Chapter 11
The squad’s been split into two groups, one remains here on the ice doing drills with coaches Harris and White, while the other is in the gym with Brady and James.
From the goodness of my own heart, I volunteered to hit the gym first, but Coach had a plan, and me thirsting over his physio wasn’t it. Instead, I’m standing on the sidelines, giving my opinion on new lines for this season. Not a simple task, and not one I think I’m qualified in.
“Are you sure you want my input on this?” I say, handing the last of the red practice jerseys to Larsson. “I mean, I can tell you that Tom, Sam and I work great together, but wouldn’t Brady or one of the other assistants be more knowledgeable?”
“In some things, sure. But you’ve got great hockey smarts, Cory.
You’re intuitive and read the play as well as anyone else here.
You’re also familiar with the after hours team dynamics, in a way we can’t be.
It’s the beginning of a rebuild. Who’s inclusive and supportive?
Who’s putting in the extra training? Who can be trusted?
These things count more than you might think. ”
“Trust is everything.” I nod. “If you can’t trust someone to have your back in the locker room, how can you trust them on the ice?
” My mind goes straight to Hoffman. Can the team rely on rich boy Trent when he bullies whoever he deems the weakest among them?
Then, to me. I don’t want them to know I wear glasses and love comics, for fucks sake.
How can I be comfortable telling them I love dick?
I don’t even know James. He’s practically a stranger.
One who’s seen me naked, but still. Right now, I have more faith in him than I do the men I’m supposed to be leading.
“Exactly. Among us right now, we have five clowns that will let all their teammates take the fall for something rather than take accountability. We can’t have that.
A center must trust his wingers. The goalie must trust the D-men.
You all must trust your goalie. Coaches must feel they can trust toward their players, and vice-versa.
Without that, we’re not a team. Without that, we have nothing. ”
Man, captaining is hard.
The day that my leadership was announced, Noah was here, standing alongside Shane as the boys, half of whom are gone now, hooted and hollered their approval.
“Call me whenever you need, Cubby.” He’d whispered, tapping the golden C on the chest of my jersey.
Maybe it’s time to take him up on the offer.
“Okay three on three, red v black. Yellow vs Blue, and then the rest. Light contact.” Harris yells at the top of his lungs . I was so zoned out, I almost fell on my ass. “We need to protect those hands, boys. Come Sunday, you’ve got a lot of scrubbing to do.”
It’s days like these that make me appreciate the feel of bare feet on any surface.
By the time Coach sends us to change, my legs are shaking so badly, my feet aching, I can hardly walk.
The moan I release, the relief I feel to finally sit and take my skates off is damn near orgasmic.
By the sounds around me, I’m not alone in that feeling.
The space is giving a porno set, more than a locker room.
Lucas collapses beside me, so exhausted he just lets his head clunk against the wall with a dull thud.
“Ow.’” He runs a hand through his hair. “That was the worst. I still don’t get why we are all getting punished for something five of them did.
” Subtly, he points to the same faces I too suspect to be the culprits—Brodie Townsend, Trent Hoffman, Brad Smith, Dean Cole, and Robbie McAvoy. All D-men. All under Hoffman’s thumb.
“Because we’re a team, Lucas. When we win, it’s a victory for all of us, even if only one line played well.
Flip that and it’s the same. No one taking responsibility, means the whole team takes the loss.
” I take my disgusting socks off and toss them in the giant laundry tub in the center of the room.
As I celebrate my three-point landing, I look up, my heart skipping a beat to see James by the entry, leaning against the wall.
That snooty, judgmental look souring his face as eyes scan the room.
They settle on me, and I know we have to be all professional like, but I can’t stop myself winking as I strip my shoulder pads off in record time.
“Look at it this way,” I laugh, still watching James, but speaking to my neighbor, “at least we’re washing cars, not stinky jerseys and jockstraps.”
Almost despite himself, Lucas laughs too. “Not this weekend anyway.”
For no reason other than offering anyone with a mustache a better view, I stand and peel off my long-sleeved base layer.
Right as it reaches my ribs, I hear James clear his throat.
“Don’t get too cozy, gentlemen. You have fifteen minutes to change and then it’s straight into the gym.
” He leaves in the few seconds where my face is covered, but I’d like to think he was sporting a blush. Maybe a touch of a chub, too.
All six-foot-five of James Plum’s deliciousness stands before us. Gone is the Bears sweatshirt he was wearing in the locker room. All that remains is a slutty sleeveless workout tee, gray sweats that highlight all those manly lumps, and a frown.
It’s a killer combo.
“Afternoon, gentlemen. It’s circuit time.” There’s a slight tremble to his voice. Is my big bear nervous?
Lucas, who appears to be my new shadow, elbows me in the ribs and does a shit job of whispering, “Why does he keep calling us gentlemen?”
“Because,” James replies, standing taller, one eyebrow raised. “He is a gentleman and hopes by treating you as such, you will act as such.”
I swear to god, I almost choke on nothing. Sir James fucking Plum can be all Mr. Fancy Pants here, but the last thing he said before he stopped sucking on my dick like a candy cane was something like, Cory, you’re mouth is fucking perfect.
Actually, as far as dirty talk goes, I guess that is kind of gentlemanly.
Brady writes our workout on the board, and mass groaning breaks out. “Boys, we want ten of the following, single-leg glute bridges, shoulder taps—times ten on each side. Next it’s side planks for thirty seconds each side, and finally five hip flexor stretches. Let’s see who can finish first, go!”
Given the level of whining and the workout we’ve already had, I‘m surprised how quickly the boys start. But then again, we are all hockey players, which means we’re all ridiculously competitive.
“You’re not joining in, Brades?” I ask before beginning.
“Nope. See this?” With a huge grin, he dangles his COACHING STAFF lanyard in my face.
“Means I get to sit on my soon to be fat ass and watch. It’s brilliant.
” Laughing, he turns to James and offers a fist bump.
Mr. Uppity 2000, or whenever the fuck he was born, stares at the offered fist like it’s the first time he’s seen such a thing.
“Tap it, Jamie,” Brady urges. “Tap it. Deep down I know you want to.”
Reluctantly, almost painfully, James grimaces and does indeed ‘tap it’.
Not bending over and offering my ass as James’ next tap-able item consumes every ounce of strength left within me.
Like he’s reading my thoughts, he shakes his head and frowns.
“You’re almost a set behind, Mr. Malkovich. Better get to it.”
“Sure thing, Doc.” I give him another indiscreet wink and drop onto all fours, arching my back and jutting out my ass for absolutely no reason.
With my head full of James, I have no memory of what we are supposed to be doing, so I quickly read the instructions written on the whiteboard and as James said, get to it.
On our second rotation, James leans over a tiring Evan Drummond, whispering instructions in his ear, those massive hands and thick fingers spreading over his stomach to correct his positioning. Lust licks up and down my spine picturing James behind me, whispering in my ear. Touching me.
I want some of that.
Grunting and groaning, I let my muscles lax, drop my hips and start flopping like a dead fish. I do get the attention I seek, but from Brady, not James. “I see what you’re doing, Cubby,” he mutters through thinly pressed lips. “Knock it off.”
I don’t knock it off, I ramp it up.
As hard as it is to shake your ass doing side planks, I Cardi-B that shit up. And the shoulder taps, no one has ever performed more lewdly.
I’m not sure if all this sexiness will see me getting any action, but it does earn me a head shake, the briefest hint of a James’ smile, and a rare and gorgeous rolling laugh.
I have a problem.
Actually I have several, but unlike the boner that left me lying face down on a yoga mat for fifteen minutes after James’s workout ended, this is happening in the semi-privacy of my room. Coach Harris is calling me at nine p.m.
“This can’t be good,” I say to Cherry, who’s finally got Billie down, and is next to me on my bed watching Drag Race as we bitch about the unfairness of life. “Shut up, turn it down. It’s Coach.” Hoping it removes all traces of panic, I clear my throat. “Coach, hey how’s it hanging?”
Kill me now.
Someone very not Coach sounding giggles, “Relax, Cubby. It’s me, Quinn.”
Confused, I pull the phone from my ear, yep, definitely says Coach Harris. “Quinn? Why are you on your dad’s phone?”
“Well, the thing is, we’ve just had dinner at his place, but I left my phone in the pool house, and I can’t be bothered walking all the way out there to get it. Anyway, we’re escaping to O’Reilly’s and—”
“Wait.” I hold my palm out to tell her to stop like she can see it. “You can’t be bothered walking to get your phone, but you can get in the car, drive across town and go to a bar?”
“Yup! Wanna come?”
I’m tempted to ask why the Queen of BC would be calling me in the first place. I mean, sure I was invited to her last birthday party, but that was down to Coach. Then I remember the little discussion I had with one of her boyfriends outside Plum’s office, and it all makes sense.
“Brady made you ask me, didn’t he.” Quinn giggles, and I hear something shuffle in the background,
“Shit, he guessed. Say no, Quinny.”
“Hi, Brady,” I laugh.
“Oh, um, hey Cubby. So, you coming or what?”
There’s a million excuses I could come up with—I have to study, I’m too tired, my leg fell off—but I don’t use any.
There was truth in what I blurted to Brady, so much so I was just repeating my woes to Cherry.
I do want to be a great captain like Noah and Shane.
I do need to come out of my shell off the ice and the apps. But how ready am I to do that?
“Sounds great, Quinn.” It really doesn’t. “See you soon.”
The second I drop my phone, Cherry pounces.
“So, little bro. Where are we going?”
“We? I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m going to O’Reilly’s.”
With ridiculously contagious enthusiasm, she commando rolls from the bed, landing on her feet and her arms above her head like she’s about to bust out a star jump.
“If you think I’m letting you go without me, you’ve got another thing coming.
I haven’t left this house except for work in months, and I haven’t seen Quinn and Brady since he was discharged from the hospital. I’d like to check in on his progress.”
“And you want to interrogate them about their throuple-ship?”
“Yes, and that.” She follows me into the bathroom, peppering me with questions, and creepily watching as I reach for my contacts. “This is it, Cory. Our hard launch into Boston hockey society.”
“Hard launch? I have been out with these people before. I was last week.”
“Yeah, like twice, both without me. And you said you spent the whole time hiding in a booth reading before leaving to meet some guy.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“What? It’s true. You probably had bunnies all over you, but actually spoke to like three people–”
“No,” I grumble, “not fuck off you. Fuck off this.” I hold the contact lens box in Cherry’s face. The empty box. “I forgot to pick my prescription up. Fuck.”
Cherry groans and slams her head against the wall. So dramatic. “Cory. WEAR. YOUR. GLASSES! There is nothing wrong with being you. You is great … are great … You’re great. If you can’t handle being yourself, maybe you shouldn’t go.”
“Fine. Let’s not go.”
“Noooo,” she whines. “We have to.”
“Okay then, so should I ditch the specs, and rock the blurred-vision hockey fuckboy look? Or do I embrace the real me. The geek.”
“Jesus, Cory. If you listened to anything I just said, the answer is fairly obvious.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Blind fuckboy it is.” I pick up my comb, swipe a generous amount of hair gunk onto my fingers, and get to work.
“What’s behind this, no glasses and slicked back hair back, will make the team fall at your feet-theory?”
I stare back at her in disbelief. “Um, obviously Clark Kent, but also Josie Grosie, Laney Boggs, Mia Thermopolis, and every other bookish girlie in like, every high school movie ever made?”
“God, you are so gay.”
“Yeah, no shit.” I laugh. “That’s part of the problem.
I can keep changing before everyone arrives, and dressing before they wake on away games, but I can’t keep avoiding partying with the team, or the bunnies.
Even if it means staying in the closet a little longer, using this time to make friends and earn the respect of my teammates will be worth it when I do come out. ”
I hope.