The mic crackles with static, but his next statement is foghorn clear. “No comment.” He scans the crowd, and his guilty expression makes my stomach turn.
Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion. I want to kick the shit out of someone. I want to cry. This is the same as a complete denial, which makes me look like a total hockey hooker. I’m pissed.
It’s obvious he lied about talking to Dick, and just last night he asked me to move in with him. Again. None of this makes sense.
His answer feeds the vultures. “. . . The woman you’ve been seen with . . .”
The words just friends drop like a sewage-filled balloon.
Everything else is drowned out by the media’s questions. I’ve heard enough, anyway. If I have to listen to him a second longer, I’ll projectile vomit all over his fucking fans.
I push through the crowd, desperate to escape. I don’t look back. I’m sure I can catch my own humiliation on YouTube later.
I’ve learned an invaluable lesson today: Never trust a hockey player.
ALEX
I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I hate that I’ve done this for the sake of an endorsement. None of this is worth it if it means I have to hurt someone I care about. And that’s exactly what I’ve done. My remorse is a kick in the nuts.
From my right, Butterson yells, “You asshole!”
I turn in time to see his fist barreling at my face. It connects with my nose; the crunch and pop of cartilage come from inside my head. I deserve it, but it damn well hurts.
“Sonofa—” The warm flow of blood hits my lips and travels down my chin.
I’m so pissed. I’ve been an asshole to Violet, Sunny is talking to Butterson every day, according to my mother, and now he punched me in the face. Thanks to the stupid advice of my dickface agent, I’ve put my pride before Violet. All the fucking evasiveness is pointless now that I’ve screwed my relationship with her. I want to take it out on someone. Butterson is the perfect target since he broke my nose.
He grabs my jersey, intent on punching me again. “I’m going to kick the shit out of you!”
“Bring it on, sisterfucker!” I yell back.
Kirk grabs Butterson while Darren puts me in a choke hold and drags me away. Under a veil of red, I’m aware I’ve lost control.
“Keep your mouth shut, Waters. They’re going to string you up by the fucking laces if you don’t get yourself together.”
Swinging me around, he pushes me into the locker room, away from the media circus.
Despite my fury, I have the wherewithal not to lash out again. The last thing I want—in addition to having destroyed the one relationship worth pursuing—is to add games to what could become a suspension. One more and I’ll be benched for the playoffs and let down my entire team.
“Son of a bitch!” I clomp around the room. Skates suck for pacing.
Darren tosses his gloves on the bench. “Do you even realize what you did out there ? What would possess you to say something like that to the damn media?”
Butterson storms into the locker room flanked by our teammates. “I’m gonna rip your head off and shit down your throat!”
“I’d like to see you try.” I pull my jersey over my head and rip off my padding, happy to unleash some of the pent up anger currently ruling my body.
“Don’t be an idiot, Waters.” Darren shoves me back.
I’m not thinking clearly. In what can only be considered a reflexive action, I throw a punch at Darren. It only takes a second for him to lay me out, his knee at my throat. I don’t move because attached to his knee is a leg and a foot with a sharp skate at the end.
“What the fuck is wrong with you guys?” Coach yells, getting in the middle. “I’ve never seen a more embarrassing display in all my fucking years in hockey.”
Darren jams his knee into my throat, cutting off my air supply. Then he releases the pressure and stands. I roll to the side, gasping for breath. It takes a minute to regain composure and pull myself up. No one offers to help.
“Butterson, what’s gotten into you? The media is on fire with this shit. You mind telling me why the hell you punched out your own goddamned captain?”
Coach’s face is redder than I’ve ever seen it before. He doesn’t give Buck a chance to answer—it’s tirade time. Coach can go on for hours when he gets into one of his moods. Some of the guys sit down and throw glares my way. This is going to be one of the long ones.
“You’re supposed to be a team. We should be celebrating this win, not hashing out our personal shit in front of the fucking world.” He gives Butterson and me the stink eye. “No one is going to remember we won the first game of the playoffs or how well it was played. All they’re going to talk about is how the newest team member went after the team captain. It might only be a headline for a day or two, but you know who it’s going to stick with? Boston. They’re going to know we have a weak link, and they’ll take advantage of it.”
Butterson’s shoulders slump, and he looks at the floor.