Chapter 11
IZZY
Why the fuck did Triton Jeffries have to end up playing for the Tallahassee Tridents?
“Have a great game, Princey-Poo. I can read the scoreboard to you later to tell you how bad you choke.”
I’m done for. This is it. This is the fucking end of my career and I haven’t even gotten a full season in. None of the guys on the team know about my issues. Not even Mr. Talbot knows, and I live in his house. But Jeffries is going to say something on the ice to out me. I know he will.
Thank fuck he doesn’t know I’m gay... or does he?
The last time we played on the same team was back before his family moved to Colorado and sent him and his brother to some elite private school that is supposed to be a pipeline to the pros for ice hockey.
Triton was always picking on me because I was tendie in more games than his little brother, Loki, who didn’t even like hockey.
“Whatever it is, shake it off, Little Prince,” a familiar voice calls out as I’m headed to the bench to go back to the locker room.
My sour mood and anxiety vanishes in an instant when my head snaps up to see Eric Jones leaning casually against the boards at center ice. He and I texted a lot over the last few weeks – his niece is and absolutely adorable wrinkly little pink alien – but he never told me that he was traded.
“What happened with the Bruisers?” I ask, leaning over the boards on my side of the red line. “You never told me you weren’t in Baltimore anymore.”
Jones chuckles and bumps my right pad with his stick.
God, I’ve forgotten how that soft laugh can put me at ease.
It might have only been a couple of months, but being fully accepted by someone who is not biologically coded to was something special.
Eric Jones is like the big brother I never had, and no one will ever convince me to cut him out of my life.
“There was a flu outbreak and Tallahassee needed a D-man fast. I had short listed the team for my trade possibilities since my sister lives there, and here I am.”
He shrugs and tries to play it off as no big deal, but nothing could hide the light behind his smile.
For a player, there comes a point in your career where you have to accept that this is the highest you will reach.
You can dream big – make it to the NAPH and make millions of dollars becoming a hero to kids all over the world.
Reality is, most players don’t ever get to play for a paycheck at all, let alone climb the tiers to that stage.
Jones had resigned himself to never climbing out of the HLENA again, but suddenly he’s back up in the PHL and at his age, he might still have a shot at the Bigs because Miami is almost as bad as DC when it comes to defense and they have a few big money guys entering free agency at the end of this season.
“Still not letting you score on me,” I mumble through my smile when Coach calls us to head off the ice so that the Zamboni can clean it for the game. My bad mood is basically gone now, thanks to Jones.
Halfway through the second period, I know I fucked up when I let another comment from Jeffries distract me and his partner gets a soft one past my blocker on the top shelf.
Up until now, the shots the Tridents have been throwing at me were solid or trying to set up a million fucking screens.
Those types of shots I’m great with. It’s the slow and soft ones that I struggle with because I overthink them. And Triton is fully aware of this...
“Shake it off, Charming!”
Coach’s voice pulls my attention to the bench where I see Mr. Talbot glancing back at the stands behind him instead of the ice.
I can’t help feeling like I’m letting him down, too.
The whole team is counting on me to keep up the win streak going into the holiday break, but I’m fucking it all to hell.
The score on the Jumbo-tron says 3-2 in their favor.
The only reason I can tell is because our number is always the one on the left and that was the third puck that’s gotten past me so far today.
I miss the start of play, but my body reacts on instinct.
Snatching the puck out of the air with my glove, I sniffle as quietly as I can before turning to squeeze out some water to hide my discomfort.
My head just isn’t in the game with Jeffries hounding me every time he’s within ear shot.
Most of what he’s saying is typical chirps that I get from anyone, but there’s always a chance he will say something that crosses the line.
It’s that thought that keeps creeping in every time he opens his mouth.
“Nice save, Your Highness,” he croons as he lines up next to my crease for the face off. “It’s a good thing stopping a puck doesn’t require you to read considering you couldn’t even work at McDonald’s if this falls through.”
Brayden Kim, probably the most level headed defensemen you will ever meet in the world of hockey, immediately goes after Triton as soon as the puck drops.
The guys all have seen the way he’s been getting his digs in at me, but I didn’t think anyone had actually heard any of it until now.
Before it fully processes in my head what is going on, every member of the Axes and Tridents on the ice are locked in a brawl in the corner with the officials trying, rather unsuccessfully, to break it up.
Skating over, I reach in to pull Jones out of the fray while the rest of the guys go nuts. At first, he turns like he’s going to drop the gloves with me, but once he sees who grabbed him out, he relaxes.
“Can’t have you ruining your shot over that asshole, Jonesy,” I tell him as I release him.
He just gives me a bright smile, shaking his head in exasperation. “Only you would think to help out a guy on the other team before helping your own teammate, Little Prince.”
I shrug and go back to my crease, resting my arms on top of the crossbar to wait for the officials to break up the rest of the scrum.
When I pulled Jones out, most of the Axes backed away, but Kim is unrelenting – screaming something in Jeffries’ direction as the linesman pushes him to the penalty box.
Unfortunately, Triton gets to skate to the Tridents’ bench and we’re suddenly on the penalty kill.
When the buzzer sounds for the end of the period, I’m so buzzed up with anxiety that you could probably power an entire city on my nerves alone.
The asshole didn’t let up on me at all – continuing to throw out remarks with abandon now that he knows the refs won’t do a damn thing about it.
I’m trying not to let it show, but with the board showing 2-5 now, I’m losing my fucking mind.
I haven’t been pulled since the first – and only – game that my grandmother attended in Juniors almost five years ago. And I sure as fuck haven’t let in five goals since then either. I’m not even a month into my PHL career. I can’t be doing this shit.
“Shake it off, Kid,” Jason taps my pad with his stick on his way to his cubby in the locker room. “If you ever need a reminder of why we do this, just read the sign above the door.”
Nodding, I shuffle toward the toilets to get some privacy. I can’t let them see me cry. Grown men don’t break down when their captain tells them to read something.