Reclusive Colin Grey is perfectly content with her ways of being holed up in her apartment working on her next novel. Recovering from PTSD and learning to manage her anxiety, her approach to life is on a day-by-day basis. Her perfect and planned day...
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"Braunter!" Coach Baynard yells from across the rink just as I'm about to head off the ice.
I turn around to face him. Connor and Logan do the same. He motions for me to come over and I outwardly groan. With a month away from the start of the division, all the extra dryland and morning skates have been kicking everyone's ass. Not to mention our nighttime practices, which recently have just been two hours of being yelled at by Coach Baynard and every other tyrannical assistant coach who somehow appear out of thin air. At this point—I fucking swear on Luna (my adorable fucking cat)—Baynard is just pulling these people out of his ass. Connor agrees with me but Logan is always going on about how many connections Baynard has. Kiss ass.
The rest of the team is already disappearing into the change room. Lucky fuckers. I just want to go home and faceplant onto my bed. I am absolutely not entertained with spending one more minute here because of the practice we just had. Connor and Logan look torn between sticking around and disappearing into the change room like the rest of the team, afraid to face another minute of Coach's rage today.
"You want us to wait?" Connor asks, gaze flicking between my face and over my shoulder.
Selfishly, I want to say yes. I already have a good fucking idea of what Baynard wants to talk to me about and I'm not sure I'll be able to keep my cool. I'm pissed as fuck and not only because of the shit show practice we had but because of what I think he'll ask.
"No, you guys go ahead," I say, but I hope for the opposite. I want them to stay anyway. As soon as the words fall out of my mouth, relief floods over their face. With a clap on the shoulder, they both leave. Assholes.
"You really gonna make me skate over to your ass, Braunter? I don't have all night." Coach Baynard shouts again. He has now advanced to the center of the rink.
With a sigh, I skate toward him, meeting him in the middle. I try to assess the situation but it's not easy when you take into consideration that Coach Baynard has three main faces that he makes and all three of them could mean he's indifferent, thinking, or about to hand your ass to you. I just hope that it's not the latter. More often than not, it is the latter.
I mutter a half-assed sorry when I come to a stop in front of him. He dismisses it immediately, not even acknowledging it. Coach's frown tugs deep at the corners of his lips.
"I saw you today, you didn't suck." How flattering. Truly flattering. Coach Baynard has a wonderful way with words. "Right now, you're my strongest center." I almost grin, momentarily forgetting my anger. He is very stingy with compliments.
Freshman year, we had some conversations about me going pro. Baynard thought that if I put the work in, I had a shot at playing in the big leagues if not a farm team for a few and then get pulled up. He was willing to work with me, get me to the level of someone playing in the NHL. That wasn't my plan though. Never was. He never pushed me to change my plans or reconsider. Instead, he respected my decision and never brought it up again.
