“Did Coach happen to mention that he tried this already during pre-season?” I can’t help but say, snidely enough to make him frown. “I was paired up with Kelvin for the St. Anthony’s game. It was a disaster.”
“Well, you won’t be with Kelvin this time, will you?” he counters in an equally snide tone. “I’m putting you with Brodowski. And the decision is final—I’m doing what’s best for the team.”
Bullshit. He’s doing this to punish me, and we both know it.
“What’s the second thing?”
He blinks. “Pardon me?”
“You said there were two things.” It’s a struggle to keep my voice calm. “You’re rearranging the lines—that’s number one. What’s number two?”
He slants his head as if trying to decide if I’m being disrespectful again. Dude doesn’t even know how badly I want to slam my fist in his jaw right now. It’s taking all my willpower not to.
O’Shea flips open the folder and extracts a single piece of paper. The satisfied gleam returns as he passes it to me.
I scan the page. It’s a photocopy of what looks like a practice and game schedule, but it’s not for our team. “What’s this?” I mutter.
“Starting this week, you’ll generously be volunteering your time to the Hastings Hurricanes—”
“The what?”
“The Hastings Hurricanes. That’s the hockey team at Hastings Elementary. Middle school league, seventh and eighth graders. Briar has a community outreach program in which our student athletes volunteer to coach or act as assistant coaches with local sports teams. The senior who’s been working with the Hurricanes—she’s the left wing for the Briar’s ladies team. She came down with mono, so we need to replace her. Jensen and I think you’d be the perfect candidate to take over.”
I try to mask my horror. I don’t think I’m successful, because O’Shea is openly smirking at me now.
“It’s two afternoon practices a week, and game day is Friday at six. I went ahead and peeked at your class schedule and it doesn’t interfere with the Hurricanes’ schedule. So we’re all set.” He tips his head. “Unless you have an objection…?”
Damn right I do. I don’t want to spend three days a week coaching a bunch of middle-schoolers. This is my senior year, for chrissake. My course workload is massive. And I’m already practicing six days a week with my own team and playing my own games, which doesn’t leave a lot of downtime.
But if I object to this, O’Shea will no doubt make my life miserable. Same way he did back in high school.
“Nope, it sounds like fun.” I force the words out and resist from giving him the finger.
He nods in approval. “Well, look at that. Maybe you have changed. The Dean Di Laurentis I knew only cared about one person—himself.”
The jab stings more than it should. Sure, I can be a selfish bastard at times, but I hadn’t done anything wrong back then, damn it. Miranda and I had been on the same page…until suddenly we weren’t.
But I guess it doesn’t matter who was in the wrong, does it? Because it’s pretty fucking clear that Frank O’Shea is never going to forgive me for what went down between me and his daughter.
6
Dean
First thing I do after I stalk out of the arena is call my older brother. It’s Sunday, so I try his cell first, though there’s a good chance he’s at the office. Nick works long hours at the firm, including most weekends. I think he’s trying to impress our dad with his dedication to the law, and honestly, I think it’s working.
The cheerful voice that slides into my ear, however, doesn’t belong to Nick.
“Dicky! Yay! I haven’t spoken to you in ages!”
The nickname never made me cringe when we were kids, but now that we’re adults, it’s fucking mortifying. As far as I’m concerned, once my little sister learned how to pronounce Dean, our folks should’ve ordered her to kick Dicky to the curb. Then again, ordering Summer to do anything pretty much ensures she’ll do the opposite. My sister is a stubborn brat.
“Why are you answering Nick’s cell?” I ask suspiciously.
“Because I saw your name and wanted to talk to you first. You never call me anymore.”
I can envision the pout she’s no doubt sporting, and it brings a smile to my lips. “You never call me either,” I point out.
Summer goes quiet for a second. Then she heaves a colossal sigh. “You’re right. I don’t. I’ve been a terrible sister.”
“Naah, you’re probably just as busy as I am.” I head down the cobblestone path toward the back of the training center, making my way to the parking lot.
“I have been pretty busy,” she relents.
I hear a loud snort over the extension. “What was that?” I ask.