Chapter 10 Cory
Is it comparable to what I did to James? I dunno. Probably not. But a week on, as I sit alone, reading fanfic and eating my un-stolen lunch, I feel weighed down with remorse. The pain in James’ warm honey eyes, the aura of grief surrounding him as shared his family tragedy, hasn’t left me.
I don’t think it will anytime soon. Hmm. I wonder if Spidey felt the same way as he chowed down on that lifted sub?
Outside of cordial yes/no replies or directions at practice, the man that I accused of being the worst kind of person, hasn’t spoken to me, let alone let me apologize.
True, he’s only with the Bears three days a week—more once the season starts—so there hasn’t been a lot of opportunity to get him alone.
But the awkwardness is still there. Even when I’ve seen him around campus.
Thanks to my trusty glasses-hoodie or cap combo, he hasn’t seen me as I leapt into the closest available bush. But that uninterrupted viewing time has given me perspective, a few boners, and forged a fierce curiosity that is now a burgeoning obsession.
Through observation and a little shady digging, I’ve discovered James Plum is indeed the brother of professor Faith ‘Faithy’ Plum and seems just as uppity and seriously grumpy.
Like all the time. No progress has been made in regards to his brother, so I can’t say for sure if that was a bullshit excuse or not.
Everyday he has his homemade lunch here with Faith, which he carries in a Marvel lunchbox.
HOT. Normally it’s a PB&J sandwich, sometimes with chips, sometimes with juice.
And finally, according to our NYC-bound center, Sam Bailey, the man can loosen a hamstring with the flick of his wrist.
Other than that, I’ve got nothing. Hence the convenient position of my regular launch jaunt, which allows me to hide from people, and stake out his sister’s office.
I’m not sure what I think I’m going to get out of it, especially when I’ll see him again at practice this afternoon.
But all I can say with absolute certainty is that I need to know more about him, I’m borderline stalking, yet I can’t seem to stay away.
Lucky for me, I’m Mr. Invisible.
“Cubby, is that you?”
Fuck.
A firm hand grips my shoulder, twisting me until two sets of blue eyes lock. “It is you. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Hey, Brades. Everything’s fine, why wouldn’t it be?”
“Ahh, because you’re lurking outside the admin block that houses the scariest professors in BC.
Most students avoid this place like the plague.
Is everything okay with your grades? Are you in trouble?
Are you …” With each hypothetical, Brady’s blush intensifies.
“Shit, student health services are next door. Are you sick, or?” He pauses, glances around and leans in. “Do you have an STI?”
Looks like I’m not the only one with an active imagination.
“No, I don’t have a STI.” I don’t think. “I’m just … I don’t have any friends, okay? I’m a loser who avoids social interactions by hiding in plain sight amongst the teachers. Happy now?” Shit. Where did that come from?
His eyes soften, then crinkle at the edges. “What do you mean you don’t have friends? You have me and Quinn. And what about the team?”
“The team?” I scoff. “I guess friendship sign-ups for the new guys were held on day one, ‘cause everyone’s buddied up without me, and even when I am invited along, I feel … out of place. And you’re the last of last years crew, so unless I want to be the pathetic third wheel around you and Quinn—”
Brady’s face contorts in concern. “Cubby, that’s—”
“Not your fault. I get it. You’re grossly in love and want to spend all your time together.
I’m happy for you. I am. But it just means there’s no one left for me.
” I know I could talk to him about James too, but make an impulsive decision to exclude it.
While I’m more than happy to own my loser status, Brady knows about what went down at the apartment.
I can’t give more details and risk Brady putting two-and-two together.
Outing James as the hook-up, is something I’m not prepared to do.
Seems my partial confession is enough anyway. Pity colors Brades' eyes. “Why didn’t you say something before, ya duffa?”
I tilt my head to the side. “And a duffa is?”
“Oh, a silly sausage. A silly Billie, a—”
“A dickhead, right. Got it.” I rub my hand down my face to buy some time …
and conceal my embarrassment. “You’re right.
I should have said something but I’m supposed to be the captain.
A leader of men. Life of the party. BC legends on and off the ice like Noah and Shane.
When in reality, I’m this closeted queer nerd that hates socializing, and that no one recognizes without a stick in his hand.
No pun intended.” Hands on knees, I bend at the waist and pant like a dog.
Holy shit! What started as bullshit, is ending with me almost hyperventilating.
Has all this crap been lurking inside me all along? “How can the team go from them to me? I don’t think I can do it, Brades.”
Dropping his backpack, Brady sighs and plops beside me.
“Look, I know Noah and Shane left big shoes, and egos, to fill. But personally, I don’t think being Mr. Big Guy on campus is a requirement.
Coach made you captain because you’re a leader where it counts—in the locker room and on the ice.
If you want to change the friend situation, Quinn knows everyone and everything.
She can totally hook you up with the right people.
And you can always come sit with us between classes.
But like I said, that’s if you want it.”
“What if I don’t know what I want?”
With a huffed laugh, Brady slaps my back, almost sending me hurtling off the bench. “Well, Cub. I guess that makes you like me, and ninety-nine percent of the student body.”
At that very moment, looking like an absolute wet dream, the thing I wanted more than anything a few days ago appears.
He’s wearing one of those damn tight polos again.
And that ass trapped inside the chinos that he definitely paints on.
He’s so … beefy and bite-able. Not a snack.
A whole freaking smorgasbord. Huh. Maybe the need pulsing under my skin, driving me to see him, isn’t that complicated.
Hopefully unaware of my perving, Brady notices him the same time I do, nods in his direction and quickly stands. “Sorry to rush off in the middle of a D&M but I better go. I’m supposed to be meeting James and Faith. Remember what I said, Cub. If you want some company, give us a call.”
Oh, I want some company alright. But I don’t think it’s the kind my team’s goalie coach is offering.
I watch him break into a light jog that with his long legs allows him to catch James in a few strides. They shake hands, then Brady glances over his shoulder and waves. James’ gaze follows, like so many others on campus he doesn’t acknowledge me, but looks straight through me.
Utterly lost and confused, I lean into the student I sat beside in a few classes last year, and whisper, “Sarah, do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”
Despite the fact that Sarah Appleblum from Mayfield, Wisconsin, and her friends, also regularly attend training, she glares at me like she’s never seen me before. Then confirms it. “Do I know you?”
“Sarah it’s me. Cory Malkovich. We had multiple classes together last year. I play hockey.”
“Oh, yeah, Conan, right. Um. Professor Sharpener is explaining that there’s evidence to support the theory that organelles were once free-living prokaryotes and ….”
On and on she goes about prokaryotic cells and eukaryotic cells until I regret asking. I have no freaking clue what any of it means.
I have to pull my head from my ass and study. But when?
As always, I slip out of bio a little early, and run to practice, ensuring I’m the first one there. It’s part routine, part need to de-dork before the boys arrive.
No matter what Brady Basse with his surfer dude good looks believes, being yourself isn’t easy for everyone.
I learned quickly in my first year on the team that me as ‘me’ doesn’t fit in the hockey world.
Should I be a goalie like him, my quirkiness would be expected, welcomed even.
But I’m not. I’m a winger, the rock stars of hockey, and for us it’s all about chirping, flows and bunnies.
Well, it’s supposed to be anyway.
Squinting in the mirror, I’ve just finished popping in my contacts when booming laughter echoes outside the locker room. Perfect timing. I quickly pack everything up, making a note to refill my contact lens prescription, and am back at my locker changing when the hairs on the back of my neck raise.
“Why do you have to be such a dick all the time? Give me my stuff, you ass.” Seconds later, a kit bag whizzes by the back of my head, landing with a thud at my feet. Without looking I know that voice was Lucas, second shortest and the youngest on the team, and who he’s cussing at, Trent Hoffman.
I met his big brother, Connor, who already plays for the Mounties, at training camp.
Unlike his little bro, Connor seemed like a really solid guy.
Talented too. Last season, Trent was a fourth line with little ice time, something he’s desperate to change.
As such, he spent his summer improving his edge work and bulking up, but his attitude is the thing that needs the most improvement.
The guy’s a spoiled, rich bully, and in the time that I’ve been back, Lucas has been his frequent target.
That ends today.
When Trent finally saunters in, he spots me and that frat-boy stupid smile fades. “Captain.” He nods.
My forced smile back pains my cheeks. “Nice to see you helping out your fellow teammates with their things, Hoffman. I’ll let Coach know.
He’s always looking for volunteers for cleanup.
” While Trent grumbles under his breath, I turn to Lucas and drop my voice.
“Let me know if this continues. He would never pull this shit with Noah and Shane around, and he won’t with me either. ”
Lucas blushes and runs his hand through his thick, dead-straight locks. “Thanks, Cap. Us little guys have to stick together, hey.”
I want to enforce that height is not the reason I’m doing this, because neither of us are little.
But then I notice his puffed chest, and that he’s standing taller, and if having me in his corner gives him that, then great.
So, instead of being defensive, I do what Noah would have done, I offer the stock standard fist bump and continue getting dressed.
The second Coach Harris strides out onto the ice I know practice is going to be brutal. Dude straight up looks like someone pissed in his coffee.
“Right, before we get started on what will be a painful day.” Called it. “We need to have a little chat.” A chorus of groans is quickly snuffed out by Professor Plum’s appearance.
“Afternoon all.” She smiles.
Preening, the guys chant, “Afternoon Professor,” like kindergartners, which seems to piss Coach off even more. He’s working his gum so hard I think his jaw might break.
“I’ve had a call from the manager of Balls’up, the pool hall over on Cambridge Street.
” In my periphery I spot a few of the boys sliding to the back of the pack.
“Seems a few idiots while wearing BC hockey hoodies, decided to have a little drunken dance-off last night … on three of their brand new, three thousand dollar pool tables.”
Fuck.
“Now, I’ve been in this business a long time.
I know what it’s like to be young, dumb and full of …
” he pauses. “…at the top of your game. To think you’re bullet proof.
That your talent makes you untouchable. Well guess what?
You’re not and it doesn’t. None of you are immune to the consequences of your actions.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
I am not here to only produce great hockey players. I want to produce great men.”
“Which is where I come in.” Plum nods to Coach, who hands her the clipboard he’s been white-knuckling.
“Would any one care to take responsibility?” No one does, of course.
It’s disappointing, but like me, Plum and Coach don’t seem surprised.
“Right, you are all old enough to know the dangers of drinking to excess, especially for young athletes, so I’m not going to lecture you on that right now.
But we will be running some drug and alcohol education sessions next week.
In the mean time, if anyone would like to come and speak to me in private, my door is always open. ”
“What? That’s it?” Lucas asks. “No punishment. No bag skates?”
“Coach Harris did suggest that, but since your actions affected a small business in the greater Boston community, we decided repaying that community via a variety of fundraising activities would have a more lasting, educational impact.”
“That’s right, boys,” Coach snarks. “Your Sunday afternoons now belong to us. Since we don’t have a lot of time to prepare for this weekend, we’re starting with an old fashioned car wash here in the Conte parking lot.
And don’t think you can get out of it. This is considered an official team event, attendance is compulsory and staff will be onsite at all times to make sure no shenanigans are had. ”
Great. I barely have enough study time as it is. Losing the one free day we have is going to hurt.
While I have enough brains to internally moan mine, others aren’t. Discontented grumbles are everywhere but Trent is the only one dumb enough to say the quiet part out loud. “Every Sunday? For how long?”
Ready for a fight, Coach crosses his arms over his chest. “Until you’ve raised enough to cover the repairs.”
“What! That could take weeks.”
“It could, Hoffman. But it could also end before it begins if the numbnuts responsible come forward.” Accusatory glances are flying everywhere, but no one raises a hand. “Right then. Sunday it is. Don’t forget your Speedos. Things are going to get wet.”