Cubby Season (Green Line Ice #3)

Chapter 1

People are perplexing. I don’t enjoy them.

One could even say I hate them. And for someone like me, someone who chose to build their life around healing and educating people, that is an issue.

Come to think of it, all that healing and educating may be the reason why I hate people.

They’re just too needy, with too many nuances.

Too many layers. Too many ways to say one thing, and not enough of saying what they mean.

There are exceptions, of course.

Within ten minutes of meeting David Harris, coach of the Boston College men’s hockey team, I deduced not only that he was strikingly handsome, but he also possessed many qualities I seek in those I’m forced to interact with.

Assertiveness, brutal honesty, and methodicalness being of utmost importance.

Perhaps predictably, the same cannot be said for his young charges. And it’s them, his players, who will consume the majority of my final twelve weeks of clinical training.

At the side of the man I’d spent a week practice-smiling at in my vanity mirror, I’m witnessing their first pre-season practice after summer break. Though it feels like I’ve been here for hours, one glance at my watch tells me it’s been fifteen minutes.

Fifteen.

That’s it?

The arena’s harsh lighting isn’t helping, but there is one, or twenty odd, reasons all the paracetamol in the world would fail to nullify the headache brewing.

“They’re a good group,” Coach Harris says, confidence briefly faltering as two forwards slam into each other, peel apart like two halves of a banana skin, then fall onto their backs. “Utter morons, but good.”

“So I hear. Faith mentioned you’ve created quite the NHL factory. What was it? Three Bears players that went on to the majors?”

“Five.” He nods, with a proud puffing of his chest.

Ugh, straight men are so easily fluffed.

“Two were drafted at eighteen,” adds his assistant—and my clinical supervisor—Coach White.

“And three were picked up as free agents. This year is looking just as promising. Again we’ve got plenty of talent and two more draftees, Malkovich and Bailey.

Both are at their respective team camps, but should be back— ”

“Ah, Basse. Glad you decided to join us,” Coach Harris cuts off his 2IC and gives an un-enthused grin to a hulk of man more suited to the set of a Baywatch reboot than a hockey rink, approaching us from the right

“Hey Coach. Sorry ‘bout the time. Quinny was—”

“Running late? Well, there’s a shock,” David huffs, looking at me like I’m supposed to know who Quinn is. “I know you two are attached at the hip, but maybe you should make your way to campus independent of each other.”

Blushing, he rubs one hand over the back of his neck and shoves the other in his pocket, fingers clearly fiddling with something inside.

No one else seems disturbed by this, so I presume it’s not as suspicious as it looks.

“Yeah, nah, that wouldn’t work. Troye has the other car.

I could catch the Green Line, I suppose. Or Quinny could get Lotte to–”

“I lost interest before you started, Basse.” And there’s that refreshing brutal honesty.

Exasperated by the ten second conversation, he points to the two goalies laughing hysterically as they whack each other’s pads with their sticks.

“For God’s sake, go and do something with Larsson and Nurse before I send them back to their mommies. ”

“Sure thing.” He flashes us a quick smile and wink, then hits the ice, slipping his helmet on as he goes.

“He’s your goalie, Coach?” I ask. Trying, but likely failing to keep the skepticism from my tone.

“He looks young to hold such a position.” As I say that, I notice the manner in which Larsson and Nurse stand to attention as he approaches.

There’s a level of respect. An eagerness to impress in their movements missing mere seconds beforehand.

Observing the trio, David Harris nods and pops a piece of gum in his mouth.

Great.

He’s a chewer.

No matter what he says now, that sloppy, gnawing of polyisobutylene will be all I notice.

“He’s one of them, yes. We have a full-time coach, but Basse will be helping out a few times a week. He was our starting goalie last season, but two concussions within weeks of each other put an end to his career.”

My stomach twists. “Poor kid.”

“Yeah. It’s a crying shame. He was a rare talent. And weird as fuck. The NHL would have loved him.” I’m not one that would usually be described as a giggler, but the last half of that sentence shocks one out of me.

“As a former tender myself, I should probably be offended.” I pause, waiting for the reaction.

Types such as Coach Harris are normally surprised by my—ugh, I hate this term—jock history.

David Harris doesn’t bat an eyelid at my revelation, which means one of two things.

He’s not listening, or Faith already blabbed.

“But you can’t be, because I’m right. Right?”

“Right.”

Again, I wait for the inevitable follow-ups.

You don’t seem like the type. Why did you quit?

Was it because you’re a talent-less hack, or because you’re a raging homosexual?

I’m mildly disappointed when that, too, fails to eventualize.

When I follow his line of sight, I see why.

His junior coach is skating on one foot and attempting to juggle four pucks.

“You’re supposed to be teaching them, Basse, not applying for head clown.” Ridiculously, I find myself chuckling again. It’s over suddenly though, when the mood shifts, and I sense a disturbance in the force.

“Oh, you’re here, Jamie.” Cool. Sterile. Monotone. My sister has arrived.

“As you see,” I reply flatly before leaning closer and whisper, “And it’s James, please and thank you.”

“Sorry Jamie. I mean James. I mean Jamie.”

“Really. Here? Aren’t we above this?”

“You’re a child.”

“I know I am, but what are you?”

Most of my free time is spent with Faith, who is the team’s psych consultant, and I do love her. I do. But as Mum always said, the only things we have in common is our surname, autism, and a severe superiority complex, which means much of that time is spent in conflict rather than comfort.

True to form, Faith merely scoffs, then turns and speaks to Coach Harris as though I’m not there. “Since he is my brother, and not my sister, I trust Jamie’s received a more … respectful reception than the one I was afforded?”

David stops scowling at his players, and joins me with a huffed laugh.

“Well, we’ve had no wolf whistles, baying at the moon, or marriage proposals, but the day is young.

” Since we’re neck deep in the world of hockey, the day could be as long as time itself and I should think myself safe from unwanted advances.

In my experience, queer and hockey don’t mix.

Taking my iPad from the satchel I placed on the bench, I shift my focus back onto the ice, doing my best to forget my sibling’s presence, and the touch of melancholy slowly sinking in.

Immediately, I note the goalies are sorely in need of core and hip strengthening.

If Larsson is anything to go by, some basic breathing bio-mechanics wouldn’t hurt, either.

I need to speak to this … Basse. My hockey history means I understand the propensity for sportsmen to refer to each other by their surnames, but as an independent thinker—not a sheep—I prefer to address others by their given names.

“Sorry to interrupt, David, but what is Basse’s first name?”

“Brady,” Coach and Faith answer in unison.

No way. I grip Faith’s arm and spin her to face me. “That’s your Brady?”

Eyes wide, Faith emits a pained peep, slaps her hand over mine, and drags me towards the players tunnel, not an easy task since I’m well over two hundred and fifty pounds of man-flesh.

“David, excuse us for a minute.” Now just the two of us, the fancy accent we both adopted when we moved to the States is forgotten.

“What the hell, Jamie? He is not my Brady. I told you there was nothing going on between us and I meant it.”

“Relax, sis. I was just teasing. I know you’re not stupid enough to get involved with a student.

” She nods, but it’s premature. “You were definitely close though.” I really shouldn’t tease her.

Like me, Faith has obsessive behaviors, meaning once we care about someone we can easily become fixated and overly protective, which is exactly what happened with Brady.

She also has a wickedly sharp sense of humor, and for those that don’t know how she ticks, that’s a lethal combination.

As is her right-left jab.

“Shut your face, Jamie.” She gives me a perfect one-two combo, then sashays back to the open rink.

I follow, but decide it might be wise to give her some space.

With a glance toward David, I motion towards my intended destination and head out to the goals, sliding to a halt alongside the trio, earning a dimple-popping smile from Brady.

“Nice moves, Doc.” Great, thirty minutes here and I have a nickname.

“Mr. Plum would suffice.”

“Plum!” he squawks. “Your last name is Plum? Plum as in Professor Plum? You’re related to Faith?”

“I am. She is my sister, and coincidentally, I am her brother. She never mentioned me? I thought you two were quite the bosom buddies.”

“Bosom.” Larsson and Nurse snort.

“We are mates, yeah,” Brady replies, eyes narrowing in warning towards his juniors. “But she never let slip that she had a bro. Actually, ‘part from growing up in Sydney, she’s never spoken about her family at all.”

This shouldn’t come as a surprise, but still, I’m slightly wounded. “Too busy regaling the world with stories of herself, I suspect.”

“No way.” He smiles. He seems to do that a lot.

“Faith is amazing. She’s been great for the team.

Kept our heads screwed on right throughout the finals, and kept the boys humble after the win.

She was a great support when I had to quit, too.

” The grin drops, and so does my stomach.

The poor kid can’t be more than twenty-one or two, and he’s already lost his dream.

Having endured a life filled with the same sharp pang of grief and regret, I fight the urge to engage in pointless trauma sharing.

Some may believe this appropriate, but some are also fools.

I know myself, my list of flaws is as jam-packed as my Rolodex of annoying human traits.

Having fallen victim to my own weaknesses one too many times, I can’t let myself again.

I can’t get bogged down with other people’s business.

I must control my emotions. There’s just too much at stake to let that happen now.

With that in mind, I move on, perhaps coldly.

“Glad to hear it, but there’s a new variety of Plum in town, and this one is less concerned with the emotions clogging that giant muscle in your head, and more with oxygenating it. Now, let’s get to work.”