07

𝑴𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒊

"Yeah, I understand."

"Perfectly, coach."

He gave me a small nod, satisfied, like the conversation had gone exactly the way he needed it to, and walked off the ice without looking back again. I watched the door swing shut behind him and let myself laugh once he was gone.

Sure. We'll see about that.

I changed out of my gear in the empty locker room, tossed everything in my bag, and was halfway to my car when my phone buzzed.

Ronan.

"Yo, where you at?" His voice came through loud, music thumping in the background, someone yelling something incoherent behind him. "We're at Fitz's, few of the guys are here. Come through."

"I literally just got off the ice."

"And? Come smell like a locker room, nobody cares. Live a little, Joslael."

I almost said no. Almost went home instead, replaying the whole Beckett situation in my head one more time before bed like some lovesick idiot, some guy who actually cared what a man in a coach's polo thought about him.

But staying home meant thinking, and thinking meant obsessing, and I did not need to spend my entire night obsessing over someone who'd just spent the last ten minutes trying to convince both of us that nothing happened between us at all.

"Give me twenty."

I swapped my gear for jeans and a hoodie in the car, and pulled up to Fitz's a little after ten. The place was already packed, half the team crammed into the back booths, Ronan waving me over like I couldn't already see him from across the room, some girl I didn't recognize laughing way too hard at something Brian said.

"There he is." Brian slid a drink toward me before I even sat down. "Drink up, captain. You look like you need it."

I did not argue with that.

A few rounds in, things were fine. Good, actually. Loud music, bad jokes, Ronan telling some story about his ex that got funnier every time he told it wrong, embellishing details nobody could confirm or deny at this point.

I almost forgot about the whole Beckett situation for a solid hour, which for me was basically a miracle, considering the guy had taken up most of my brain space since roughly midnight last night.

Then Marcus Webb walked in with half his team behind him.

Riverside.

Our rivals, and not the friendly kind either, the kind that talked shit every time we played them, the kind whose captain had spent the last two weeks parading Hailey around like some trophy he'd won off me instead of a girl who cheated because she felt like it.

Marcus. The dumb ass fucker she kissed in front of the entire crowd after that friendly match two weeks ago, right in front of my whole team.

I hadn't forgiven her for it.

Hadn't forgiven him either, honestly, though I'd told everyone including myself that I was over it, that it barely registered anymore, that Hailey Simmons wasn't worth a single second of my headspace.

Turns out that was a lie too.

"Well look who it is." Marcus grinned at our table like he'd won something just by walking through the door, his squad fanning out behind him like backup dancers. "Heard you got a new coach. Some washed up NHL reject, right?"

"Careful," I said.

"Or what?" He laughed, and a couple of his guys laughed with him, the whole group clearly enjoying themselves at our expense. "You gonna cry about it, Joslael? Or you gonna cry about Hailey instead? She said you took it pretty hard."

That did it.

I stood up.

I don't fully remember deciding to stand up, my body just did it, chair scraping back loud enough that half the bar turned to look. Brian was up a second later, hand on my chest, telling me to chill, and normally I would've listened.

Tonight I didn't.

"Say something else about Hailey." I wasn't even that mad about her specifically, hadn't thought about her in days honestly, but hearing her name out of his mouth like a trophy he got to keep bringing up whenever he wanted lit something in me I didn't feel like controlling. "I dare you."

He said something else.

I don't remember what. Doesn't matter. My fist was already moving before my brain caught up, and then it was just noise, glass breaking somewhere, Ronan yelling my name, someone's elbow catching my ribs, the whole bar folding into chaos around me. Chairs went over. Somebody's drink ended up down my back, cold and sticky and completely irrelevant compared to everything else happening.

Marcus got one good hit in before Brian and another Riverside guy pulled us apart, and honestly, credit where it's due, my jaw was gonna feel that one tomorrow. Somebody knocked over a whole tray of glasses trying to get between us, and the bartender was already yelling something about calling the cops before the first punch had even fully landed.

Sirens showed up faster than I expected.

They always do at Fitz's, apparently, some kind of arrangement with the place being three blocks from the station. I got cuffed before I even fully registered what my knuckles looked like, split open, throbbing, worth it. Marcus got cuffed too, still running his mouth even as an officer walked him toward the car, which honestly, at this point, I respected the commitment.

The ride to the station was quiet except for Marcus mouthing off from the other side of the car until an officer told him to shut it. I stared out the window and thought about absolutely nothing, which was new for me, considering how loud my head had been for the last several hours straight.

They sat us in a holding room, separate benches, separate warnings, the whole speech about how lucky we were nobody pressed real charges tonight. An officer tossed a bag of ice at me out of what I assumed was pity and told me to keep it on my knuckles.

I sat there replaying the last two hours, wondering exactly how a night that started with a text from Ronan ended with me handcuffed in the back of a squad car over a girl I didn't even like anymore.

Ronan got picked up too, mostly for trying to break up the fight and getting caught in the middle of it, which felt deeply unfair, but nobody asked my opinion on the matter.

He sat two benches down looking significantly more sober than he had an hour ago, staring at me like this was somehow my fault.

It was, actually. Mostly.

Then the door opened.

Coach stood there in actual pajamas, plaid pants and a wrinkled T-shirt, hair sticking up in three different directions, looking like he'd rolled straight out of bed and into his car without a single thought toward dignity.

He hadn't even bothered with shoes that matched, one white sneaker and one that looked suspiciously like a house slipper.

I almost laughed. Would've, if my ribs didn't hurt every time I moved wrong.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said, staring at me like I was personally responsible for aging him ten years in one night.

His eyes swept over the split knuckles, the ice pack, whatever bruise was probably already forming on my jaw, and something in his expression cracked just slightly before he caught it and shoved it back down, same as always.

I probably was responsible, all of it.

"Hey, Coach.”