The Best Kind of Forever (Riverside Reapers, #1)(3)
“Coach?” I sputter, the air around me seeming strangely distilled.
“Hollings, I—”
Coach takes in my disheveled state, and then his eyes turn as round as frisbees.
“Please tell me that’s not Sienna Talavera’s bedroom,” he bellows, that one vein on his forehead pulsing with a mind of its own.
Who?
My back goes as stiff as a board when I hear that drill sergeant voice of his, like it’s a conditioned response. “I…I don’t know, sir.”
I’ve never heard that name in my entire life.
“Sienna. Talavera,” he reiterates slowly. Those behemoth arms of his are barred over his chest, reminding me how easy it’d be for him to squash me like a cartoon mouse.
I wait for him to elaborate, and judging by the death glare he’s giving me, I know I just fucked up. My hands are so clammy that I keep wiping them on my pant legs, my heart is galloping like a racehorse in my chest, and my stomach is seconds away from revolting the hors d'oeuvres I polished off an hour ago.
Coach expels what I think is supposed to be a cleansing breath, but his nostrils are still flared. “Son, Raymond Talavera owns the sports drink company sponsoring our team,” he explains.
Fuck me.
“Coach, I swear, I had no idea,” I blurt, desperate to temper the anxiety racing through me at warp speed.
“Hollings, this cannot get out, do you understand? If Raymond hears that you slept with his daughter, he’ll pull, and we need his sponsorship. We need the media coverage, especially with all the negative traffic from your fuckups.”
“I promise I won’t say anything, Coach.”
“If it comes down to it, the team owner will have no problem picking Talavera over you. Every player is tradeable, expendable.”
“Understood.”
Shit. I can’t get traded. I can’t imagine the rest of my NHL career—if I even have one—without my teammates. Not only would I have to move, but I’d have to somehow seamlessly weave my way into already-lasting relationships.
“And Sienna? Do you think she’ll talk?” he asks.
“I’ll take care of it. Plus, she knows the game.” Right? Sure I’d offered to get her tickets to the next game, which she clearly doesn’t need, but we parted with a hug. We both knew the deal going into the night.
“I—it won’t happen again.”
How have I fucked up…fucking? I’m great at fucking. If I wasn’t a professional hockey player, I could probably make it as a porn star.
“It better not. And I better see you working your ass off at practice tomorrow.”
I nod, trying to keep my nerves from catapulting themselves up my throat.
“Look, Hollings. I want to give you a piece of advice. And I’m only saying this because I truly want you to succeed, okay?”
That doesn’t sound good.
The redness in his face has started to fade. “You need to start cleaning up your act. All of these headlines are shining a negative light on the team. The bar fights, the constant partying, the waves of women, your hostility with the paparazzi. You’re not likeable. I can’t be babysitting you all the time. You’re not a rookie anymore. You need to start setting a good example for first-time players. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, my voice hiking a pitch louder than intended. Anxiety batters at my chest like exploding shrapnel, and I fear that my knees are going to give out despite my back being against the wall.
Coach knits his furry eyebrows together, deepening that wrinkle on his forehead. “I expect you to be a strait-laced hockey player for the rest of the season,” he explains, and just like that, my world full of carefree living and endless drinks has just been turned on its axis.
“And do not, under any circumstances, repeat what happened here tonight.”
THE FOOLPROOF PLAN
HAYES
I never signed up for a Dr. Phil session with my teammates, but everyone thought I would benefit from a nice, cold, hard intervention about my current antics.
“My life is over,” I groan, plopping onto the couch.
Me and some of my teammates live in a multimillion-dollar, Victorian-style home. The sun peeks in the eastern window at exactly eleven in the morning, and it bathes the inside in a wreath of warm colors—like the yellow of the ginkgo trees growing outside our home rink, or the brilliant orange of the honeysuckles nestled down by the riverbank, or even the crimson burning bushes peppered along the I-80.
The interior is arguably more beautiful than the exterior. The leather couch is big enough to seat the entire team, and its vermillion backside matches the intricately designed curtains sandwiching the floor-to-ceiling window in the middle of the room.
Rosewood chairs line the massive dining table, complementing a cedar fireplace that’s always running since the weather’s changed. And as if the ginormous flat-screen television isn’t enough, a crystal chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling ties everything together.
“Your life’s not over,” Bristol, our captain, says, bringing me a cup of what looks to be tea.
He’s been going through a weird grandma phase lately.
NOT LIKE THAT.
What I meant is that he has this strange fascination with chamomile tea, gluten-free cookie recipes, and crocheting.