Chapter 9 James
“I’m your Kryptonite.”
It takes strength I didn’t know I possessed not to laugh in this cocky little upstart’s face. Instead, I return to my factory setting, sarcasm. Yes, it’s the lowest form of humor, but at the rink, bottom dwelling is where I feel most comfortable. “Lex Luthor? Is that you?”
The cute number four snorts, and looks around for backup. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“Well since I’m guessing that’s a no to bald billionaire industrialist, no. No, I don’t. Should I?”
“Dunno. Should you?”
I am seriously not in the mood for this.
After practicing my, ‘I don’t hate you, that’s just my face-face’, I was twenty minutes behind schedule.
Then my car broke down on the way here. Since I’m a loser with zero dollars to his name, Faith had to leave campus, pick me up, then bring us both back.
Meaning we were both late. Meaning she’s pissed and I am even less ready to people than usual.
“Look, I have some stretching routines to fine-tune, so if you don’t mind, maybe we can catch up later, and you can tell me exactly who it is you are.”
“Sure thing, Jimmy.”
Jimmy? That little fucker.
“I know it’s hockey etiquette to designate nicknames, but my name is James. Just James. Now, as I said, this is not the time or place. If you have an issue, we can speak about it later. Perhaps Professor Plum could join us and offer you some … professional assistance.”
The kid’s chin hits the ice, and I take that as my cue to leave.
I hear him behind me, muttering to himself, skates clomping on the rubber matting lining the halls between the ice, locker room and gym.
Though he doesn’t shut up, he does gather the stragglers loitering outside once we’re ready to start.
The players seem to respect him, and it’s only then I notice the C on his practice jersey.
Ahh, so this is the long lost Malkovich.
His first name slips my mind, but I know they call him Cubby.
Respect he may have, but I’m beginning to suspect he’s not the brightest spark.
I watch, trying hard not to laugh, as he furiously unties his laces, discards his skates, then plonks on the prepared yoga mats—all while still wearing his helmet.
I should probably ask him to remove it, but it’s more fun to see how long it takes him or one of his boys to notice.
“Right, now as we discussed yesterday, Coach Harris has brought me here to work on strengthening, flexibility, and improving respiratory endurance. You’ll all be used to jumping on a bike or treadmill after a game, and we’re still going to do that, but we’re adding some other elements, too.”
“Wow,” Cubby moans. “Coach sure has a lot of faith in you to tweak our routine. Hope all that trust is warranted.”
Shit.
Faith. Trust. Does this kid know what happened at my old practice? Were his parents caught up in the scandal?
On the outside, I keep my cool and continue running through my pre-prepared program, but memories and accusations I’ve tried to repress bubble beneath the surface.
Bryan Ferris, my first placement supervisor, and founding practitioner of Ferris Health Group, had been embezzling business funds, employees entitlements, and defrauding insurance companies for years.
He took me under his wing, called me Son, and duped me into investing my savings into the practice he claimed would one day be mine.
When accusations were eventually made, the business was investigated, and the man who had been my mentor laid the blame squarely at my feet.
Ultimately, I was cleared of any and all wrongdoing, but it was too late for my bank account, and the practice’s reputation.
Mud sticks, and if it hadn’t been for Faith vouching for me with Coach Harris, I don’t know who else would have given me a chance.
Somehow, I get to the end of my rundown, and set the boys off to get to change and do their preferred cool down before we do some stretching.
Just how much my presence has skittered beneath Malkovich’s skin is evident when he makes his way towards a row of spin bikes instead of going to change. With disarming ease, he slings one leg over, mounts and settles in the saddle, the sight sparking a memory I need to forget.
I want to straddle your thick neck, watch you suck my dick and go town on my nipples until I blow my load all over that big furry chest. Then, I’ll return the favor.
I shake my head to clear the smut, and refocus on work—in particular the helmeted one with a broad back that tapers into narrow hips, I would find incredibly attractive should he not be who he is.
He only does so maybe five or six full turns, hips gently rolling side to side, before he slows, turns and faces me.
Someone’s realized he’s the only one still here. In full gear.
Lord, I wish I could see his face.
Peddling a little longer, the stubbornness I’m also afflicted with eventually subsides, and he relents, removing his helmet and slicking back his wet, dark blonde hair.
Stray strands refusing to be tamed, are tucked behind his ears with huffs of disgust. I kind of feel bad for the kid.
Maybe it’s time for me to save him from himself.
“May I have a word, Mr. Malkovich?”
“Can it wait?” he grumbles, peddling resuming. “If I don’t cool down, I won’t be able to walk tomorrow, let alone skate. I know you don’t care for such trivial things as disappointing or letting people down, but I do. I’m the captain.”
Right then.
“See, that’s what I want to speak to you about. I’m not sure if you have me confused with someone else, but I assure you, I care very much about my work and have no intention of letting anyone down.”
“Pfft. Whatever.”
“No, not whatever. Look, once our session is over, I insist that you come to my office so we can sort whatever this is out.”
“Can’t sorry,” he huffs, voice barely audible over the noise of the bike. “No time.”
“Make time, Mr. Malkovich.”
On a heavy sigh, he looks up from his feet, sweat dripping from his nose. Familiar blue eyes meet mine, and just like the wheels on the damn bike, the world slows to a halt. “My name is Cory. Just Cory, thank you.”
Why the hell does the world hate me?
387 days. I waited 387 days without sex, not that I was counting, and out of all the men on Grindr in Boston, I chose him. The captain of the hockey team I’ve been hired to service.
No. Not service. Bad choice of words. Hired to provide care for. Yeah, that’s it.
Those eyes never leave mine as I all but tear him from the bike by the back of his jersey.
Like all hockey players are born to do, he curses a blue streak as I bustle him down out of the gym, down the hall, and into the joke of an office I’ve been assigned.
I’m fairly certain it’s a closet, but who am I to complain?
As much as I want to slam the door, I also don’t want to garner any attention, so I lean my back against it, letting the cool surface calm me as it closes with a soft click.
“Mr. Malkovich.”
“Cory.” With the same brash confidence he wielded in my former bedroom, he deposits himself in my chair, legs spread wide enough for me to stand between them, should I feel the urge. “You had no problem calling me Cory last night. Although, you moaned it more than said it.”
“I didn’t moan.” I whined like a pathetic, perverted old man. There’s a difference. “About that.”
“About what? About you undressing me, playing with my nipples, molding my ass in those big strong hands. Sucking my—”
In a bid not to punch the wall, I clench my fists at my side. “That’s enough. You’re acting like a—”
“Student? Because I am. I mean, I am an almost twenty-one-year-old college student, but a student all the same. How do you think Coach would feel about you inviting college kids back to your secret lair? Do you think he’d be as pissed as say … your wife?”
At first, the implied threat to my job consumes the majority of my cognitive power. But slowly, the full accusation slips through the cracks. “My wife?”
“Yeah. Your wife. The old ball and chain. The woman you’re married to. The mother of your child, Dyl. You know, her.”
In a bid to assert some kind of dominance, I want to remain standing, but the mother of your child, Dyl, bit has me staggering to the first sit-able surface, my desk.
It’s a dangerous spot, leaving me vulnerable.
I’m not quite sure that he’s sane, so I don’t care to leave my back to him, but should I sit on the same side, we would be so close our bodies would likely touch, and I don’t really want that either.
Instead, I shuffle to the short side, my ass hanging precariously close to the edge.
“I mean this with all sincerity, Mr … sorry, Cory, but what the fuck are you talking about? Unless you didn’t notice last night, I am gay with a capital G. I’ve never even kissed a woman, let alone married and produced offspring with one.”
“Sure,” he huffs. “I know what I heard, ‘Is everything okay, Faithy? Is Dyl okay? Sit tight, sweetheart.’”
I freeze. What the hell was that? “Okay. There’s a lot to unpack there, most important of all being, why does your impersonation of me sound like Daddy Pig?”
“Ahh, ‘cause you’re a Daddy, and you’re English.”
“No, I’m Australian. Even then, most people don’t notice the accent.”’
“Yeah, well call me Cory, and a linguist genius. Can we get back to the daddy and wife and secret pad part now? I’m dying to hear this excuse.”
Feeling slightly more at ease, I cross my arms over my chest and one foot over the other. “I will as long as you stop calling me Daddy.”
“Why?” He snaps, replicating my pose. “Does it turn you on?”
“Yes. It does, and since we both know that’s not good for either of us, I suggest you stop.”
Ahh, finally, something that shuts him up.
“That call last night came from my sister, and was calling about Dylan, our brother.”
“Ahh yeah, sure. I have a sister and I would rather plunge a knife in my eye than call her sweetheart.”
“For the most part, I would be inclined to feel the same, but Faith, my sister, was distressed, and worried about our brother. Not that I owe you this much detail, but we lost our dad recently and we’ve had to step in as Dylan’s primary caregivers.
Faith needed reassurance, Dad called her sweetheart when she was upset, so I’ve begun too as well.
Now, I know you’re angry, and I must admit it’s noble if not misplaced.
But I need you to slow down, and think. My name is James Plum. My sister is Faith Pl—”
“Plum,” he finishes. A new layer of shame washes over me watching the brash exterior of a young man full of swagger, yet naive to the harshness of the world at his feet, fades away. Suddenly, he appears every bit the young adult he is. “Faith Plum. Professor Faith Plum.”
“Correct. Glad we’re on the same page.” I lean to my desk and grab an unopened bottle of water, handing it to him without meeting his eye. “Now, as for the apartment, it is mine, or was mine, but I have been forced to sublet or sell it in order to move back home.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh. indeed. And as much as I enjoyed the short time we spent together, since we will now be in frequent, professional contact, I would greatly appreciate it if what occurred last night, and what I’ve told you today, could stay between us.”
Thoroughly chastised, Cory lowers his head and nods. “Of course.”
“Excellent. Perhaps it’s best if we go do that cool down now?” Lord knows we both need it.