Chapter 8 Cory
Much to many a professor’s disappointment, during today’s lecture I was distracted, lethargic, a step behind on every move.
It’s not a good sign. Classes have just begun and are overwhelming me already.
Now I’m at practice, my first as captain, and I’m afraid things haven’t progressed.
They may actually be worse, and it’s all because of last night.
Because of Jimmy.
Jimmy who got my Superman reference, and didn’t give me shit about it. Jimmy who touched like a man possessed, and nearly had me blowing my load the instant he tweaked my nipples.
As lame as it sounds, I was really into him.
Like, I may not have even blocked him after I left.
Overriding all the positives, though, is the silhouette of a cowardly, naked man clutching his phone to his head, promising to be home soon.
Should I have given him a chance to explain before storming out? Maybe. There’s a ton of guys that have no issues hooking up with family men on the down low.
As for me, I am not, and will not ever be one of them.
You want to have a little down low fun while single hiding out in the closet?
Who the fuck am I to judge when I’m not really out myself?
Adding a third for fun? You do you. None of my business.
But to go to the extent this guy did. Having a secret place to bring home his beautiful men? Ugh. No thanks.
Signaling it’s time for a break, Coach blows his whistle and points to the bench, a severe scowl aimed squarely at me as he does so. I take a seat on the bench and bury my head in my hands.
“Cubby. Dude. I’m hungover as fuck, but you’re as slow as a wet week out there. You okay?”
I raise my head and groan. “I don’t know what that means, but I think I’m going to be sick.”
Brady’s cheeks flush and he hops from foot to foot like he needs to pee. “Oh, shit. Want me to get a trainer? Or a bucket? Or both?”
“Nope. Just a hot man with a moral compass.”
His eyebrows rise then knit together. “Oh, I. Um, I dunno if I can help you there.”
Despite being a year older than me, he grunts like an old man as he drops at my side, and slings his giant arm over my hunched back. It’s not at all helpful for my nausea.
“Can I ask you something, Brades? It’s kind of personal.”
He tightens his grip. “Shoot, Little Guy.”
Swallowing my pride, and the vomit he seems determined to squeeze out of me, I inhale.
Exhale. “I’m gay, Brades. Gay and quickly discovering the worst thing about being gay is men, because men, including myself, are disgusting.
” I pause, waiting for a shocked, OH MY GOD NO WAY, reaction, but my grand coming out earns nothing more than a head nod and a cautious smile.
It’s both brilliant and anticlimactic. “So yeah. I’m new to it.
Have been hitting the apps pretty hard, had some amazing sex, but have also met a few guys I feared may rob me blind or wear my skin as a jacket if given half the chance. ”
“Jesus, Cub.”
“Yeah. Well, anyway, last night I met up with a guy at his apartment and things got weird.”
“Since your guts aren’t hanging out, I know it’s not the skin thing, but he didn’t actually like, rob or hurt you in another way did he?”
“What?” I rear upright, causing his hand to slide down my back. “No, nothing like that. I mean, maybe psychologically, ‘cause I can’t stop thinking about him, and his massive biceps I wanted to be sandwiched in … or the fact that he was married.”
That spurs a reaction I’ve been expecting. “He was married?”
“Yep. I think so. He didn’t tell me as much, not directly. But we were in bed, and he was sucking my—”
“Don’t need that level of detail, Cub,” he whines, glancing over his shoulder.
“Right. Sorry, so yeah, we were fooling around and his phone rang and rang, and he ignored it at first ‘cause he was doing this thing with his tongue. But eventually he answered it and, yeah. It was his wife. Pretty sure he had a kid, too.”
“How do you know? You just said he didn’t tell you.”
“He didn’t, and I didn’t give him the chance to. It was obvious. You should have heard the affection in his voice when he called her, Faithy, and then he asked if Dyl was okay.”
Brady rubs his hand over his chin. “Hmm. That does sound sus. But it might not have been his missus It could have been a friend or—”
“Nah. It was his wife. It all fits. He was fucking huge, and smoking hot, so I didn’t pay much attention at first, but I should have known the second I walked in and saw the deal with his furniture.
And by deal, I mean there was none. No photos or art or ugly plastic plants or any fucking thing other than a bed, coffee table and sofa.
And there was a bucket of cleaning stuff—”
“Oh, maybe he was—”
“And it was fancy, too. Rent would have been a bomb. Who has a place like that with nothing in it?”
“Maybe—”
“Freaks, that’s who.”
“Maybe—”
“God, a weirdo like that. I bet the place was littered with cameras.”
“Oi!” Brady’s surprisingly soft hand clamps over my mouth.
“Can I speak for a second?” I nod, and Brady releases his grip.
“He could definitely have been married with a kid. Or, like I was trying to say, Faithy could have been anyone. A sister. A neighbor. And there’s lots of reasons his apartment could be empty. ”
“Yeah, name one other than fuck house, or he just scrubbed the place down ‘cause it was a crime scene.”
“Maybe he was moving?”
“Or maybe it was his kinky-ass, sex dungeon hideaway …. Don’t roll your eyes at me, Basse.”
Clenching then flattening his hands over his thighs, he pushes off the bench, then bends down to whisper, “Thank you for trusting me with your sexuality. I’m really proud and honored that you feel comfortable coming out to me, and hope you know it will stay between us until you tell me otherwise.”
“Thanks, Brades”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he says firmly. “I’m not judging you at all when I say this, but you called this guy a freak, and there’s worse than married men with kids out there, Cubs. I’ve heard lots of horror stories from Troye to prove it. Maybe casual hook-ups with strangers aren’t right for you.”
“Nooo,” I whine. “I’ve just tasted them and they’re so yummy.”
“Look,” he laughs. “I know you love your comics and fanfic, but this isn’t fiction.
Letting your imagination run riot on the regular could bring more trouble than it’s worth.
Skip the apps for a bit, and try old fashioned dating.
” He chuckles again when I roll my eyes, then ruffles my hair like a big brother style.
I like it way too much. “Just think about it, okay?”
“I might die of boredom or boner-overload while I do, but sure. I’ll think about it.”
I do not think about it.
I agonize.
But not about ditching the apps as Brady suggested. No. What’s running through my mind more than Coach’s plays, or sports psych theories, are those hands. Those arms, and the body they were attached to. I can’t stop. The depravity of my thoughts matched only by the obscenity of his actions.
Maybe that’s why I can think of nothing else. Because he’s forbidden.
Yeah. Forbidden. Like that fic I was reading at O’Reilly’s where Spider-Man hooks up with Hulk, much to the chagrin of Daddy Stark.
At the most unfortuitous moment, my dick twitches, and chubs. We’re not talking Iron Man hard here, but enough for me to be uncomfortable in, and grateful for my cup and hockey padding.
“Isn’t that right, Cory? Cory–Cubby Malkovich!!”
“Huh?” A chorus of laughter follows, everyone finding my absentmindedness hilarious.
Everyone except the coaching staff. Coach White is shaking his head.
Brady is mouthing, wake the fuck up, his eyes almost popping out, and Coach Harris.
Well, he looks as though he’s regretting whatever life choices led him here.
Possibly making me captain, too.
“Sorry, Coach,” I mumble, blush burning my cheeks. “I think my time in Montreal is catching up with me.” It’s a lame excuse. Knowing that, I avoid Brady’s glare.
“It’s been a chaotic time for you, Cory. I get that. But your transition from college to the NHL is a rough one, so if you can’t handle a two week training camp, and a four hour car ride home, you may want to reconsider your future. Same goes for you, Bailey.”
“What did I do?” Sam Bailey whines at my side.
Like he hadn’t just kneecapped, and thrown Sam under the bus, Coach moves on.
“Unless you’ve already scared them off, the Plums will be back today, and I expect a better display during James’ session than what I witnessed yesterday. You are not preschoolers. You are adults. Act like it.”
Once he’s done chewing our asses out, Coach calls out our next drill, splitting forwards and D-men for zone work.
Still sulking, I slide on my helmet, and join the rest of the forwards at center ice, all the while, trying to figure out who the other Plum is.
Does Professor Plum have a brother or sister?
A second hit Plum would fit Coach’s demand for better behavior.
The boys are pigs, and would have squealed as much if there were two of her.
I’ve got no time to ask, though, because Coach White has set up for five-on-five drills, and the next hour is lost in a blur of sweat, not quite blood, and for the new guys, definite tears.
The first few weeks of preseason training are demonic.
It’s not so bad for me this year, as I started early in Montreal.
But for the others, skating ’til you vomit is not unheard of.
And should we fuck around, and really piss Coach off, bag skates are guaranteed.
Judging by the hue his quickly balding head is taking, they’re imminent.
Training and trying not to set him off has at least taken my mind off that dick Jimmy. I’ve hardly thought about him.
Not at all.
Okay so maybe I thought I’ve heard his name a few times, but in my defense, the guy’s I want on my line this year, have names that make it really hard to stay focused. Fellow winger Tom Swallow’s, for instance, unfortunate nickname is Spits. I mean, come on. How could I not go there?
The other is Sam Bailey, and when you’re up against the boards fighting tooth and nail for the puck, Bailey can sound an awful lot like Jimmy.
After an hour of pain, Coach blows his whistle forty-seven times and calls it quits. “Listen up, men. James has a few words to say before he runs us through some new stretching routines. Give me respect or give me bag skates.”
Called it.
A loud back-slap echoes across the ice, but with a crowd of players surrounding whoever it is, I can’t see who’s on the receiving end of Coach’s not-so-gentle touch. Slowly, as the crowd disperses, I catch sight of a mop of brown curls, amber eyes and then that fucking mustache.
No fucking way. It can’t be.
But it is. It’s him. Jimmy. The married guy who blew me last night is standing beside Coach in a Goddamn BC hockey trainers’ polo.
I tug on the sleeve of whoever is closest and point to the swine. “Who the fuck is that?”
“That’s James Plum. Professor Plum’s bro,” Lucas replies with a snort that heavily implies I’m an idiot. “He’s a physio student doing placement and he wants us to do Pilates,” he scoffs again, voice dropping as James speaks.
“G’day boys. Sorry I missed most of the session, but I caught the last twenty minutes or so, and I can already see a big attitude shift from yesterday.” Na uh. No way is this dick going to stand there and give us a pep talk. “That was some good, honest, hard work—”
“Honest? Honest?” I scoff. “Like you’re in the position to lecture anyone on honesty.”
Nervously, a few bodies around me still, but no one at the front of the gathering seems to have heard me. Which is probably a good thing.
But then again it could also be a very, terribly bad thing.
Who’s to know?
James keeps talking, I keep fuming, and by the time he sends us off to get a drink before meeting back up in the gym, I’m practically levitating with rage. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
The boys head off in varying directions, and I make a bee-line for trouble, skating way too fast and snowing the fuck out of him as I stop. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
One eyebrow raises as he scans me, skate to helmet. If I was any less furious, I might think he looks sexy as hell in his polo and tight pants he must have painted on. That whistle hanging around his neck is doing things to me too. But I am so, no, it’s not.
I don’t think he smells fucking amazing either.
“I’m James Plum,” he says, offering an extended hand. “New physiotherapist student. And you are?”
Taking advantage of my additional skate added height, I slip closer until I’m right in his face. “I’m your Kryptonite.”