Breaking The Rules

Chapter 32

Second wasn't good enough, and Coach Miller sure wanted us to remember that.

    Sweat dripped down the nape of my neck as I stumbled over to my locker. The equipment that was once a second skin was now weighing me down. Practice had been brutal. Coach ran us through relentless drills until every muscle in my legs burned and my lungs blazed like charred ash.

    I dropped to the bench, rubbing a towel on my head. A few drops of sweat evaded my poor attempt at drying myself off and fell to the floor in front of me. I couldn't wait to hit the showers.

    Standing, I peeled the practice jersey over my head, only to be faced with Hendrix's nameplate on the neighbouring locker. My already negative mood soured even more. While he seemed to be doing better, there was no word about when he'd be returning to the ice.

    Or if he'd be coming back at all.

    "Sousa!" Coach's voice cut through the clatter. He had made his way in from the rink and was standing by his door, his expression unreadable. "In my office," he said curtly before turning and walking away.

    The frown lines I had already been wearing deepened. From the corner of my eye I could see Booker trying to exchange looks with me, eyebrows raised, but I didn't feed into it. I had no idea why Coach would hold an impromptu meeting with me after practice. So instead, I ignored him and exchanged a quick look with McKinley instead. If anyone had insider information about what went on in Coach Miller's head, it would be him. But all my teammate could do was shrug his head.

    Fuck.

    Coach's office held the faint aroma  of stale coffee and hockey tape. The small space was cluttered with papers with a whiteboard covered in scribbles behind his desk. He had been leaning up against the piece of furniture as I walked in, his arms crossed as he stared down at the tiled floor.

    "Close the door behind you," he said, not even bothering to peer up at me. When I did what he asked he continued. "Take a seat."

    I did as he asked, getting as comfortable as I could while sitting on the worn cushion on the chair he had in front of his desk.

    "What's this about, Coach?"

    Without responding right away he made his way to his own seat. He rested his elbows on the wooden surface of his desk, steepling his fingers together. He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he looked down at the papers in front of him. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the rink's cooling system.

    "There's been an allegation," he said finally, his voice low. "Serious allegations of sexual assault."

    That statement winded me more than a slapshot to the chest. My pulse quickened and all at once it was as if I was underwater. "Allegations of what?" I choked out, hoping––praying––that I hadn't heard him correctly.

    Coach Miller didn't repeat it. I liked to think it was because it was as hard for him to say as it was for me to hear. His hard gaze flickered down towards the papers before settling on me. "Do you know of a girl named Mila Rostova?"

    For a moment, the floor had been ripped out from under me. Even though I was sitting, my body jolted as if I was waking up from a nightmare. Except I wasn't that lucky. I wasn't waking up from one. I was waking up to one.

    I blinked at him, my mind racing, trying to process what he'd just said. Mila? No. There was no way.

    "Mila?" I repeated, trying to swallow past the thing that had lodged itself in my throat. "There's no way."