Read Online The Game That Breaks Us by Micalea Smeltzer - Free Book Online
Authors: Micalea Smeltzer
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and sigh.
It’s going to be a long day.
This had been one long ass fucking week.
“Coach,” I plead, hands on my hips. “I need to get on the ice.”
Coach Harrison narrows his shrewd eyes on me. He hates begging, but I’m desperate at this point. “Get in the gym with the rest of the guys. Now.” The tone in his voice allows no argument.
The old me would punch something and spout off, but the new me takes a deep breath and lets it out.
This Zen shit is harder than I thought it would be.
I stalk off toward the training facility with Coach hot on my heels.
The team is already there, lifting weights and running on the treadmills. It’s easy to pick out the senior members and the newbies. They automatically segregate themselves. The older players hover around the weights, cheering on one guy. The freshmen are on the opposite side of the room, using some of the other strength training equipment and watching the guys with awe in their eyes.
When I step into the room, everyone stops.
Up until this moment, I’ve been working out on my own when they’re not around. To be honest, with my weakened leg and knee, I was embarrassed to work around them. They’re all athletes in their prime and I might be only a few years older than them but I feel like an elder.
Coach claps me on the shoulder and bellows, “A’ight, fellas, I’m sure by now you’ve heard the rumors that Bennett was on campus. Those rumors are true. He’s here to train with you guys until he’s ready to rejoin his team. This is a unique situation, and I hope you’ll be mindful of that.” He glares at each and every one of them. I know he’s warning them off from blabbing their mouths about everything I do and say. I appreciate his effort, but I doubt it’ll do any good. When people want to talk, they do. “Get back to it,” he orders. In a lower voice says to me, “You too.”
I sigh and move over to one of the weight-lifting machines by the freshmen.
“Dude, what’s the NHL like?”
I turn to look at the freshman on my right. “Like this but harder,” I answer, increasing the weight on the machine before taking a seat.
“Why’d you get kicked off the team?” another one asks.
I push up on the machine, my arms straining. “I didn’t get kicked off the team.”
“But you’re on probation. Isn’t that the same thing?”
I glare at the guy. “No, it’s not.”
One guy hits them in the arm and they move off to the treadmills. The two other guys beside me seem uninterested in talking to me, which is fine by me. Besides, they seem to be having a conversation of their own.
The blond guy says, “Dude, this girl in my English class fell in my lap on the first day. It was hilarious.”
“Was she hot?” the other one asks.
“Oh, yeah. Legs for days and long brown hair.”
I perk up at that. Could it be? No …
“Have you talked to her?”
“A few times. We also have economy together so I purposely took the seat beside her,” he chortles. “She’s pretty embarrassed around me after the lap incident, but I think I’m wearing her down.”
“What’s her name?”
“Grace.”
Fuck. Can he be talking about Grace?
I quickly tune out what the guys are saying. It’s none of my business anyway.
I push myself harder. Sweat courses down the side of my face, but I keep pushing harder, trying to quiet my mind, but I can’t let go of that conversation and I hate that it bothers me. I spent one afternoon with Grace—the brief run-in with her at the coffee shop on Monday doesn’t count—and all we did was go to fucking Target. How can she possibly be under my skin this deep?
“You’re gonna regret that in the morning,” one of the senior guys says, coming over to stand beside me and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say.
“Here,” the guy says, holding out a towel. “It’s clean. Promise.”
I take the towel from him and mumble a quick, “Thanks.” I wipe the
It’s going to be a long day.
This had been one long ass fucking week.
“Coach,” I plead, hands on my hips. “I need to get on the ice.”
Coach Harrison narrows his shrewd eyes on me. He hates begging, but I’m desperate at this point. “Get in the gym with the rest of the guys. Now.” The tone in his voice allows no argument.
The old me would punch something and spout off, but the new me takes a deep breath and lets it out.
This Zen shit is harder than I thought it would be.
I stalk off toward the training facility with Coach hot on my heels.
The team is already there, lifting weights and running on the treadmills. It’s easy to pick out the senior members and the newbies. They automatically segregate themselves. The older players hover around the weights, cheering on one guy. The freshmen are on the opposite side of the room, using some of the other strength training equipment and watching the guys with awe in their eyes.
When I step into the room, everyone stops.
Up until this moment, I’ve been working out on my own when they’re not around. To be honest, with my weakened leg and knee, I was embarrassed to work around them. They’re all athletes in their prime and I might be only a few years older than them but I feel like an elder.
Coach claps me on the shoulder and bellows, “A’ight, fellas, I’m sure by now you’ve heard the rumors that Bennett was on campus. Those rumors are true. He’s here to train with you guys until he’s ready to rejoin his team. This is a unique situation, and I hope you’ll be mindful of that.” He glares at each and every one of them. I know he’s warning them off from blabbing their mouths about everything I do and say. I appreciate his effort, but I doubt it’ll do any good. When people want to talk, they do. “Get back to it,” he orders. In a lower voice says to me, “You too.”
I sigh and move over to one of the weight-lifting machines by the freshmen.
“Dude, what’s the NHL like?”
I turn to look at the freshman on my right. “Like this but harder,” I answer, increasing the weight on the machine before taking a seat.
“Why’d you get kicked off the team?” another one asks.
I push up on the machine, my arms straining. “I didn’t get kicked off the team.”
“But you’re on probation. Isn’t that the same thing?”
I glare at the guy. “No, it’s not.”
One guy hits them in the arm and they move off to the treadmills. The two other guys beside me seem uninterested in talking to me, which is fine by me. Besides, they seem to be having a conversation of their own.
The blond guy says, “Dude, this girl in my English class fell in my lap on the first day. It was hilarious.”
“Was she hot?” the other one asks.
“Oh, yeah. Legs for days and long brown hair.”
I perk up at that. Could it be? No …
“Have you talked to her?”
“A few times. We also have economy together so I purposely took the seat beside her,” he chortles. “She’s pretty embarrassed around me after the lap incident, but I think I’m wearing her down.”
“What’s her name?”
“Grace.”
Fuck. Can he be talking about Grace?
I quickly tune out what the guys are saying. It’s none of my business anyway.
I push myself harder. Sweat courses down the side of my face, but I keep pushing harder, trying to quiet my mind, but I can’t let go of that conversation and I hate that it bothers me. I spent one afternoon with Grace—the brief run-in with her at the coffee shop on Monday doesn’t count—and all we did was go to fucking Target. How can she possibly be under my skin this deep?
“You’re gonna regret that in the morning,” one of the senior guys says, coming over to stand beside me and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say.
“Here,” the guy says, holding out a towel. “It’s clean. Promise.”
I take the towel from him and mumble a quick, “Thanks.” I wipe the
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