Coach blew his whistle. He must have finally caught on to what was happening. Gauthier and Hewitt were between me and the wall of approaching muscle in an instant. Coach threw himself between us, too, and my teammates piled onto the ice, pushing us apart.
Coach yelled, “That’s it. Mironov, you’re out. Get back to the hotel.”
Mironov went chest to chest with Coach, and his face morphed from hatred to unchecked rage. Mironov yanked his gloves off and tossed them aside. At his side, Minns pressed his hand to Mironov’s chest. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Mironov clearly had. He focussed on me again, his glare as sharp as cut glass. Lebedev and Sawchuck took the chance while he was distracted, grasping him by the arms and hauling him away. They were headed off the ice, but Mironov was struggling again.
No one pissed Coach off and came out unscathed.
Mironov was playing with fire.
How did we end up like this? Our team was crumbling apart, the entire fabric holding it together disintegrating into a pile of dust.
Fuck me. This was my fault.
I’d caused this. I was the one who couldn’t stay away from Chris and Kam. I was the one who kept going back to them. I’d wanted more. I’d gotten caught. I’d risked exposing their secret.
It was all on me.
Everything.
My shoulders slumped in defeat. I was the one tearing the team apart.
I shouldn’t be here. I should have stepped away from the team. I should have gone on the player assistance program like Keeley offered, and none of this would have happened. She’d warnedme about it. She’d asked me if I wanted time away, but I’d refused. I was scared of losing my spot on the team, scared of letting Hewitt and Gauthier down.
I thought that if I was professional and kept my mouth shut, we’d be able to avoid it spilling onto the ice. But clearly Mironov had different ideas.
“Practice is over,” Gauthier stated.
Thank fuck. I eased myself over the boards and made the long-ass trudge down the rubber-matted tunnel to the locker room. It was only a temporary setup, as the entertainment centre we were playing in was usually used for concerts. Temporary racks and benches were set out in a U-shape, and our gear manager was working overtime to keep us organized.
I dropped onto the seat without a word.
Gauthier and Hewitt heaved themselves down next to me and waited, not saying a word. But there was no way I was starting this conversation.
Except that after what felt like five excruciating minutes, I’d had enough.
“Why are you guys here?” I asked. I was tired, and not just from practice. “You should be with the rest of the team.”
“Practice is over, and you’re our teammate. You need someone on your side,” Hewitt said without hesitation.
“You’ve heard all the rumours. You should want to smash my face in too.”
“We told you before that we didn’t believe them,” Gauthier shot back. He softened his voice when he added, “Listen, we know you don’t want to talk about it. You would have taken us up on our offers before now if you did. But we’re here for you if you ever change your mind.”
“Have you extended the same courtesy to Minns?”
“Mironov looks like he’s doing a good enough job of being there for him,” Hewitt muttered under his breath.
“Yes,” Gauthier answered without hesitation. “I’ve spoken to him, and I reached out to Kamirah too.”
“You have?” I asked. Hope flared in my belly. Maybe if she spoke up, the media circus would die down and Mironov would calm the fuck down.
Gauthier continued on like his words hadn’t caused a seismic shift under me. “Kam and I had a good talk too. She’s… disappointed that the press has jumped on you.”
“And?” I asked, my voice barely a squeak. “Is she going to clear the air?”
Gauthier hesitated, and that bubble of hope burst, my stomach revolting at the sudden letdown. “No. She and Minns have decided to spend some time out of the public eye once these games are over.”
“Fuck,” I growled, anger and disappointment surging through me all over again. The adrenaline from practice was fading fast. My hands shook, and I squeezed my fists tight, trying desperately to hide just how angry and fucking sad I was. Not because I wanted them back—I didn’t—but this black cloud hanging over me was bringing me down.
