All the Way (Hot Jocks #2)(9)

Whizzing past my roommate, Justin, I give him a shove.

“Who pissed in your Cheerios?” he asks, giving me a strange look.

Ignoring their comments, I push myself harder, faster, until my muscles are screaming and my lungs burn.

I don’t like being late to practice. And I hate that my brain is filled with so much turmoil. When I’m on the ice, it usually clears my head of everything else. Today, not so much. Today I’m all pent-up adrenaline and useless energy and thoughts of Becca.

I make it through the two hours, but just barely.

“Parrish, can I talk with you?” Coach Dodd calls out as most of the players hobble past him toward the locker room.

I stop at the threshold to the ice and give him a nod. “Sure. Here, or . . .”

“Go shower. Change. Meet me in my office in ten,” he says with a nod before turning away.

Uncertainty swarms low inside my gut. It’s never a good sign when the coach wants to talk with you in private. If it was praise for my performance today—which, let’s be honest, it’s not, considering I’m still spinning over my conversation with Becca—he would have said his piece right here while I was still on the ice.

No, he wants me out of earshot and away from the team. Which can only mean that whatever he has to say requires privacy because it’s not something I’m going to like. I swear to God, if he even thinks about starting our rookie goalie, Morgan, at this weekend’s game, I’m going to lose my shit. That roster spot is mine, and I intend to keep it that way.

I make record time showering and changing in the locker room, and then I’m knocking on the glass door to Coach’s office in under nine minutes.

“Come in,” he calls from inside.

I let myself in and find Coach Dodd seated behind his desk, staring down at his laptop.

Carl Dodd is a legend. He’s been the head coach of the Ice Hawks since Seattle first got a professional team twelve years ago. He’s fair and honest and highly respected in this league.

He’s also not a man you want to piss off.

Before becoming a coach, he was also a player. He played eight seasons in both Canada and the US for a handful of teams, and his stats speak for themselves.

But rather than racking up goals and assists, he was known more for his conduct during the game. The dude spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice some games. He wasn’t afraid to drop his gloves, and most disagreements were settled with his fists. Then again, he seems pretty mild mannered these days, so maybe age has mellowed him out. Who the hell knows.

“Take a seat, son,” he says, closing his laptop and giving me his full attention.

I lick my dry lips, suddenly wishing I’d grabbed one of those sports drinks on the way into this meeting.

Coach Dodd studies me over the rim of his glasses. “I’ll cut to the chase. You seemed distracted today. Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It’s not a complete lie.

He lets out a slow exhale and removes his glasses, then rubs the bridge of his nose. “I was watching you out there. You seemed off today, and I just wanted to check in.”

I press my lips into a line and shake my head. “I’m good. Honestly, Coach. I’ll be ready for the game against Montreal.”

He swallows, nodding. “I’m sure you will. But something was different today. I saw it, and I’m sure some of the team did too.”

“What do you mean?”

He folds his glasses and tucks them into his shirt pocket, taking his time before responding. “Normally, you’re the first one here, out on the ice before anyone, stretching and working with the younger guys. Today, Morgan was out there looking a bit lost before you finally arrived just as practice was starting.”

I swallow, the sinking feeling in my stomach coming back. “Yeah, I kind of had something come up this morning.”

He nods. “I figured as much. Something you want to talk about?”

I give my head a shake. That’s a firm no. Somehow I doubt he’ll understand Becca’s insane request of me. Hell, I hardly understand it myself.

“Is it a lady?” he asks, his gaze latching onto mine.

“Um. Yeah, sorta?”

Fuck. Coach is the last person in the world I want to talk to about this Becca situation.

“It always is, son.” He pauses, his expression softening. “But I’ve been around a while. If there’s one thing I know about hockey, it’s that the girls come and go. Even the WAGs.”

The acronym stands for wives and girlfriends, and it’s a phrase I’ve never heard Coach use. Probably because I’ve never given him a reason to lay into me with this little speech before.

“The game is where your focus needs to be,” he adds.

“I’m aware of that, Coach. The game is my number-one priority.”

We sit like that for a moment, in stony silence, before Coach clears his throat and looks at me again.

“You know the best thing about you, Parrish?”

“What’s that?” I lean forward, genuinely curious about how he views me.

“You don’t let anyone get into your head. You don’t let anyone distract you.”

I swallow, nodding.

“Don’t change now, kid. You’ve got a bright future here on this team, and in this league.”