A total fuck-up.
I knew it was going to happen.
Cooper Nash.
I shake my head as I swipe my bag up and place it on the chair beside my bed.
He’s been a pain in my ass for years now.
The fact that we were friends once is laughable.
We went to fucking school together.
Played side by side for years.
But we went to different colleges and then got drafted to different teams, and our once-innocent friendship has turned into this toxic competitive bullshit that I can’t stand.
It wasn’t me. It was all him.
The first time we played against each other in college, I was excited to see him. Thought we could go out after the game and catch up.
But the second I stood before him on the ice, I realized that the man in front of me wasn’t the person I once knew.
All hockey players are competitive. It runs through our veins. But Cooper…he’s taken it to the extreme.
Our friendship is long gone now. Every time I see him, I can’t help but feel sorry for him.
Sure, he’s focused and has an incredible record—not quite as good as mine, but still good. He plays for a great team, but somewhere along the way he seems to have forgotten that it’s possible to be a good player and a decent person.
I can’t put all the blame at his feet, though. His dad and uncle were both ex-NHL players. The pressure they put on him was ridiculous. Even at a young age, they wanted him to be the best. Back then, though, he could also enjoy the fun of the game and the dream.
It seems that all of that has gone by the wayside.
“It’s not the bag’s fault,” Linc mutters from behind me.
More often than not, we’re put together. Usually, I don’t complain.
We might be wildly different, but we get on well.
He’s the version of me I barely remember from my college and early NHL days.
He’s the life and soul of the party. He never takes anything—aside from hockey—too seriously. He’s generally a happy-go-lucky guy who’s happy to entertain as many of his adoring female fans as possible.
Shrugging off my suit jacket, I pull my tie from around my neck, loosen a few buttons, and fall onto my bed.
“That guy is a fucking asshole,” I mutter.
“What’s new there?” Linc asks, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Fucking hate losing to him.”
“I hate losing,” Linc shoots back.
I glare at him.
“You know, you’re even grumpier than usual,” he points out helpfully.
My teeth clench, making my jaw tick with irritation. I can’t exactly argue with him.
