Sin Bin (D.C. Stars, #5) — Chapter no 27

TWENTY-SEVEN

BRODY

“AGAIN,” I yell to the guys. With their hands on their thighs, they hang their heads. Someone drops a stick. Another person groans. When no one moves, I blow the whistle Hannah got me for Christmas. “Now.”

“Who pissed in Coach’s cereal this morning?” Maverick groans. “He woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“I can hear you, Miller, and I’m adding three extra laps because of your commentary.”

“I should’ve taken paternity leave. Changing twenty diapers a day is more enjoyable than the hell you’re putting us through,” my captain grumbles.

Grant gags. Ethan wails, hanging half his body over the boards by the bench. Even Hudson, the guy who usually works the hardest without any

complaints, is panting, and I grin.

I’m not pissed off at all.

I’m fucking giddy, and I can’t remember the last time I felt this good.

I got the best sleep of my life last night after Hannah came over. I made her pasta, and we talked while we ate dinner. She showed me pictures from her first figure skating competition and I brought out the photo album of all my mini mite playing days. We put on a television show, muting it halfway through so she could ask me about Liv and what it was like in those early days of being a parent. When we got in bed, she opened a book while I read over game notes, keeping my hand on her thigh until we fell asleep.

There was no sex, no orgasms, but that’s how it is sometimes, and I’m not going to complain. It makes it feel like this relationship is something that exists outside the bedroom too, and when I made her pancakes this morning, dodging the spatula of batter she tried to lodge at my face, I

laughed for ten minutes straight.

Easy.

Everything with her is fucking easy. I don’t have much experience to go off of—my dating history is minimal at best—but Hannah is different. I feel good around her, and that fun people tell me I need?

I’m having a lot of it.

“Again,” I repeat, nodding when the players pull themselves together.

“What did you think about that shift, Mitchell?”

“Huh?” Riley blinks. “What? Sorry. My head is in ten different places right now.”

“If you could refrain from thinking about your girlfriend for the rest of morning skate, it would be appreciated,” I say.

“Fiancée,” he corrects with a sharp tone. “And there’s no need to bring her into our conversation. I’m thinking about my AHL game tomorrow.”

“Think you’ll be with the second line?” I ask.

“I hope so. Practices are going well. I’m not afraid of hurting myself anymore, which was holding me back in the beginning.”

“You looked good from what I saw when I sat in the other day. Head down, keep working, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Riley nods. “What did you ask me a second ago?”

“What you thought about that shift the boys just ran. Grant is still playing really fucking well out, and I want to continue to reward that.”

“I’m going to be honest with you, Coach. I don’t know when the hell Everett grew up, but he has a good head on his shoulders. He’s making more of an effort on and off the ice. That positive reinforcement is going to go a long way.” Riley pauses, leaning back at his hips to adjust his prosthetic leg. “You have to know he looks up to you, right? You’re his role model.”

I bristle with the compliment, but I know it’s true. I see how Grant looks to me for approval. It might be his age—he’s one of the youngest on the team. It might be because he’s more locked in this season, more attentive when he’s at practice. Whatever he’s doing, it’s working. He’s playing the

best hockey of his career, and I don’t want to be the one to mess up his groove.

“Thanks for the feedback, Mitchell. We’ll keep the lineup as is.” I blow my whistle after the guys finish another run-through of their drill. “Good effort today. Three laps, then you can head for the showers. I want you to focus on building speed for the first lap. Second lap is an all-out effort.

Third lap is a cooldown. And when you’re finished, Richardson, I need to see you in my office.”

“Oooh,” Grant teases, elbowing Ethan’s pads. “What did you do, Easy E?”

“Last person to the locker room is on laundry duty,” I add, and everyone starts moving.

Thirty minutes later, there’s a knock on my office door. I put my phone on silent and shove it in a drawer.

“Come in,” I call out, and Ethan steps inside. “Take a seat, Richardson.”

He looks around, shoulders up by his ears while he slides into the seat near the door. “Am I in trouble, Coach?”

“Do you think you should be in trouble?”

“No. But if this is about the video I posted where I was dancing in front of my motorcycle, I didn’t show my face. Technically I didn’t break any team rules, and I—”

I hold up my hand to stop him. “I don’t need to know what you do in your off time unless it starts to impact your performance on the ice.” I pause, narrowing my eyes. God damn my curiosity. “You post dancing videos?”

“You bet I do.” He digs into the pocket of his athletic shorts, pulling out two phones. He taps the screen of one and hands it over with a sheepish grin. I hit play on the video that has one million likes and ten million views, confused. A guy dances to some rap song I’ve never heard before in full motorcycle gear, helmet and all. “That’s me.”

“Huh. This isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Shit, Coach.” He grins and relaxes in the chair, fingers linked behind his head. “You’re going to make me blush.”

“Hang on.” I tap the profile. “You have five million followers?”

“Yup. More than I have on my athlete page. What can I say? The ladies love a masked man.” Ethan smirks. “I’m a chameleon. I can be whoever they want me to be.”

“They don’t know it’s you? What about your voice? Do you talk?”

“Voiceovers, Coach. Unless you know my freckles—which would be really fucking creepy—there’s no way you’d put two and two together.” He frowns when I give him back his phone. “This isn’t about that?”

“No. Ethan, I got a call yesterday letting me know you’re leading the league in penalty minutes. Again. You got into multiple fights with the St.

Louis Tigers’ assistant captain the other night. Again.”

“Shit,” he whispers. “The league really tracks how much time I spend in the sin bin?”

“Yup. They’re looking for patterns. Repeat offenders, repeat victims.

Most of your penalty minutes aren’t for majors, but they’re worried about how this could progress if we don’t talk about it.” I sigh. “Look. I think it’s bullshit. The league encourages fighting, but they punish you after if they deem it too severe. I just need to bring it to your attention.”

“The Tigers’ assistant captain.” Ethan fidgets with a loose thread on his shirt. “He and I, uh, aren’t the best of friends.”

“I’m all for being rough, but this is obviously personal.”

“Does the team get access to our high school and college transcripts during the draft combine?”

“No.” I frown. “Why the hell would I care about what grade you got in calculus? All I want to know is how fast you can get down the ice to protect Sullivan in goal.”

“I wasn’t a very good student.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve struggled with learning disabilities pretty much my entire life.”

“Ah.” I look at him, wanting him to know he has my full attention.

“Sullivan has dyslexia.”

“I know. We’ve talked about it a few times. It’s hard when everyone around you finds things easy and you struggle to read a sentence.” A shrug, a sigh. “I wish dyslexia is where my disabilities stopped. I also have dyscalculia. ADHD. The hint of dysgraphia. Needless to say, I was bullied a lot as a kid. Someone who couldn’t turn their thoughts into words? Flipping things and having trouble with math? People had a field day with me.”

What the fuck?

I remember all the times at practice I’ve seen Ethan counting things out on his fingers. How often he asks how many reps we’ve done and how many we have left. I assumed it was because he was being lazy, because he wanted to know when we were finished for the day, but boy was I wrong.

There are all the times he’s asked to take the charity items he needs to autograph home with him so he can finish them later. His barely legible handwriting every month when I ask the guys to write a reflection on how their season is going and his request to type it up.

My stomach drops to my feet.

“Ethan. I know I’m tough on you all on the ice, but my door is always open. Why didn’t you tell me? It wouldn’t have impacted your position on this team. We could’ve made accommodations or—”

“No,” he snaps. “Hockey is the one part of my life where I don’t have to use my brain. It’s the only thing that comes naturally to me, and mentioning all the places where I struggled would mean I’d be treated differently. I’ve spent so much of my life being treated different, and I hate it. I do my best to hide it from the guys. From you. No one knows.”

Hell.

I know the pressure of being on a championship team at such a young age. I know the scrutiny you’re under from the media, from the fans. To carry all of that and this isn’t easy fucking work, and my respect for him multiplies.

“Can you tell me how your learning disabilities correlate to your behavior on the ice and all those penalties? It’s only February, but you already have as many minutes as some guys had all last season. I’m not mad. I just want to understand so we can come up with a plan going forward.”

“Brady Williams, the Tigers’ assistant captain, played at BU when I was at BC. We also went to rival high schools in Canada, so the fucker has been in my life for way too long. He knows I struggle when I’m off the ice, and he likes to start shit with me. Saying things under his breath. Calling me names. I’m sick of it. Punching him in the face is exactly what that dickbag deserves. He’s lucky I haven’t run into him off the ice. I’d fucking destroy him.”

“I get why you’re frustrated, Ethan, but you have to know he’s doing it because it’ll get a rise out of you.”

“Trust me, Coach. I’ve tried ignoring him, but he’s a piece of shit.”

Ethan leans back and folds his arms over his chest. “It’s not just me he targets. It’s anyone he deems weaker than him. When Emmy was on the team, he said things about her. Thank fucking god Maverick never heard, or Brady would be six feet under. I know I joke around about women, but my

mom raised me right. I respect them, but he doesn’t. When he mentions his ex-wife, I want to strangle him on her behalf.”

“Okay. Look. We don’t play the Tigers again until the first week in April. I need you to try to keep your temper under wraps until then.”

“Come on, Coach. Half of the fighting is to get the fans involved. You know they love it when we go at each other.”

“I’m asking you to knock it off, Ethan, and behave yourself.”

“Okay. Yeah.” Ethan nods. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean anything by it. I love this sport, and all that stuff makes it more fun.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’ve always hated bullies. “As for Brady Williams, I’ll talk to the league. I won’t mention names, only that I’ve heard there might be some inappropriate behavior happening behind the scenes that doesn’t align with our values. And if that doesn’t work, I played with Williams’s coach at BC. I’ll give him a heads-up.”

“That means a lot.” Ethan smiles, visibly relaxing. “I don’t want to be a problem child. It just… happens. I’m protective of things that are important to me, and being treated right is very important to me.”

“You have a good head on your shoulders, kid. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank my mom. She’s the one who got me started in rec hockey when I was first diagnosed. Saved my life. Gave me something to focus on rather than all the things I wasn’t good at.”

“Don’t forget your dancing videos.” I give him a nod. “Keep them PG,

and we won’t have a problem.”

“What about PG-13?”

“Fine. But if I catch wind of you recording something without clothes on, your ass is in for a world of hurt.”

“Yes sir.” He grins and pops to his feet. “Anything else you need from me?”

“Yeah. I’m here, okay? I’m not going to make you feel different, but if there’s something I can help with, let me. The team has resources. Ways to make things easier. You have to tell me though. I’m not a goddamn mind reader.”

“Thanks, Coach. I appreciate you.” My phone buzzes twice in my desk drawer, and he smirks. “Something else requiring your attention?”

“Scammers, probably. Go get some rest, Richardson. And no minutes in

the box in tomorrow’s game. Got it?”

“Got it. See you tomorrow morning.”

When he leaves, I grab a sticky note and jot down a list of things I’m going to look into that might ease some of the stress he’s carrying. I make a note to talk to our community outreach staff to see if we can find an autographing method that might be more accommodating for him. I add the coaching staff to the list, wanting to fill them in on what’s going on so we don’t set Ethan up for failure.

Forty-five minutes later, I have a plan of action I’m going to implement.

I finally let myself look at my text messages, smiling at the ones from Hannah that have come through.

HE: I’m not someone who can sit around all day, so I left your place.

HE: But I’ll see you tomorrow morning for some skating.

Me: Sorry for not responding. Coaching stuff. The boys have morning skate tomorrow, so can we do 12?

HE: Don’t apologize. I know you’re busy. 12 is great!

Me: See you then, IQ.

HE: Can’t wait, BB.

“Sorry, Coach, I forgot my—holy shit.” Ethan stands in the doorway to my office with his mouth open. “Are you smiling?” He glances around. “Is the world ending? Is this a simulation? What the hell?”

“I’m not smiling.” I scowl and scrub a hand over my face. “Mind your business.”

“You are grinning. And that’s not a ‘I just watched a funny video’ grin.

That’s a smitten grin. Oh, shit. The boys are going to love this.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Sorry, C.” Ethan shrugs and holds up his phone. “I’ve already told the masses. We have bets on your love life.”

“You all need new hobbies.”

“I get it, Coach. Love is scary.”

“I’m not—don’t use that word.”

“Someone is defensive.” He winks. “For what it’s worth, happiness looks good on you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I look exactly the same.”

“Sure you do.” Ethan swipes his phone off my desk and waves. “Don’t forget to invite us to the wedding!”

When he leaves again, I pull up my phone camera. I study myself and frown.

Same beard. Same circles under my eyes from not getting enough sleep.

Same nose I’ve broken half a dozen times.

I don’t really look different, do I?

Another message from Hannah comes through. This time, it’s a photo of her in the grocery store holding up a pineapple, your least favorite fruit!!! written under it, and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in my laptop screen.

Smiling.

I’m fucking smiling just at the sight of her, and I guess that tracks.

I like her.

I like her in a completely normal, completely acceptable I don’t want to just fuck you, I also want to feed you three meals a day kind of way.

I like her in a how the fuck do we make this work long-term even though there are fourteen years between us kind of way.

That’s a problem for Later Brody, because Current Brody takes a selfie sticking out his tongue. Types the bane of my existence and tries not to get fucking butterflies when Hannah hearts the message in response