Offside: Rules of the Game Book 1
Offside: Chapter 7

Coach Miller probably scheduled dryland training at the crack of dawn on Mondays specifically to fuck up the start of my week. Out of all the players on the team, I hated early mornings the most, and Miller knew it. We butted heads constantly, and he loved to torture me. Or “build character,” as he liked to say.

At least it was over with for today. He’d even gone light on the burpees for once. Now all I had to do was stretch and foam roll, grab a shower, and head home for a good two-hour nap before my first class at ten-thirty. Probably hit the drive-through somewhere in there too. Then back to the rink at four. By the time that was done, I’d be too tired to do much else—which, I suspected, was Miller’s intention.

Dallas and I limped into the stretching area and sprawled out on the cushioned red mats, still short of breath from our drills. He leaned over his calf, pulling up on the toes of his black Nike sneakers to stretch out his hamstring.

“Morrison’s ex? That’s who was at our place Saturday night?” He let out a low whistle, leaning deeper into his stretch. “Are you trying to make life harder for yourself? Now the Bulldogs are really going to have it out for you next weekend.”

They had it out for me already anyway. I was public enemy number one, which was perfectly fine with me. It made derailing their game that much easier, just like I had this weekend—like taking shots on an empty net.

“You didn’t let me finish. Nothing happened.” I stood up and grabbed a black foam roller off the rack, then lay back down with it. “She was too drunk.”

“Are you going to call her? Try for a do-over?”

I sucked in a sharp breath as I leaned on my elbow, rolling my glute. The left side of my ass was full of tight, painful knots. I could barely put any weight into it without flinching. It didn’t help that Bailey had been sprawled out across the bed, relegating me to a tiny corner because I wanted to give her space. Sleeping that way totally jacked up my back.

“I didn’t get her number.” Chump move, Carter.

Then again, she was too busy vomiting curbside Saturday night. And come Sunday morning, she was skittish after waking up in my bed unexpectedly. When I drove her home, she was silent and stared out the window the whole time. I’d barely had the truck in park when she bolted. We didn’t exactly get off to the strongest start.

Plus, there was the whole part where sober Bailey hated me.

Dallas switched sides, grabbing his opposite foot with a groan. “Maybe for the best. Coach probably wouldn’t appreciate you stirring that pot. You get into enough trouble as it is.”

He wasn’t wrong, but she was hot enough that I was still willing to risk it if the opportunity presented itself again.

Hey, I never said I made good choices.

“What about her friends?” I asked. “Did Tyler hit it or what?”

“I think one of their exes showed up and they bailed not long after you guys did. But we met these other chicks and hit up a party at a penthouse downtown. So XS for the win.”

“I don’t know how your reputation stays so squeaky clean,” I muttered. “You’re no saint, either.”

“I’m just smarter about it. Ever hear the word discretion?” He raised his eyebrows pointedly, wiping his forehead with his red and white Falcons gym towel. Smug shit.

“Whatever,” I said. “We can’t all be perfect like you.”

In contrast to my type-B slacker ass, Dallas was our team’s all-star—well-rounded on and off the ice. He played a highly technical game, racked up tons of points, and could stickhandle circles around everyone in our division. In short, it was like he’d been genetically engineered to play; think the Steph Curry of NCAA hockey.

Unfortunately, this also put a huge target on his back. But he wasn’t a fighter, and he rarely dropped gloves. That was my job, as was making sure the people who took dirty hits on him answered for it.

“Perfection might be a little unrealistic for you,” he said. “I was thinking more along the lines of trying to stay out of jail.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I waved him off. Wincing, I adjusted the angle of my glute on the foam roller, but that made it hurt even more. Maybe I could get in for a sports massage this week. This cylindrical torture device wasn’t helping.

“Oh.” Dallas jutted his chin toward the door to the training room, “Coach told me he wants to see you before you leave.”

Speaking of torture. Fuck me.

The good thing about Boyd U was that our Division I hockey program was top-notch. The bad part was that Coach Miller was a tyrant. And no one ever got summoned to his office to be congratulated for doing something right.

After a long shower, I took my sweet time getting dressed and finally dragged myself down the hall to his office. Coach Miller sat at his desk with his wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on his ruddy nose, immersed in his phone. His work wardrobe consisted of black track pants with a rotation of Falcons hoodies in black, gray, red, and white. Today’s choice was black, which I hoped wasn’t a bad omen.

“Hey, Coach.” I rapped on the gray metal doorframe and stood at the threshold, praying he wouldn’t order me to come in. “Ward said you wanted to see me?”

“Sit.” He pointed at the chair in front of him without glancing up from his phone.

Dammit.

Not only did I not want to get chewed out, but this was eating into my nap window. Maybe I could make up an excuse about having a class soon. Nah. After my bumpy sophomore year, Miller was up my ass constantly. I was pretty sure he had my schedule memorized inside and out. He probably even did spot checks to make sure I was in my classes.

But I didn’t have a choice, so I obeyed, plopping into the worn black leather seat across from his solid-oak desk. He continued to scroll on his phone, face contorted into a sour frown. I scanned the walls of his office, lined with trophies and photos from tournaments and championships dating up to twenty years back. Man, Miller used to have a nice head of thick, wavy brown hair. Maybe that’s why he was so pissed off all the time. I would be mad at the world too if I went bald.

After another minute, he locked his phone and set it facedown. He placed his elbows on the desk, studying me warily from beneath his red Falcons cap. “I finished my semester check-in with your professors.”

“Okay…” This wasn’t leading anywhere good, given that he’d done all of this by eight o’clock on a Monday.

“Long story short, you’re on probation.”

“Probation?” I echoed. We’d gone down this road last spring, and it was an utter waste of everyone’s time and paperwork. After a month or so, I pulled my grades up enough to pacify them, and we all moved on. The theatrics and procedural crap were unnecessary. Why were we doing this again?

“Not officially, thank god.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “Because then I would have no choice but to pull you from the line.”

“Phew,” I said, leaning back and crossing an ankle over my knee.

“No, Carter,” he snapped, pinning me with an icy gaze. “Not phew. You’re still on probation with me. With the program. I spoke to the athletic director about it. We’re trying to keep it under the radar this time because repeated probations look bad for you and for the program.”

“What’s the reason you’re putting me on probation?”

“You really don’t know? Your grades are in the goddamn toilet. Just like last year.”

Well, that wasn’t a surprise. Since school started three weeks ago, I’d dedicated approximately twenty minutes to studying and completing assignments. It was my last year at Boyd. I wouldn’t be staying to graduate, so I gave no fucks whatsoever about my grades.

College was merely an annoying detour along the way to the league. At least I didn’t have to worry about losing a scholarship on top of everything else. I was paying my own way through this circus.

“I’ll address my grades,” I told him.

“You’d better.” He gestured to his phone. “You’ve failed two quizzes in history already. And you have a term paper due next month that’s worth a third of your grade. I expect you’ll expend extra energy on that paper to ensure you don’t fail the class.”

“Yes, I will.” Extra energy having someone else write it for me, maybe. That history class was drier than cardboard.

“While we’re on the topic of problematic behavior, I heard about your antics at that little end-of-school party you threw this spring.”

What, specifically, had he heard? He would take issue with several things, I was sure, some of which weren’t exactly legal. Asking for details didn’t seem like a good idea, though. Then he might start digging.

“I’m sure whatever you heard was greatly exaggerated.”

He shot me a look so searing my skin prickled. “I’m told there are pictures. You better hope that is not the case.”

Shit. Maybe we needed to confiscate phones at the door. No evidence, no crime, right?

“I have eyes everywhere, Carter. If it happened, assume I’ve already heard about it.”

Cute how he was trying to scare me. But if that last part were true, I would have been kicked off the team freshman year.

He added, “Stop gallivanting around with girls, getting into fights, and acting like a teenage idiot.”

I almost pointed out that at twenty-one, I was not, in fact, a teenager. Then I realized that was his point. Instead, I nodded. Silence was usually the safest bet in these situations.

“Look,” he said, his tone marginally less hostile. “You add a lot of value to the team. And I appreciate your knack for getting into your opponents’ heads. But you have to reel it in a little off the ice, or you’re going to ruin all your hard work. Understand?”

“Yes,” I muttered. “I understand.”

“You can’t impress the scouts from the sidelines, Carter. Get it together or get benched. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.” I stood up and threw my gym bag over my shoulder before heading for the door. There was still enough time to catch some sleep before class.

“And Carter?”

“Yes, Coach?” I turned back to face him.

He snatched a pen from its holder with a worrying amount of violence. “Consider this your first, last, and only warning.”