Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(20)

“Well, Mike. As you saw, I wasn’t my best tonight. Not even close. I know what the team needs from me, and I couldn’t deliver. There were a couple goals I’d have liked back, then they had a couple good chances and just got the best of me. Obviously, those are saves I need to be making if we’re going to make a run this year.”

“Yeah,” the slightly round, middle-aged man replies. “Thank you. Follow up to that. It seems this is the new normal for you. Wondering what you’re doing to change things up? This year feels do or die for the team. Lots of people would love some insight into your training plans to get yourself back into fighting shape.”

I roll my lips together and nod, feeling a drop of water roll off the long ends of my hair down the back of my neck. My coach, Roman, glances at me but says nothing. He knows I hate this shit at the best of times, and he’s ready to jump in if necessary.

“Specifics are something that stay between me and the training staff. But I assure you I’m working hard. No one wants this more than I do. Definitely putting in the time with the sports psychologist. I’ll be refocusing on my mental game in the coming weeks. I can tell you that much.”

And it’s not a lie. My mental game is trash right now. I thought playing would provide me a distraction, but I should have listened to Sloane. If I had, I wouldn’t have let my team down this way.

“Pardon my saying so, but it almost seems like you might be a little too comfortable in the long contract you just signed.”

I blink at the man before me. The one who looks like he hasn’t exercised in years, let alone played any sport at an elite level in his entire life.

“Well, then. With your permission, Mike, I’m going to”—I hike a thumb over my shoulder—“take off and get to work on my training. Try to get myself a little more uncomfortable for you.”

I rise from the plastic folding chair and stand tall, hearing Roman jump in with some comment about keeping questions respectful. But I don’t really care. Fuck Mike and fuck this press conference.

I need out.

One quick stop in the dressing room and I have my bag and car keys. I’m almost out the door without saying anything. I just want to lick my wounds in private, but the guys deserve more. They deserve an explanation.

I turn, gripping the doorframe, eyeing the room. “Guys. I’m sorry. I’ve been an asshole these last several games,” I announce to my teammates still mulling around. I don’t talk much, but when I do, they listen. “My brother, the one in the military, went missing in action last week, and my head is fucked-up. You all deserve better from me. And I want you to know that I’m working on it.”

Heads snap up around the room. The silence is deafening.

“Jesus, Gervais.” With three long strides, Damon is pulling me into a hug, slapping me on the back, and the other guys are crowding in with concern painted on their faces. Damon steps back, hands squeezing my shoulders as he looks me in the eye and gives me a little shake. “You should have told us. Hockey is just a game. Family is family.”

“Jasper.” I hear my coach’s voice behind me and stiffen. He’s a good dude. But even good dudes have their limits. And he sounds pissed. “Let’s talk in the hallway.”

His hand lands on my shoulder to turn me away from my teammates, who all look on wide-eyed. I hear a joke about how I’ve really made Dad mad this time, and my lips twitch.

I shut the locker room door behind us and finally lift my eyes to meet Roman’s. They’re pinched at the sides, and his thick arms are crossed over his broad chest. Years in the league himself mean Roman King is still fit in his forties. Still a competitor.

Still remembers what it’s like.

“I don’t know whether to hit you or hug you.”

I mirror his position and glare back at him. He’s still got bulk, but I’ve got a few inches on him. “I would hit me if I were you.”

“Well, if I were you, I would have told my coach that my personal life was a heaping pile of devastating shit.”

I roll my eyes, feeling like a petulant child. “I didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to be treated like I’m fragile.”

A broad hand waves in front of me. “Spoiler alert. You are fragile.”

“Fuck you, Roman.”

His jaw ticks. “I’m gonna let that one slide tonight.”

“I didn’t tell you my shitty life story so you could hold it over me.” Roman hasn’t only been a coach, he’s been a mentor. He knows my childhood shook out poorly. He knows about Jenny. And he knows I’m an anxious control freak and that those character traits are why I continue to put myself in the net every night.

I crave the control the position offers me. It soothes me. No one to blame but myself when a shot goes wrong—which I know isn’t true, but it’s how I see it.

“I’m not holding your past over you, Jasper. This is me, as your friend, being concerned. As your coach though? I’m pissed you haven’t disclosed this. What the hell were you thinking, keeping this under wraps?”

I sigh raggedly, my exhaustion seeping in at the edges of my eyes. It smells like sweat and rubber here, and all I want is to be in the safety of my car, sitting beside a girl who is wearing my jersey and smells like coconut. “I’m sorry. I’ll get my head right before the next game. I promise.”