Once they’re gone, I dump my tote bag on an empty bench and shift my focus to the players. “We need to talk about what happened on the ice tonight, and no one is leaving this room until we’ve sorted it out.” Rousseau starts to protest, but I hold up a hand to silence him. “I don’t care if it takes all night. I have nowhere else to be.”
“What is there to talk about?” Kristiansen asks. “Fedorov lost his shit and cost us the game.”
“Dude, we were already trailing, so don’t try to pin this on Fedy,” Bates says.
“Fuck off, Bates. You know as well as I do that the first line could’ve tied it up if they weren’t so distracted.” Kristiansen shoots him a disgusted look, which is somewhat diminished by the ice pack pressed to his left eye. “It’s called momentum, maybe you’ve heard of it?”
“Okay,” I say, raising my voice to prevent any further bickering. “Can you tell me what happened, Fedorov? What caused the fight between you and Kristiansen?”
“Everybody knows they call him Bash because he likes to bust heads and he does not tolerate dirty play, but when he comes to Atlanta, all of a sudden he is angel? I do not believe it.” He shoots Kristiansen a dirty look. “He has been taking it easy all season, and when his old team comes to play, he does not care that they make dirty hits on Baby Glider? Where is the loyalty?”
“Let’s—”
One word. That’s as far as I get before Chromiak cuts me off.
“It’s probably still in New York,” he says, “with his personality. It’s not like he’s made any effort to be a real part of this team since he got here.”
Forey snorts. “Like you have room to talk, Chromiak. If the D was performing, Boosh wouldn’t be fighting for his life out there.”
“Are you serious right now? There are six fucking defenders on this team, and you’re calling me out?” Chromiak stands and jabs himself in the chest with his thumb. “I have more blocked shots than anyone on this team.”
Irritation skitters up my spine. Why are they like this? Is there something in the water at the rink? “Guys, it’s really not productive to—”
“Don’t fuckin’ drag the rest of us into this,” Hardy barks, shaking his head. “I know my job, and I’m doing just fine.”
“Yeah, how many shots have you blocked? Better yet, how many goals have you scored this season?”
Hardy climbs to his feet. “More than your dumb ass, which you’d know if you were paying attention on the bench instead of trolling for bunnies.”
“Guys!” Knox shouts. “Knock it off! This is counterproductive!”
They ignore him too, but it’s no comfort. Is Banks right? Am I not cut out for this? I knew working in the pros would be more intense than working with college athletes, but this is ridiculous.
“Fuck this,” Kristiansen says. “I’d have been better off in the AHL than coming here.”
“Oh, please. That’s the biggest load of horseshit I’ve ever heard,” Dvorak says, rolling his eyes. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid to put the hammer down on your old team.”
“I’d say it’s less of a hammer and more of a Zamboni,” McGinnis says, smirking.
Kristiansen whirls on him. “And that’s why you’re constantly targeted! Chirp all you want, but you better be able to back it up on the ice, because this isn’t the NCAA.”
“Hey!” Knox leaps to his feet and jabs a finger toward Kristiansen. “I don’t give a shit what Ginny said on the ice. There was no call for the hits he took tonight. He could’ve been seriously injured, and that is not fucking acceptable.”
“Exactly!” McGinnis says, crossing his arms and looking far too smug. “Besides, be so for real, they’re targeting me because I was the number one draft pick and my moves are smooth as hell.”
As if on cue, the room erupts. It’s total chaos. I don’t even know who’s shouting. Maybe all of them. Insults fly, and when they start shoving one another, it hits me: I’m failing.
I am failing at the job I love. No matter what I try, I can’t get through to these guys. My father is disappointed. My boss hates me. And I can’t even be in a relationship with the man I want because I’m too invested in a job that I. Am. Failing. At.
I press the tips of my fingers to my temples. I did not go to school for six years or bust my ass day in and day out swallowing snide comments from misogynistic creeps to have it all blow up in my face now.
Anger bubbles up from the pit of my stomach. This is not okay. None of this is okay.Iam not okay. Angry tears sting the backs of my eyes, and when they spill over, streaming down my cheeks, it only makes me madder.
I grab the closest thing to me—a puck—and hurl it with a feral scream. It bounces off the locker room door with a thud and lands on the floor.
God, that felt good.
I swipe the tears from my cheeks. Then I take another puck from the bucket and throw it with all my might.