Heartless Player by R.C. Stephens

Twenty-Five

Wolfe

“Good work today, Wolfe.” Coach Cooper claps me on the back as all the guys head into the media room.

“Thanks, Coach. It feels really good to be out there,” I say.

“You were lucky this time,” he agrees.

We all head into the media room and take our seats as Coach preps the plays.

“As you know, we’re playing Harvard Monday night,” Coach Ramirez says. “Havenshire will be playing Yale. If we win against Harvard and Havenshire beats Yale… well, you know where I’m going with this.”

“We got this, Coach,” I assure him, and the guys follow by cheering me on.

“I appreciate your confidence, Wolfe, but we aren’t going to beat Harvard on confidence alone. We need to study their plays and players. We need to be prepared for everything, and that includes having Bozeman start if necessary,” Coach says, and my stomach sinks. Does he not think I can handle it? My knee has been fine. I don’t show what I’m feeling, of course. Having played hockey since I was five has taught me how to keep a poker face. I don’t let emotion rule me, not in the game. The key to winning is thinking smart. Or smarter than your opponent.

I remain quiet as coach goes on. He shows us some of Harvard’s recent plays, which includes a game against Havenshire. I watch fucking Berlin and his stupid antics and my blood pressure rises. No. I will not let him get a rise of me. The way to beat Harvard and Havenshire is by outsmarting them.

After watching an hour of plays, Coach dismisses us.

“Judd, stay behind,” Coach Ramirez says.

“What’s going on, Coach?”

“I just wanted to make sure you got your head in the game. I know you’re pissed about Berlin, and you have every right to be, but look at it this way. He probably wanted to put you out for the season and didn’t get his wish. He deserved a suspension, but you know how it is.” Coach Ramirez shrugs.

I do know how it is. Hockey can be violent, and certain refs aren’t willing to call the penalties. That’s how it’s played in the NHL, and sometimes division two college hockey is no different.

“You don’t need to worry. I’m going in thinking smart. Not going to let him get a rise out of me.”

“Good.” He claps me on the back. “I’ve asked Davis and Bozeman to be here at seven a.m. sharp tomorrow morning to run some extra drills. I’d like you to join,” he tells me.

“Yes, sir.”

“Glad to have you back, Judd. The Frozen Four is getting close. We can make it.”

“That’s the plan,” I agree.

Coach leaves the media room and I stay behind to watch a few more plays, paying extra attention to Berlin. The key will be not to let him get too close.

I wrap up in the media room and take my backpack so I won’t be late for class. As I head out of the arena, I send Rebel a text.

Me: How are you holding up?

I wait but there’s no response. So I tuck my phone into my back pocket and walk over to the main campus. By lunch, Rebel texts me back that she’s okay. But it doesn’t feel like enough. I want to see her. This morning was seriously rough. It’s not like I haven’t seen my mom lose control before. I have, but it was different. Maybe because she was my mom and my family has a team of doctors on standby who could come to our house to subdue her. This Preston guy was scum. At least he won’t be coming around their house anymore. When I think of the way Rebel stood up to him, pride bursts inside me. Just weeks ago, she was a shadow on campus. Now, I see her feeling good in her own skin, and it makes me feel good too.

I attend classes for the rest of the day, and by early afternoon, I head back to the house. The guys are lounging in the living room playing video games. It’s not really my thing.

“What’s up?” I ask, dropping my backpack on the ground.

“Sigma Pi is having a huge party tomorrow night. I say we should all go,” Declan announces.

“Haven’t you been partying enough?” I ask Dec.

“Don’t get on my case. You don’t know what I’m going through,” he says.

“So maybe you should tell us. I mean, there has to be a normal explanation as to why you are fucking two different girls in one day,” I say sarcastically as I take a seat on the couch.

Dec and Cole are sitting on the floor on large cushions in front of the TV.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he mutters.

“A party sounds good, man. We haven’t partied in weeks,” Cole adds.

I scoff. “It’s maybe been a week, not weeks.”

“We don’t play Harvard until Monday night. We can party Friday night and use the rest of the weekend to recuperate. You used to be fun, you know,” Cole says.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I shoot back, unable to keep my defensiveness from my tone.

“You’re spending all your free time with that Rebel chick. That is so not like you, man. If you need to talk, you know I’m here,” Cole says.

“I’ve seen her around. She’s fucking hot, though,” Dec says, like he’s coming to my defense.

“Shut the fuck up,” I growl.

“Oooh, did I hit a nerve?” Dec asks, being an ass.

“I’m done.” I stand from the couch.

“Oh, come on, don’t be that way,” Cole whines. “I get it. You’re into her. I thought she was nice and easy on the eyes, but let’s be honest—”

“Fuck this. I’m not asking for your honesty,” I snap at my best friend.

“Just chill the fuck out. I don’t want to fight. Just come to the party. Let’s have a chill night, get drunk, enjoy ourselves,” Cole says.

“Fine,” I say. “Tell the guys from the team to come too. They might as well sow their oats, because after Friday night, we’re all training hardcore, eating clean, and no drinking. We aren’t only making it to the Frozen Four, we’re taking the championship.” I back up my little speech with a steely look at my two friends.

“Fuck yeah,” Cole says. Then he stands and throws his remote on the ground. “I’m done. My stomach is grumbling.”

“You’re on dinner tonight,” I remind him.

“Fuck me,” he curses as he walks into the kitchen. If it were up to Cole, he would just order in and charge up his father’s credit card. It’s Dec and me who are tighter on money. I had to convince Cole that eating in was healthier for our overall diet and performance on the ice. Not just better on our wallets.

I can’t help but laugh as I hear Cole cursing in the kitchen once he sees the ground meat in the sink. He’s supposed to make a meat loaf.

Dec laughs too. “He’s such a spoiled ass. I bet he’s going to make burgers and just plop the potatoes in the oven and bake them instead of making a meatloaf.”

“You’re probably right.” I laugh even harder. “Although, I have to admit that last meatloaf you made was damn good.”

“I can hear you, assholes,” Cole shouts from the kitchen.

“Thanks. My mother was on FaceTime with me when I was making it. Got to give her the cred.”

“Fuck you both,” Cole continues to shout. “Hi, Granny Mae, I need some help.” Cole’s voice flows through the kitchen door.

“Shit. He called his grandma,” I whisper, because I don’t want Granny Mae to hear me laughing. I love that woman. She was more like a parent to me than my own.

“Isn’t she like a chef?” Dec asks.

“No, but she enters cooking competitions all the time. We are going to be having ourselves a good meal tonight,” I say, and my stomach grumbles just thinking of Granny Mae’s cooking. She lives in Georgia, which is where Cole’s mother was from. She is the epitome of a southern gentlewoman.

“Finally,” Dec says.

“We should have been riding him all along,” I say, and I can’t stop laughing.