Be There | A Dwayne Robertson Fanfic ✔️

A Devestation

"Alright, are we ready for warm-ups?" Coach struts into the locker room, fancy suit and slicked back hair for our game against Iceland. I raise my eyebrow, giving Connie a strange look as I finish tying my skates. No one seems to notice my concern, however, because they're all complimenting Coach on his new appearance.

"Nice jacket, did you get two pairs of pants with that?" Averman asks, the only one who sounds even mildly suspicious about this whole getup. The team, of course, thinks it's a joke and starts laughing, while I roll my eyes at the lot of them.

I stand up, carefully walking over to Dean, but I overhear his and Fulton's conversation with Coach. It's an accident I promise, but I can't help but listen. "Have a good night last night, Coach?" questions Fulton.

Coach turns and looks at him, before returning to his paper, replying, "Yeah, it was fine."

"What'd you do?" asks Dean. I consider smacking him, because he can't just invade Coach's personal life, but I hold myself back and focus on eavesdropping.

Coach shrugs nonchalantly. "Ah, you know, I just watched some TV, went to bed early." His eyes once again fall onto his notes, scanning them intensely while the boys stare at the back of his head.

"But, not without a little dessert, right?" Dean adds, his Chicago accent standing out when he does. Dean backs away, while Fulton stands, going in the opposite direction, whispering, "A little ice cream maybe?"

With the two "Bash Brothers" gone, Averman steps to Coach, once again giving his opinion on his fashion sense. Not like Averman can really say anything about style. "Nice haircut. Did you lose a bet?"

Coach shakes his head as the team leaves the locker room, heading towards the slick and shiny ice. While most of us are skating around, warming up our legs, Goldberg and Averman are fooling around in the goal, a camera recording them.

Using his stick as a microphone, Averman throws his arm around the goalie. "Live from beautiful Los Angeles, welcome to the Junior Goodwill Games. Tonight's matchup, Team USA faces off against Team Iceland."

Goldberg rolls his eyes, smirking pridefully. "Cake-walk," he interjects into Averman's speech, watching his teammates skate past them.

Ignoring Goldberg, Averman continues. "We have with us Greg Goldberg, goaltender for Team USA. Greg, what is it going to take to beat these feisty Icelanders?"

"I think it will take a supreme individual effort by me, Greg Goldberg," he answers. What a cocky, little shit.

I shake my head as Averman grabs my arm. "Meg Portman, Team USA, how do you feel about tonight's matchup?"

I glare at him while yanking my arm from his grasp. "Shut up." I move away from them, going towards the bench, not without an eyeroll, however.

A whistle blows behind me, a referee skating behind the two immature boys. "Let's play hockey, guys."

"Okay, cut it," Averman motions with his hand for the cameraman to stop filming. The two skate away, joining the rest of us at the Team USA bench.

We huddle together, Coach telling us what he wanted us to do and all that crap. Frankly, I'm still not in the best mood from the incident yesterday, so everything is currently pissing me off. We stick our hands in, cheering, then the starters jump onto the ice, myself included.

I hear Coach throw a "Good luck there, Coach," over to Stansson, but he rejects it rudely, as if he was never taught any sort of manners.

Jesse heads to the middle of the ice for the faceoff, mumbling something with the Iceland player. The ref throws the puck down, and while Jesse and the Icelander are fighting for it, Dean swoops in, shoving the opponent onto the ground.