Chapter 19 Cory
Italian sounds good.
As we scour the menu in the near-empty restaurant, James’s expression says otherwise. Perhaps it’s the romantic mood lighting, or the instrumental jazz that’s causing those adorable frown lines to pop. Either way, I’m not mad about it.
“What are you in the mood for?” I ask, hoping his answer aligns with what I want. A special something that’s definitely not an option.
“Arrabbiata, I think,” he replies without lifting his eyes. “You?”
“Well suck me sideways. I was thinking the same. I love a bit of heat.” James rolls his eyes for at least the tenth time today.
“They’ll get stuck at the back of your head if you keep doing that.
” He’s reaching for the hand made bread that Gwen, my favorite waitress, left us, but pauses and scowls. “Doing what?”
“Rolling your eyes, all sassy-like when I’m flirty.”
“You’re being flirty? Sorry I hadn’t noticed.”
Flailing dramatically, I clutch at my chest, while also accidentally on purpose rubbing my leg against the inside of his. “You’re brutal, Doc. I like it.” I like you. “Maybe I’ll have to try a little harder.”
“Maybe you will.”
“Ready to order, gentlemen?” Gwen, the cock-blocker, who’s suddenly not my favorite, smiles down at me.
“I’ll—”
“Hmm hmm.” Clearing his throat, James places a hand over mine, pointing to the menu with the other. It’s such a masculine, dominating move and my dick likes it. “We’ll both have the Arrabbiata, and maybe a serve of Zuppam and truffle-parmigiano fries to share.”
“Excellent, and can I get you something else to drink?”
“Just water?” Hand still holding mine, he checks for consent with a look he has no right delivering in public.
Or, maybe it’s just a normal glance, and I’m kind of obsessed.
Either way, I nod, and am lucky to manage that.
With his whole face, and warm leg against mine, his hand, his … him. Fuck, it’s too much.
Gwen takes the menus and heads to the kitchen, leaving me reeling, swooning and realizing, this is no hook-up. This could be something real.
James is a man. A real man. And right now in his presence, I feel every bit the kid he insists on calling me.
I am in way over my head.
We sat in that restaurant for two hours, just shooting shit about family, comics and hockey. I’ve never been so turned on by conversation, or watching someone eat.
Now I’m back in reality. Back to pretending it’s not the gaze of James and James alone I feel, as Coach Harris paces before us, face shifting between pride and annoyance.
I wish it was just me and James again. That he was about to chew me out instead of Coach.
“Boys, I’m not sure how you managed it, or if I approve of the methods, but with one Sunday and a lot of skin, you raised more than double the target.
” A stick tapping chant of NO MORE SUNDAYS, echoes around the rink, but such is the power of our leader, silenced falls on the rise of a single hand.
“Not so fast.” Merriment turns to fear, the sound of twenty smiles dropping to pouts almost deafening.
Coach pulled me aside when I arrived, so I know what’s coming.
They’re right to sulk.
“I expected the fundraising effort to take longer, and because I’m fucking brilliant, I’d already planned ahead.”
“What does that mean?” Trent says, ‘cause he’s a dick who never shuts up.
“What it means, Hoffman, is I’ve got you for one more Sunday”
Trent’s fists clench and doubling over like he was just sucker-punched in the guts is a tad dramatic. “This is bullshit.” Okay, so he’s a dumb, pathetic dick. Just as I suspected.
Coach outright ignores Trent’s flailing, and continues, “Right, so, one more Sunday means more money for charity, which, despite what some think, is always a good thing. Now, warm up, ladies, then pair off for some two-man passing, let’s go.”
Behind me, Trent is losing his tiny mind. “I hate that guy. How is him underestimating us our problem?”
I shrug. “Just lucky, I guess.”
“Yeah?” Falling behind, he presses his palm into my spine and shoves. “Well as long as you know you’re never getting lucky with me, you little cocksucker.”
I’m able to steady myself, and mean to shove him right back, But before I can, Lucas is holding me back, and Sam’s in Trent’s face. “What did you say, Hoffman?”
“You heard me, Sammy. I called your little boyfriend a cocksucker.” Ducking his head around Sam’s wide frame, he glares, hate coloring his eyes.
“Or does he prefer Fairy?” His crew of D-men idiots group around him, and I fear this is going to spiral out of control.
I need to be the one to end it. I’m the captain.
But for some reason, my voice, and nerve fails me.
“Deny it all you like, Cubby. But we all saw your little outfit yesterday. No straight dude dresses like that.”
Once again, it’s Sam, who’s as much a fighter as I am seven foot tall, who defends me when I can’t.
“You’ve seen Cory at O’Reilly’s. The bunnies love him.
He’s not gay.” He protests, fists bunching Trent’s jersey beneath his chin.
“But even if he was, so the fuck what? Doesn’t mean he’d be interested in your dumb ass. ”
Three short, sharp whistles ring out, and James’ baritone voice then Hulk-like frame steps in, pulling the boys apart as easy as he would do two slices of bread. “We got a problem here, gentlemen?”
“No problem,” I rush to answer, ignoring the daggers Sam and Lucas are shooting my way. “Sam was just helping Trent with his pads. They got a little twisted.”
“Okay then. Now that they’re un-twisted, get to center ice. Go,” he snaps, when no one moves. There’s no way he’s buying that, but he nods and skates away regardless, Trent and cronies shadowing.
Sam gives me a nudge with his shoulder. “Just ignore him. We know you’re not a—”
“Not a, what?” I snap, stupidly misdirecting my contempt. “Not a queer. A poof? Well what if I was? Would you be so quick to defend me then?”
“Yeah, I would, because it’s no ones’ business but yours, and because you’re my captain, and my friend. At least I hope you are.”
“What he said.” Lucas nods, before shrinking under James’ distant glare and skating toward him. For a physio, he’s pretty fucking terrifying. And I’m pretty fucking confused.
“Since when have you, frat-boy-jock Sam, the most popular sophomore on campus, considered me a friend?” Sure he’s friendly enough here at practice, and the few times we’ve hung at O’Reilly’s.
But there’s a big difference between teammates and friends.
Then it hits me. “This ‘cause of my sister, isn’t it? You were flirting with her—”
“No!” He blushes. “No. I mean, yes, I was flirting with her ‘cause she’s hot, but no, I didn’t do that because of her. I like you, is all. You’re cool, Cubs.”
“Me?”
“Bro, is there someone else here?” Checking over each shoulder, he laughs. “Yeah you. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”
“Because literally no one, not ever, has ever said, implied or thought that.”
“That’s not true,” he counters. “Lucas thinks the ice he skates on flows from your ass.”
“That’s because Lucas is as big a dork as me.”
Sam laughs again, recapturing the attention of James, whose furrowed brows give a silent, shut the fuck up and get out here, look. One that Sam hears too.
“Looks like we’re a team, Cubs,” he says, nodding towards the pairs already shooting, then holding out his gloved fist. “Buddies?”
“Buddies.”
Maybe it was the knowledge that I had a friend or two on the team looking out for me; the constant heat of James’ gaze; or the stupidity of my showboating to keep it, but even for me, someone who loves hockey and practice even on the shittiest of days, today was extra fun.
Sam and Lucas shadowed me, making sure their bodies were always between Trent’s and my own, but when Coach pulled them aside to work on their edge work, he struck.
Not satisfied with chirping as we competed during the final scrimmage, the asshat decided to check me into the boards.
Aiming to protect my head, which was down over the puck, I had just enough time to slightly twist, allowing my shoulder, rather than my neck, to take the brunt of the impact.
It worked, so I don’t have a concussion, but the radiating pain is so intense, I can hardly raise my arm to tug my jersey over my head.
“You right, Cubs? I could feel that shoulder crack over here.” Sam’s watching, eyes assessing.
“Yep. I’m good.”
I’m not good. No part of this is good. I should most definitely get it looked at, but the thing is, it will be James’ hands checking me over.
James’ hands oiling me up and rubbing me down, potentially while Coach White watches on.
While my inner slut insists he is the best thing that’s ever happened, there’s an annoying voice of reason, the anti-slut, that’s drowning him out.
Sam, Lucas, Brady and Troye. They’re all on to me. Coach White can’t be next.
I genuinely thought I could flirt my way back into James’ bed without anyone noticing.
I was wrong.
It won’t stop me of course. I’m no quitter. It just means I have to play my legs a little close to my chest, instead of laying them on his table, and spreading them wide.
Cards, I mean. Cards. Not legs.
As though summoned by my pain, James approaches, the stiff cotton of his pants fighting to contain those thick thighs as he ducks in front of me. “You okay?”
“Better now you’re here?” I wink. My cockiness lasts about two seconds, because I try taking off my jersey again, and almost puke.
“You’re hurt.” It’s a statement. Not a question and so gruffly announced I can’t help but laugh.
“You seem personally offended by that.”
“Not at all. I’m just curious as to why you wouldn’t tell someone. Even if you’re not comfortable coming to me, you need–”
“Why wouldn’t I be comfortable coming to you?”
Slowly, like speaking to me is pure agony, he groans and runs a hand over his face. “Because of our … history,” he says, voice low. Sexy. “You’re not comfortable with me working on you.”
“Is that so?” I try again to tug my jersey off, but pain spears along the top of my shoulder, and collar bone then up into my neck. “Hockey players are infamously hesitant to declare themselves injured. Maybe I’m just a dumb jock who doesn’t want to miss any ice time?”
“I think we both know you’re not dumb.”
“Aww, thanks, Plummy.”
“What is dumb,” he continues, cheeks flushed, “is hoping pain goes away when simple treatments could ensure it will, and prevent it getting worse.”
In my periphery I see Brady counseling his proteges Nurse and Larsson.
As goalies quite often are, they’re the last to undress, everyone else already being in the showers.
How Brady dealt with, or didn’t, deal with his injuries altered the course of his future.
I don’t want that. And with Mom struggling financially the way she is, we can’t afford it either.
I drop my head, roll my shoulder and wince as pain slices through me. “It feels weird. Kind of numb and tingly, but it hurts. Bad.”
“And when did it start?”
“When Hoffman boarded me. Straight away it felt like my arm was pushed down, or further inside me.”
Palms flat on his thighs, James pushes to stand. “That doesn’t sound dumb, but it does sound like it needs investigating. Coach White’s gone, so…” He then reaches out, offering me his right hand, to my uninjured left. “Will you let me help?”
I want to take his hand, like really, really badly, but something’s stopping me. Leaning forward, I whisper, “It’s a matter of trust.”
James snorts and squats again. “Okay, Billy Joel.”
“Who?”
“Nothing,” he huffs, blush spreading down his neck. “Looking the way you do, I forget you’re a kid sometimes.” I can tell he regrets it as soon as he’s said it, and the air between us thickens as a result.
“I’m not a kid.”
“You don’t trust me, then?” he counters.
“I do trust you, Jamie. I just don’t trust myself.”