agony I barely kept at bay pressed in. “He has some way of showing it.” I pushed my chair back from the table, letting the anger take over.

Bret and Gage shared a concerned look.

“You guys agree with him.” My breathing was hard again, and the single bite I’d taken churned in my stomach. I wanted to explode, to throw the table over and storm away, but my respect for these guys kept me rooted to my seat.

“No,” Gage said emphatically. “We’re a team. We need you now more than ever.”

“I don’t know if we can win the playoffs without you,” Bret added. He paused, then continued, his voice quiet. “But there’s more to life than winning hockey, Dyl. We’re all worried about you.”

Bret loved to win above all else, so for him to say that … It was like a cold glass of water thrown in my face, shocking my system to the point where I could actually hear them.

“We all miss Shiloh, but you guys were like brothers.” The last few bites of Gage’s burrito sat uneaten on the paper, proof of how hard this conversation was for him too. He never left food uneaten.

My hands relaxed on the table, and I stared at my bruised and cut knuckles. They often looked like this during the season, if not from playing, then from the cold. “I don’t know if I have it in me to watch you guys gear up for practice and games every day, and not go insane.”

“You won’t be doing that,” Bret said. He pulled out a notebook and set it in front of me. “Because we have a plan.”

For the first time all afternoon, I let myself feel a spark of hope. Despite everything, these guys still believed in me. Still wanted me on their team. The image of the scared kids flashed in my mind. Maybe something did need to change.

“First,” Bret said, in his element now that he had paper and a Sharpie laid out in front of him. “Go home to Winterhaven.”

“No.”

Gage pushed his long hair behind his ears and looked up from the notebook where Bret had written: Winterhaven. Underlined twice. “This one is non-negotiable. You need to show Coach that you’re willing to try to heal. Going back home will show him that more dramatically than anything else you might do.”

“I could do therapy,” I offered as a Hail Mary.

“Great,” Bret said. “Because that’s number two on the list.”

“I’m not going to Winterhaven.”

“It would just be temporary,” Gage said. “Long enough for Coach to see that you’re improving, healing, calming down, not traumatizing little kids—”

“And get you home in time for the championship game.” Gage took the Sharpie and underlined Winterhaven for a third time. I nearly growled as I ripped the marker from his hand.

“Third,” Bret said, wiggling his fingers until I handed the marker back. “Improve your public image. Beef up your social media. Kiss some babies. Help a few old ladies across the street.”

“And fourth,” Gage added, “pray for a miracle.”

I deflated against the seat and rubbed the sudden ache in my left temple.

Bret ripped the paper out of the notebook and handed it to me. “That’s all,” he said. “A four-step, foolproof plan to get back in Coach’s good graces.”

“And back on the team,” Gage added.

“That’s all,” I repeated, clutching the paper in my hand as if they hadn’t just asked me to rip my heart out and serve it on a platter to people I swore I’d never see again. And who would happily eat it.

Gage scarfed down the rest of his burrito like everything was settled peacefully in his mind. “Two weeks. One month, tops, and you’ll be back here. That’s like the length of an intense icing routine after an injury.”

I must have still looked as resistant as I felt, because Bret stood and patted my shoulder. “What do you have to lose, Dyl?”

More than they even understood.