Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Flip offers to wait for me, but there’s a free lunch buffet, so I tell him I’ll meet him up there. I knock on the door to Coach’s office and wait until he tells me to come in.
He and Jamie Fielding, the GM, are sitting at his small conference table, papers strewn across it. He shuffles them into a pile and slides them into a manila folder. “Have a seat, Tristan.”
I drop into a chair and try not to fidget. “What’s up?” I don’t love their expressions. It’s like they’re trying to keep them neutral.
“We wanted to talk to you about the starting lineup for the opening game.” Coach taps his pen on his knee.
I glance between them. Yeah, this isn’t reassuring. All my gains from last season are slipping through my fingers. My value to the team isn’t where I want it to be. “You’re starting Hollis, aren’t you?”
Coach raises his hand. “It has nothing to do with your performance on the ice. Your preseason play has been top tier, and you’re on track to have a great season if you keep it up.”
“So why aren’t I starting the game?” I cross one leg over the other, then uncross them. I’m restless and frustrated.
“Hollis is strong at the beginning of the game,” Coach says.
“He’s been out for almost an entire season, and he’s been playing for Toronto for nearly half of his career,” Fielding adds.
I can read between the lines. It’s good for team morale to start Hollis on the first line for the opening game. He’s a fan favorite, and he’s part of the fabric of this team. He’s taken the Cup home twice. I nod slowly. “So I’m second line opening game?”
“We’ll put you on first line for the second game of the season,” Coach says.
“Okay. You know what’s best for the team.” My mouth feels full of cotton. “Is that all?”
“That’s all.” Coach and the GM exchange a look. “This isn’t a reflection of your on-ice performance, Tristan.”
“Yeah. I get it. I can go?” I do get it, but it rattles my confidence. What’s coming at the end of the season if this is how we’re starting?
“You can go. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s a big day,” Coach says.
I leave the office feeling worse than I did when I went in. I want Bea. I want to lose myself in the feel of her under me. I want her to look at me like I’m a fucking god. It’s Friday. She should be home in an hour. I can get inside her and release some of this tension.
I’m on the way out of the arena when I run into the last person I want to see.
“Tristan! Hey, man, can I have a word?”
I turn to face Hollis. “Now really isn’t a good time, man.”
He raises his hands. “I know you’re upset about tomorrow. You have every right to be.” The empathy on his face makes me want to punch him. “I know it’s shitty for you, and you deserve to start this game, but you’ve got a lot of great years of play left, man. Lots more opening games of the season to start. This will be a rock-star year for you. Just know this isn’t about you.”
“I get it. See you tomorrow.” I walk away. I know I’m being an asshole, but it’s the best I can do right now. I understand their reasoning, but it doesn’t make it suck any less.
Flip messages to let me know he’s meeting a “friend” for some pre-game stress relief. That means he’ll probably be occupied for at least a few hours.
I slide into the driver’s seat and message Bea.
Tristan
I’m on my way home and I’m in a shit mood.
Might be a good idea to vacate the premises if you’re not interested in being ridden hard
#1
Thanks for the warning. What about Flip?
Tristan
He’s occupied with a friend
#1
I’ll be ready
Tristan
You should probably visit Hemi
#1
Is that what you want me to do?
I compose and erase the message three times.
#1
I’ll take that as a no. See you soon
When I get home, Bea is in the kitchen. She’s wearing a pink lace bra and a matching lace thong. And that’s it. Her hair hangs over her shoulder in a long braid. She leans against the island, gripping the edge, her head tipped to the side as I stalk across the room. I stop before my body collides with hers.
“I’m not going to be nice,” I grind out.
“I gathered that from the text messages,” she says softly.
I clench my hands into fists. I should walk away. She doesn’t deserve this side of me. “You’re not going to like this version of me.”
“Maybe it’ll be my favorite.” Her eyes flash.
I hate how much I want her, how much I don’t want her to see me like this, how I don’t want to be this person with her anymore. I could fuck everything up. If she sees me at my worst, she’ll probably end this, and maybe she should. It would be better for her. I’m barely tolerable on a good day, let alone boyfriend material. I’m so pissed off that I need her, and she’s still standing here. “Last chance, Beat. You should really fucking run.”