Rebound (Seattle Steelheads #1)(16)

“Where the fuck is your head today?”

“Sorry, Coach.” I put up a gloved hand. “I’m—”

“Rhetorical question, dumbshit. Just get your shit together and play like a pro. This isn’t the pee-wee league.”

I gritted my teeth. “Will do, Coach. Sorry.”

To my surprise, the harsh lines in his face softened a little, as did the anger in his eyes. Lowering his voice, he said, “Is this about what happened last night?”

I flinched and avoided his gaze. I needed Coach to yell at me and tell me to get my head out of my ass, not put on Dad Mode and make sure I was good. Because I wasn’t good, and I didn’t want anyone on the team—least of all Coach—knowing about it. “I’m fine. It was a rough night, but I’m—”

“Then get your ass out there and put some pucks in the net, for Christ’s sake,” he snapped.

I jumped. Son of a bitch. I wanted Coach to yell at me, and I was used to Coach yelling at me, but now it made me jump like a beaten dog.

And he went right back to concerned dad. His hand was heavy on my shoulder, even through my pads. “Asher, is there—”

“I’m good,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’m just having an off day. I’ll get my shit together.”

I didn’t wait for another question or a dismissal—I skated away, gripping my stick tighter than I needed to because I was afraid my hands might start shaking. The season opener was coming up fast, and like hell would I give commentators any ammo to suggest I wasn’t playing for real. When I had off games, there were some particular commentators who always had some theories about how I was “getting too soft” or “seemed to be running low on testosterone.”

Funny how they never made those remarks, least of all with the same smirk in their voices, about my heterosexual teammates. They had plenty to say about the other players, but their criticism of me always managed to be laced with the implication that I wasn’t man enough to play hockey.

I’ll show you testosterone, you homophobic jackwagons.

Yeah. Like that would help. I had yet to go a season without fighting on the ice, and they even managed to twist that around into me being too emotional. One commentator got suspended briefly and had to apologize for suggesting on air that maybe I shouldn’t be playing during certain times of the month. I fucking hated those assholes.

And I fucking hated that I probably was too emotional to be out on the ice right now. I was jittery from last night. I was scared. Every time I saw someone up in the otherwise deserted stands, I had a moment of panic because it might be Nathan. At least we were practicing at the stadium instead of the rink in Green Lake. This close to the start of the season, we moved practices here, and there was a hell of a lot more security in this place than the other one. So the odds of him just strolling on in were low, but still high enough to make me sweat.

The worst part? I was actually hurting over him. The man had laid me out more times than I could count, and he’d literally broken a bone on one occasion, and I fucking hurt for him and our relationship and what the fuck is wrong with me?

Angry at myself and the tears in my eyes, I fired a puck at the goal, and Bruiser yelled “fuck, dude!” when it shot past him into the net. He called out something else, but I didn’t catch it. I found another puck and did the same thing, fury driving it toward the goal at twice the speed of sound. Close to that speed, anyway. Bruiser still caught it, and a second later, I had a third shooting across the ice in his direction.

Pucks and goals and my goalie’s cursing barely registered. I wasn’t even sure if I made that third shot or not. I was too pissed, because why in the fuck was I grieving this relationship? I should’ve been spitting on its grave. I should’ve been dancing on it. But no, I kept getting a lump in my throat over stupid things like a song on the radio or the picture of us in my locker or the sight of his fucking name on a piece of mail.

When I’d gone in to request the restraining order I’d ultimately decided not to get, just writing our names on it had made me want to break down. Then the officer had gently informed me that protective orders were public record, and emphatically said to call the police if my ex retaliated somehow. It had actually taken a minute for his warnings to sink in and scare me away from following through, because my dumb ass had been too busy getting teary-eyed like I’d just reluctantly signed a set of divorce papers instead of filing an order to keep myself safe from the man who’d—

“Crowe!” The shout got my attention this time. Probably because it was Coach Hale, the offensive coach, and he was right in my face. “Christ, Asher. Where are you today?”

I sniffed sharply, hoping like hell my eyes weren’t red. “Coach didn’t want me playing like I was in the pee-wee league. So I’m not.”

He blinked. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve been hot and cold lately, and today you’re a different player every time I turn around. What’s going on?”

I just choked instead of filing a restraining order against the man who’s made my life hell for four years.

“Just distracted,” I managed to croak. “I’ll…have it together by game night.”

Hale studied me. “You sure about that?”

Depends on what my volatile, violent ex does next.