Stupid asshole got charged with drunk and disorderly and was completely unashamed of his behavior. Grapevine news said that Keller wanted to install some harsher penalties, but our general manager, Callum Derringer, lobbied for some grace, given the horrific circumstances of the plane crash that killed the entire team, minus “The Lucky Three” who had not traveled for that game.
Coen was one of the three, but he sure doesn’t act like he’s lucky. In fact, it’s clear he’s overwhelmed with survivor’s guilt because he’s basically become a dick to everyone around him, including the fans. His popularity over the last few weeks has dropped significantly, and one way that’s wholly apparent is via jersey sales. He was a top seller for the franchise before the plane crash, not only because he’s a stellar player but because he was fun, gregarious, and cocky in a charming way. Everyone loved him. Now, he’s not even in the top ten.
More telling was his first home game back last night. Not only were the cheers for him muted when he was announced, but there were even some boos.
Not many, but they could be heard over the cheers, which weren’t as effusive as those for the other players.
It was shocking, especially from a home crowd that has nearly been blowing the roof off in support of this pasted-together team. If Coen was offended by it, I couldn’t tell. He wore the same expression he’s had from day one of the new team forming that basically says, “Eat a bag of dicks,” projected toward the entire world.
Coen needs to be careful, because while he was out, Boone stepped up big-time. He played two outstanding games and garnered an assist. He’s ready to take that first-line position, but Keller and Derringer aren’t about to give that slot to him permanently based on a few good games. They’re going to let Coen—the more gifted player—have time to work through his issues.
“I had a crazy dream last night,” Boone says as he continues to wind tape on his stick blade.
“Oh yeah?” I sit on the bench to unlace my running shoes.
“I dreamed that the standings came out, and there’d been some computer glitch for weeks, and we were really number one in our conference.”
I snort, because that sounds like a good dream.
“But then, the entire roster was glitching, and I never got called up from the minors to the team. None of us had.”
Sounds like a nightmare.
“Want to know who was really called up?” he asks, one corner of his mouth lifts as he continues taping. “All the ice girls in the league. Every fucking one of them were supposed to make up the new team, and their only credentials were that they could skate and had nice tits.”
I laugh at the weird turn his dream took. While Pittsburgh has never been a team to have ice girls—their football team doesn’t have cheerleaders either—many teams have them, and the crowds, especially the men, seem to enjoy watching sexy women launch T-shirts into the stands and clean up the ice when needed.
Boone shakes his head in amusement, rips the tape from the roll, and smooths the edge. “It was nice waking up to realize I still had a job and hadn’t been replaced by ice girls.”
Chuckling, I kick off my shoes and toss them into the cubby. “While we may not be at the top of our conference anymore, we are still in the playoff race.”
“Amen to that, brother,” he says.
I continue to pull on my practice gear, flipping through the stats in my head that will either launch us into the playoffs or send us home at the end of the regular season. The Titans were at the top of their conference before the plane went down. The league graciously instituted a points freeze until we were able to get a team back on the ice, which meant we stayed at the top once the new team was ready.
But in the last month and a half we’ve been playing, we’ve won precious few games, and some of the other teams are surging. We’re currently sitting in fifth, and we need to be in the top eight to make the playoffs, with only twelve games left to play.
It’s going to take every single one of us playing our hearts out, and a few other teams to either slow down or stumble, for us to make the playoffs.
No one in this league with an ounce of reason thinks we could ever win the Cup this year. It’s just not physically possible with the team we’ve patched together. It would be an amazing feat, though, to land a playoff spot. So amazing, that it would actually go down in the history books, and though it looks like our chances are slim every single player on this team has that prize in sight.
Except maybe Coen. I’m not sure he gives a fuck about anything, to be honest.
Speaking of the man, I look over to his cubby and see that it’s empty. He tends to slide in at the last moment, always dangerously close to being late. This earns him the wrath of Keller, but Coen doesn’t care about that either. He doesn’t take shit from the coach or anybody else.
He’s a walking time bomb, ready to detonate.
Perhaps because I’d been thinking about him, or perhaps because there are five minutes until we’re due out on the ice, Coen strolls into the locker room, his gear bag slung over his shoulder. He looks like hell—his hair is a mess, clothes are wrinkled, and he’s got a bruise in the center of his forehead.
As he walks by me, I ask, “You good?”
His head twists my way, and although his eyes might be bloodshot, they’re clear of any intoxicated fog. His speech is smooth and articulate when he says, “I’m totally good. Why?”
I give it to him straight. “You look like shit.”
Coen shrugs and walks toward his cubby but not before stopping in front of Hendrix Bateman, who is fully dressed and scrolling on his phone.
Coen pulls keys from his pocket and jangles them under Hendrix’s nose. He looks up in surprise and catches the keys as Coen drops them. “Thanks for the test drive.”
“What did you think?” Hendrix smiles.
Coen moves to his cubby, drops his bag to the bench. “Drove like a dream. Right up until I ran into the back of another car.”
“What the fuck?” Hendrix snarls as he steps closer to Coen. “You wrecked my fucking car?”
This seems to get everybody’s attention, and the locker room goes still. Everyone knows Hendrix was trying to unload one of his cars—a Porsche he rarely drove.
Coen tilts his head and looks Hendrix in the eye, not an ounce of remorse or apology. “I don’t understand what the big deal is. Insurance will cover it, and I’ll pay the deductible.”
“Did you hurt anybody?” Hendrix growls, taking another step and getting in Coen’s face. Coen straightens up, angles toward him, and pushes out his chest.
“How the fuck would I know if I hurt anyone?”
“You are an unbelievable prick,” Hendrix yells, giving Coen a push to his shoulder.
Immediately, everyone jumps in and pulls the guys apart before they can throw fists.
And then Coen does something I’ll never forget. He shakes off the guys who are holding him and growls, “I’m cool. Let me go.” They step back cautiously. Coen then spreads his arms and does a slow three-sixty, taking note of everybody watching him. He knows he has the attention of the room, and his next words are meant to make clear exactly how he feels. He laughs… a bit maniacal, in my opinion. “Why’s everybody so dour looking? It’s a lovely fucking day. I’m alive. Alive, breathing, and not a puddle of bone and blood and gore splattered on the tarmac.”