I lean forward in my chair, keeping my gaze on his. “If your grades don’t meet the minimum requirements, your ass will be warming that bench, and that’s a promise.”
Brayden shrugs like he doesn’t give it a shit, and even though I know better than to let him get to me, it does.
“That’s it? A fucking shrug? You’re going to shrug on the bench when the scouts are watching Holden play instead of you? This is your last shot at getting drafted and you’re going to fuck it up because you’re too stubborn to admit you need help.”
“Fuck you,” he barks, losing his temper. “I’m handling it.” He pushes off the doorjamb. “And if I did need help, you’d be the last person I would turn to. Learned that shit the hard way. Never fucking again.”
“Bray—”
“No, don’t you fuckin ‘Bray’ me.” He stalks toward me, stopping directly in front of the desk. “You want to come up in here and play coach? Fine. But don’t you dare call me Bray like we’re still friends. We’re not. We’re nothing. And it’s best you understand that now.”
He slaps his palms onto my desk and leans in, so we’re eye level. “I said I’ll handle my shit and I will. Just like I’ve been handling it for the last three years while you were busy wasting a spot in the pros.”
As he stalks out of my office, slamming my door behind him, I wonder if maybe coming here was a bad idea. But then I remember why I’m here—to make shit right and be able to have a piece of hockey in my life. Brayden might be pissed, but he’s not going to do anything to fuck up his chances at being drafted, and he knows damn well the only way to get drafted is to play.
After telling Denise I’m going to take the files home, and that I’ll see her in the morning, I grab takeout from the cafeteria and then head to my temporary home. After selling my house in St. Louis, I put all my stuff in storage, so all I have with me are some clothes and necessities. I want to make sure this gig will work out before I place roots. It’s weird being back home, like I’ve come full circle, only this time around it’s without everyone I love.
When I walk through the door, the living room is empty. I have no clue what Ashton’s schedule is like, but my plan is to stay out of his way as much as possible. Hopefully an apartment will open up soon and then I can get out of here.
Grabbing a plate and silverware, I take my food to my new room and shut the door. I have a long night ahead of me. On top of still having the players’ files to go through before tomorrow, I need to email Lou, the assistant coach, to ask him for the tapes and plays he was planning to go over. His wife went into early labor, so he’ll be out until the end of the month. Which means, until then, I’m on my own.
I’m not sure how long I’m at the desk working, but when I finally look up, it’s dark outside. Needing a cup of coffee to get me through the rest of what I need to do, I head out to the kitchen to see if Ashton has any coffee, while making a mental note to pick up some groceries tomorrow.
I’m halfway down the hallway, when I hear two voices. One is Ashton’s. I’ve only spoken to the guy once, but I can already recognize his sarcasm from a mile away. And the other voice is one I would recognize in my sleep. Curious as to why these guys, who seem like they’d never run in the same circles, would be conversing, I halt in place and listen.
“It’s always been a hundred,” Brayden barks. “Now you’re fucking doubling it?”
“I’m calling it asshole inflation,” Ashton says, humor in his voice. “You want the goods or not?”
There’s a moment of silence and then Brayden grunts out, “Yeah, give me the fucking key.”
Jesus fucking Christ, that’s his way of handling it… buying the answers from the dean’s son? What the hell have I gotten myself into?
“Now, now,” Ashton taunts. “That’s no way to speak to the man who holds your future in his hands. Didn’t your mommy ever teach you that you catch more bees with honey than vinegar?”
I peek my head around the corner and see Brayden towering over Ashton, the veins on his neck busting at the seams. “Stop being a little bitch,” Brayden says, handing Ashton two bills.
“You know, I think the price just went up to three hundred.”
Brayden stalks up to Ashton until their chests bump, getting in his face. “And I think you’re about to get your ass beat.”
Before a fight between my roommate and my player breaks out in the living room, I step forward and clear my throat, making my presence known.
Brayden’s gaze leaves Ashton and lands on me, at the same time Ashton swivels around.
“What do we have here?” I say, snatching the papers out of Ashton’s hands. I thumb through the packet and sure enough, it’s the answers to a quiz.
“None of your fucking business,” Brayden barks.
“I’m making it my business.” I smirk. “This isn’t happening.” I hold up the packet and rip it into two. “You want to pass, you do it the right way.”
I turn to Ashton. “How will your dad feel to learn his son is selling answer keys?”
Ashton snorts, shrugging his fucking shoulders. The action reminds me of Brayden. They’re about to throw down in the living room because they’re surprisingly similar. But where Bray deflects with anger, Ashton acts as though he doesn’t care—like consequences mean nothing.
But, unlucky for Ashton, I know Brayden.
Which means I got a pretty quick read on Ashton yesterday.
He hates his dad, but riles him up for attention. The
