There’s a slight queasiness in my gut as I glance at the screen. It’s open to an Instagram account I don’t recognize, but the photo in question features a slew of familiar faces, including my own. I’m not sure who took it, but it was obviously some chick who was at Malone’s on Thursday night, because the hashtags below the image are #HockeyHotties and #SexyBriarBoys.
I’ll be honest—I’m not really seeing the problem here. The picture shows the guys and me clinking our shot glasses together in cheers. We’d ordered the round of shots before switching to pitchers of beer. And sure, we’re drinking, but none of us are minors, and it’s not like we’d gotten caught with our pants down, hanging brain. We’re just sitting in a booth, for chrissake.
“Still have nothing to say?”
I raise my gaze to O’Shea’s. “This was taken on Thursday night. We were celebrating Fitzy’s birthday.”
“I can see that. And exactly how much celebrating did you do?”
“If you’re asking if we got sloppy drunk, the answer is no.”
That doesn’t appease him. “Do you remember what I told you in Jensen’s office the other day? I said no boozing, no drugs, and no brawling.”
“We weren’t ‘boozing’， sir. We just had a few drinks.”
“Are you aware of Briar’s policy regarding drug and alcohol restrictions for student athletes? If not, I’d be happy to provide you with a copy of it.”
“Oh, come on, Coach, you can’t expect us not to drink. We’re in college, for fu—Pete’s sake. And we’re all over twenty-one.”
“Watch your tone, Di Laurentis,” he snaps. “And yes, the other coaches and I do expect that of you. As long as you play hockey for this school, you’re to follow the rules set out by your coaches and the NCAA, and conduct yourself accordingly.”
“Sir…” I take a calming breath. But I don’t feel calm. I’m pissed about tonight’s loss and not in the mood to get chewed out for having a couple goddamn drinks. “My teammates and I conducted ourselves superbly the night in question. So rest assured, you have nothing to worry about.”
“Don’t get smart with me, son. We have a serious problem here—”
“No, we don’t,” I cut in. “I think you’re overreacting. We went to a bar and had a few beers. It’s what we do, okay? But hey, if this is something you’re truly concerned about, maybe you should run it by Coach Jensen and see what he says.” My mouth twists in a sneer. “He’s the head coach of this team, right? Shouldn’t he be the one to handle this ‘serious problem’？”
I regret the words the moment they exit my mouth, but goddamn it, I’ve had it up to here with this man.
Predictably, O’Shea doesn’t take kindly to having his authority challenged. “Chad has given me free rein over the defensemen, and it would serve you well to remember that,” he spits out. “When it comes to the defense, I handle any issues that arise. And this, Mr. Di Laurentis, is an issue. You will not indulge in alcohol or drugs of any kind while you’re a member of this team, you hear me?”
For chrissake. I’m done with this shit.
“You got it, Coach. Can I get on the bus now?”
Anger reddens his face. “You want to join your teammates on the bus? Then you’d better take some fucking responsibility for your actions. Acknowledge that you did something wrong.”
I’m seconds away from losing it. My hands ball into fists, but by some miracle, I manage to stop myself from hitting him. “Out of curiosity, are you planning on delivering this same lecture to everyone else in that picture? Or am I just special?”
“I plan on talking to all of them, don’t you worry. I chose to speak to you first because I was already aware of your history with alcohol abuse.” He lifts one eyebrow, and holy fucking shit, I almost let my fist fly.
My history with alcohol abuse?
Fuck that. And fuck him.
He knows damn well I don’t have a problem with alcohol. He’s just being a spiteful ass and trying to find new ways to punish me for what happened with Miranda. But this? Referencing the one time I drank too much—when I was a goddamn teenager—and using it to imply I’m a drunk?
I’m. So. Done. With. This. Shit.
“Thank you for your concern,” I say pleasantly. “It’s much appreciated. Really.” Then I leave him standing on the pavement and stalk toward the bus.