Chapter 26 #2
He takes a long, indulgent sip of his coffee, and I wish it was me that he was savoring like that.
He peers at me over the cup, and I realize that he knows exactly what he’s doing, the way his tongue darts out to lick at a drop of coffee that’s sliding down the mouth of the cup.
Finally, when I wonder just how much longer I can keep my hands to myself, he swallows.
“Thanksgiving was nice. Me, my parents, and Lyla. Plus, my uncles were there along with my cousin, Reed. He’s a year or so younger than you, I think. He did undergrad at Radford and is here for law school now.”
I nod along, hungry for any information that he gives me about his life. Hungry for him, too, but I’ll take what I can get. “That sounds fun,” I say, meaning it. Anything with Chase sounds fun.
“You’d have to ask Lyla about that one. I think she wishes that there were more kids her age, but there’s definitely no shortage of piggyback rides.”
I grin. “Ahh, yes. The traditional Thanksgiving piggyback ride. A rite of passage.”
He smiles at me before his eyes drop down to my lips, which I lick instinctively, wishing that he would just lean forward and kiss me.
Until I met Chase, I didn’t know that I could want like this. That even the smallest moments could make me feel overcome with a desire–a pull–to move instinctively toward him. Except conversationally, I’ve never been an especially pushy person.
And now?
I want to be in his space. In his bed. In his heart.
I want to worm my way next to him and into him and never leave.
And I’m thinking about doing just that when I feel a presence next to me. A sickly sweet scent follows just after.
I turn my head to see a haggard-looking Zane, a duffel bag in hand. He unceremoniously throws it on top of the pile that Chase had been neatly arranging before my arrival.
“Didn’t bring enough for the group, teacher’s pet?” he says, eyeing my coffee.
“Guess not.” I take another sip, ignoring his jab. The coffee smell when my nose gets closer to the cup again is the only thing making it so that I don’t need to take a step away from him.
But seriously, what the fuck is up with this guy?
For one thing, he looks like he spent all of Thanksgiving drinking and kept the party rolling through the morning. His clothes are rumpled and he’s wearing sunglasses, even though it’s a dreary late-November day.
And the smell. It’s like the alcohol is oozing out of his pores, and he used some cologne to try and dampen the smell. Only, the two scents are mingling together into something that’s making my stomach churn.
“The treatment supplies are already packed,” Chase says tersely, and I can tell that he’s annoyed. He adjusts Zane’s bag so that it’s lined up with the rest of the equipment and gear, and I swear that I can hear glass clinking inside.
I feel like I should walk away, but I stay rooted in place. Not because I think Chase needs me to come to his defense, but because I’m not going to be scared away. Sure, he may be a member of the coaching staff, but he’s acting like a certifiable asshole right now.
Especially when you consider that Chase is the one who’s probably been here for hours already, making sure that the team has what they need for the game. Zane, on the other hand, just rolled up and looks like death warmed over. And we’re supposed to trust this guy with our health and well-being?
But instead of slinking off to his seat to sleep off his hangover on the ride, Zane crosses his arms over his chest. “Guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks. Don’t know what we ever did without you.”
I’ve been to Chase’s apartment–I know that they aren’t paying him anything close to good money. People, especially at the collegiate level, do this for the love of the game.
Still, Chase and I haven’t talked about Zane in a while, and I wonder if something else is going on between them. I know that he was worried, before anything happened between us, that Zane had the wrong idea.
I wonder if Zane still has that idea? Only, now he wouldn’t be wrong.
I look toward Chase, wondering what’s going to happen.
The players who suit up for the game, along with the coaches, are already on the bus, and I was one of the last people to arrive since I don’t have to make sure all my gear is packed.
And, maybe, I arrived later than normal because I knew that I’d be able to catch Chase prepping the supplies and get to talk to him without the prying eyes on the bus.
Hockey players are nosy as hell, even though everyone wants to act like they’re above it.
I don’t think that Chase is going to take the bait which means that an uncomfortable silence settles over the three of us. Finally, he lowers the door of the exterior compartment so that it runs flush with the rest of the bus.
Then, he straightens the lapels of his jacket and gives Zane a look–like he’s dressing him down with his eyes–that I can’t help but find sexy as all hell. “I hope you get your shit together by tomorrow.”
“What’s that mean?” Zane defends, taking a step closer.
I don’t know how I never realized what a loser Zane was before.
He was the athletic trainer my sophomore and junior years, but I guess I was lucky that I never had to work with him in any serious capacity.
Now, standing next to Chase, he looks like an amateur trying to cosplay as a professional.
It’s sad, really, but I don’t have a lot of grace to give him when I want to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze.
I know that Chase wouldn’t want that, though.
He definitely doesn’t need me to defend him. Especially not where his work is concerned.
Plus, I know that under his jacket and three-quarter-zip sweater, every inch of his lean body is rippling with muscles.
I get a little distracted thinking about it until Chase’s voice pulls me back. “I’m not doing this in front of a player, Zane. We can talk tomorrow before the game. Make sure you’re sober.”
Zane looks at me before dragging his stare back to Chase. “You mean your pet?”
I barely have time to inch out of the way before Chase has Zane pushed against the bus.
He thrusts his arm into Zane’s chest, easily pinning him.
“I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, but it ends right now.
Do not speak to a player like that. Any player,” Chase barks. “You’re lucky I don’t report your ass.”
“Chill. I was just joking,” Zane says, doing something that I fucking hate. Acting like an asshole until they get called out and then crying about how ‘it was just a joke.’ Absolute coward behavior.
I think that Chase realizes, however defensible his behavior is, that it wouldn’t look good if someone else saw.
He releases Zane and takes a step back. “Get your head on straight,” he says at the same time he picks up the bag that he’ll take on the bus with him.
He shoots me a glance and then adds, “You should be on the bus, too.”
I nod and follow him, not looking back at Zane. When Chase uses that tone, even if it is in a professional capacity, I’m pretty much putty in his hands.
I didn’t seek Chase out on the four hour bus ride to Maine. Zane slunk into a seat with seconds to spare, and he didn’t move again until we rolled into the parking lot of our hotel.
After the team dinner, everyone went to their rooms to rest up and complete their pre-game rituals–which are varying degrees of weird, obsessive, and time-consuming.
Coach has this rule where players are randomly paired up in hotel rooms for each away game. He thinks that it keeps us adaptable, even if what it really does is make us learn new things about one another to be annoyed by.
Case in point, I’m rooming with a sophomore named Max who is probably the most particular dude that I’ve ever met.
I had the television on, and that was disrupting his ritual. I try to be a reasonable guy, so I pulled out my iPad and put on my headphones. Apparently, that wasn’t good enough. The movement on my screen was still distracting him.
This went on for about thirty minutes–where every single thing, including breathing, seemed to somehow interfere with his zen–before I decided to take a shower. I’ve been in here for about fifteen minutes when I hear a knock on the door.
I turn off the water and grab a towel. “What?”
“Are you almost done in there?” a muffled voice calls back to me.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and take deep breaths so that I don’t say something mean to this superstitious idiot. He probably needs to take a shit at a specific time or else he thinks that we don’t have a chance to win tomorrow. “Just about.”
And look–I’m not knocking on superstitions. God knows that I have my own. I always like to tape my stick right before the game, and I have a pair of socks that I will wear without washing if we’re winning. Assuming that I’m playing.
With all my extracurricular activities with Chase, I can’t exactly be mad that I’m not walking around in crunchy gear.
Still, I smile, thinking about the fact that I’m sure Chase would understand if we had to keep a special hamper for those gross socks. Perks of dating another hockey player, which is something I’ve never considered before.
And I know that we’re not dating, or whatever, but we’re something.
“It’d be nice if the bathroom was available for everyone to use,” Max calls loudly, and I feel like I could Kool-Aid man through the locked door and tackle his ass to the ground. I don’t even care that I’m naked.
With my workouts on the ice, re-joining the team in the weight room, and almost full use of my leg, I’m finally coming back into my body.
I wrap a towel low around my hips and tie it. Then, I throw the door open. Coach wouldn’t appreciate a fine for breaking something in the room. I know because it’s happened before. Big men in small spaces can have that effect sometimes.
“Dude…” I stop in my tracks when I step into the room. It’s completely dark, and the only light is coming from the bathroom behind me. “I can’t see anything.”
“That’s the point. For the darkness to be immersive.” I can hear his voice, but I can’t see his almost black hair and pale skin, which I’m surprised isn’t glowing in the dark right about now.
He can’t see my face, and that’s probably a good thing.
I look toward where the windows should be.
Radford doesn’t make its players slum it, but we’re also not at a five-star hotel.
Only, it looks like there are fancy blackout curtains, keeping out any light.
I crane my neck, trying to make the shapes of the room come into focus.
“Did you tape something over the windows?”
I can hear the satisfaction in his voice when he says, “I brought my own curtains.”
“You brought your own curtains?” I echo, wondering how I’m ever going to find my clothing.
“Have you ever been in a sensory deprivation tank? I always go to one the day before a game. Only, it’s harder during away games. So, if I make it dark in here and lay on the bed and meditate, it provides the same effect. Sort of.”
“Sort of?” I’m a parrot at this point. But, to my own frustration, an interested parrot.
I would have never known that he was so particular, given that he’s one of the quieter dudes on the team.
I shuffle into the room with my hand out in front of me, trying to feel for my bed and the clothing that I left on top of it.
I find it more disconcerting than anything, how without my eyesight and in the quiet of the room, it’s hard to get my bearings. I can hear my pulse thrumming through my ears.
Max doesn’t seem to be having the same problem. “It’s great, isn’t it? The body can reach a meditative state. And,” he goes on, “it reduces anxiety and stress. Plus, it allows for a deeper sleep.”
“Shit,” I curse when my toe hits the bedframe. “I’m not feeling especially relaxed right now.”
“You’ll get used to it,” he says at the same time that my hands finally touch my stuff. I use my towel to dry off and do my best to put on my clothing facing the right way. What I should do is turn on the light and tell him to fuck off–it’s only nine o’clock, if that–but I feel for the guy.
No one wants to develop a crazy superstition. It just sort of happens, and then our hyper-focused brains get fixated on the idea that somehow this changed something. Unlocked a piece of the winning puzzle. And we’d be tempting fate to go against it.
Plus, I’m not even playing. It feels shitty to disrupt his pregame ritual, even if it’s batshit crazy, when nothing’s expected of me tomorrow. And as annoyed as I am to admit it, Max has been killing it lately. Could I stand to be the one who throws off his mojo?
I groan quietly, knowing that I won’t do that to him.
Sometimes, I really hate this sport that I love.