"How's the hand?" Booker said as he threw his arm over my shoulders. We were making our way through the parking lot, heading into the arena for another one of our early morning practices.

I stretched out my fingers, raising my hand to show my teammate the discolouration that formed around my knuckles. There was a small cut over one of them, slicing through some old ink I got in freshman year while I was wild with freedom.

It had been a couple of days since I had punched Miles in the face. The crunch of my fist meeting his jaw still echoed in my memory. There was nothing more satisfying than knocking the words out of someone who enjoyed running their mouth. Miles had fallen into a state of shock when he realized what I had done. And honestly, so was I.

On the ice we left that privilege up to Cole. I didn't like to get involved with the drama on the ice unless absolutely necessary. Plus, he was much more proficient at throwing his weight around.

For once, I didn't mind getting my hands dirty.

When the load between my hockey equipment and Booker became too much, I shrugged him off. "The swelling has definitely gone down."

"I still wish I was there to witness it." Booker straightened the backwards cap on his head.

"Witness what? Me punching that hoser in the face?"

"More like you protecting Celeste."

I rolled my eyes. "I wasn't protecting her. He annoyed the fuck out of me."

He snorted a laugh. "When did you make it a habit to beat on guys who run their mouth? Because I can't remember the last time you were involved in a battle on the ice, Pretty Boy."

I tsked at him, but let the conversation drop. Booker was a persistent child and there was no changing his mind if he thought he was on to something. I was hoping that if I didn't feed into his prying that he would leave the whole thing alone.

I was wrong.

"Does this mean you're warming up to our new roommate?"

I sighed. We were so close to the locker rooms. So close to me no longer having to entertain this conversation.

"No. It doesn't."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive," I promised. "Sure, I helped move her stuff in, but if she found a new place you know I'd be the first person moving that shit back out."

Booker shook his head. "You're savage. That or you've got some deep seeded denial."

Pushing on the locker room door I said, "Call it what you want."

The room was buzzing with the usual conversation. Seeing as I agreed to ride with Booker that day, the rest of the team was already there. A few of the guys were already lacing up their skates, clad in the navy blue practice jerseys.

"There's our white knight," Easton announced with a grin.

I pointed a finger in his direction as I dropped my bag to the floor. "Don't you start now too."

All that did was earn me a round of chuckles. Thankfully, there attention was soon dragged o

I used that to my advantage and began getting ready for whatever beating Coach Miller had waiting for us. I only managed to slip off the jacket of my tracksuit when a gruff voice called for me across the locker room.

Coach's face was a mask of concealed fury. His eyes zeroed in on me. "Sousa," he said, his voice cutting through the chatter like a knife. "A word?"

Even though it was phased as a question, I knew it was anything but a request. Nothing ever was. A goosebumps rushed over the back of my neck and suddenly I wanted to slip my jacket back on. For the better part of the four years I've been a Falcon, I had managed to stay on Coach's good side. But something about the tone of his voice made my blood run cold.

Instead of elaborating right there in the open, he slipped around the corner. I followed him, eyes trained on the back of the faded sweater he often wore to practice. McKinley had mentioned how it was a sweater he wore when playing in the NHL. Whether it was sentimental or a superstition he continued to wear it despite the pulled threads and bleach stain on the bottom left side.

Considering how our team was playing this year, maybe it was strictly sentimental.

"Yeah, Coach?" I said.

He spun to face me, arm crossed over his chest as he fixed his glare on me. Yup, whatever it was, I was officially out of his good graces.

"Got anything to tell me?" He questioned.

All of the sudden I was a kid again. My hand caught in the cookie jar before dinner. I scrambled my brain, thinking about what I could have done to piss him off. It wasn't until his gaze darted to my bruised knuckles that everything clicked.

"Coach––"

"Look, I'm just going to come out with it," he began after. "You're benched for the next few games."

I blinked, the words hitting me like a blow to the gut. "Benched? For what?"

"It's not about your performance," Coach Miller cut me off, his eyes hardening. "Does the name Miles ring a bell?"

My pulse jumped. A potent mix of anxiety and anger bubbled up into my chest. "Coach, with all due respect, that fucker had it coming. He––"

Coach Miller held out a flat, calloused palm. I bit back the rest of my sentence. "I don't want to hear it," he warned. "Whatever the fuck happened, he's threatening to press assault charges unless you receive some sort of punishment."

"You've gotta be kidding me. He's the one who—"

"Forget what he did," Coach interrupted, shaking his head. "Doesn't matter what he did or didn't do. What matters is that he's got enough of a story to damage your reputation––to damage the team's reputation. We don't need this blowing up any further."

I clenched my fists, my knuckles still throbbing in response. "So that's it? I'm supposed to just sit on the bench and wait for this guy to decide whether he feels like going to the cops?"

"You better hope not," he said, the frustration on his face had simmered down. The lines in his brow, while still visible, were not as deep as when I first stepped into his office. "If this incident escalates, you could very well lose your spot on this team."

I sucked in a breath of B.O. infused air through my nose. That little fucker better hope I didn't come across him again. Next time I'd give him something to go to the police about.

"Look, I know it's not fair. But I don't make the rules. My job is to keep this team focused, and this...this is a distraction we don't need. We're going to keep you on the bench for a little bit and wait until things cool down."

"But the scouts––"

"No one is going to want to pick up a rookie with a record," Coach stated, placing his palms down flat on this desk. He leaned into them, leveling with me. "Stay out of trouble. Don't make any of this worse, understand?"

I bit my cheek. Figuratively, my back was against the wall, but I knew the team's administration was trying to help me rectify the situation. Even if everything about it pissed me the fuck off.

I wanted to argue, to tell him he didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. Coach Miller wasn't the kind of guy to change his mind once he'd made a decision. I could feel my jaw clenching so hard it hurt, but I forced myself to nod.

"Yes, Coach."

He offered me a curt nod before rummaging through an open folder on his desk. "Take the morning off."

"What?"

"I can tell you're rattled. Your teammates will be able to as well. I don't need anymore negative energy on the ice after our most recent bout of losses. Go cool off."

He wasn't wrong. My body was trembling. Whether it was due to anger or adrenaline, I'd never know. So instead of fighting to stay, I swallowed my pride and swiveled on my heel towards the door.

"Sousa," he said as I reached for the silver doorknob. His voice rumbled over whatever commotion was going on outside. "Don't let some girl you barely know ruin your future."

I didn't bother to turn my head. "You don't have to worry about that, Coach."

Heightened emotions bubbled over as I stormed out of Coach Miller's office. If I had the ability, I would have been leaving a trail of fire behind me, smoke billowing from my ears.

Miles.

That fucking piece of shit. His scare tactics might have worked on a girl he emotionally abused for a year, but they wouldn't work on me. Unfortunately for me, they work on the team's administration and now I was benched until god knows when.

I stomped my way over to my unopened hockey back and slipped my jacket back on. The concerned stares of my teammates burned into my back. I didn't need their pity right now. I needed to get out of there.

Booker caught my eye as I passed him, his brows furrowed with worry. "Ricky, what's going on?"

"I've been benched," I huffed. "Until further notice."

"What the fuck? For what?"

The palm of my hand met my face. The morning stubble I hadn't bothered to shave picked into my skin. "Celeste's ex threatened to charge me with assault if Coach didn't keep me off the ice."

Booker's jaw dropped open before shutting again.

From the corner of my eye I could see the devil himself step out of his office. "Just... don't worry about it," I said, moving towards the door.

Booker shouted something about taking his keys, but it was as if I was under water. Every sound around me was muffled. All I could hear was the erratic beating of my own heart. My chest was tight, screaming for air. I needed to get out of there.

Coach's words echoed in my head.

Don't let some girl you barely know ruin your future.

While I knew I had done the right thing, this whole situation was fucking with me. I knew the rest of the guys would have questions about why I had left practice. And for that reason alone, I hoped Booker had enough sense to warn them not to ask me about it. My hand continued to throb. It was a dull reminder of the price I was paying for doing what I thought was right.

Maybe Coach was right—maybe I should've kept my head down, let it slide, kept my hands to myself.

But then I thought about the look on Celeste's face when Miles told her what he'd done to her cat, and all I could feel was that surge of anger, and the certainty that I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Maybe I barely knew her, but I knew enough. And I knew as much as I didn't involve myself in emotional relationships with women, I wasn't going to sit back and allow that kind of bullshit to happen in front of me.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and started on my trek back home. The autumn air whipped around me. And while I could have been in the toasty seat of Booker's FJ Cruiser, I appreciated what the chill did to my too-hot body. As I walked, the weight of everything that had happened that morning settled.

No one listened to me when I said nothing good could possibly come from having a girl roommate. Now here we fucking were.

_ _ _ _ _

author's note:

I'm back and married!

Do you think the punishment for Maverick is warranted? Realistic? I'd love your feedback.

Miles is one vengeful little fucker.

Happy reading!