Chapter 29
After my impromptu and apparently successful recent practice sessions with the D-Men, Coach Harris asked me to act as a temporary defensive coach.
The team don’t have one at present, the last being called up to the NHL, and it’s an area where they really do need work.
It’s a big deal, a sign that maybe they’re considering keeping me around once my placement is done.
It’s also a bump-up in wage, something the Bears technically aren’t required to pay, and as much as I’ll deny it to anyone who asks, something I really enjoy.
It does take me away from Dylan another day per week though, but the extra money in my pocket means we can afford another support worker to join Dyl’s team.
Sue, a recommendation of Manny’s, started this morning.
Faith’s taken a leave day to show her the ropes and let her and Dyl get acquainted, and all seems to be going well if Faith’s increasingly vitriolic replies to my admittedly frequent texts are anything to go by.
Faith
I know you have been home with Dylan a lot over the last few months, and I know you love your routine. But James Alexander Plum, I swear to God, I will give you a free and horridly painful circumcision if you message me one more time.
Nothing gets my phone out of my hand like the threat of barbaric surgery.
In truth, today’s preoccupation with Dylan and whether or not Faith knows how to put on his AFO’s, what angle he likes his toast cut on, where she can find his misplaced fidget spinners, and how long it takes to walk to the park we’ve been to approximately three thousand times, may be a distraction.
On the disgustingly loud and jovial bus trip to Harvard, Cory is in the seat before me, blonde hair bouncing, and smelling of bubble gum, because whichever God hates me more made it the only free spot.
Several times he’s turned to speak, smile, or stare at me and each time I’ve pretended to be so consumed by the scenery, I’ve not noticed.
Obviously I have, his reflection looking back at me in the window both the ‘cause and cure to my distress.
The anger I felt at the coffee shop has not waned, or even dulled after the dunking.
It’s intensified. I’m so bloody mad, and hurt, and embarrassed.
I’ve known this man for a handful of weeks.
The remorse over becoming physical, and his betrayal seems disproportionate.
But then again, my attraction too and affection for him far exceed anything I’ve felt previously.
Maybe that’s why it hurts.
Of course that’s why it hurts.
Anxiously, I rub at my tight chest. “Brady, tell me again why we all have to take the bus when the arena we’re playing in is …” I pause to look at my watch, “perhaps twenty minutes away from BC?”
“Team spirit.”
“Are we talking Nirvana here, or do you expect me to believe piling a group of giant, grown men stuffed into ill-fitting suits, into an admittedly lovely bus, encourages bonding?”
Brady pops his second ear bud out, and gives me a dimpled grin. “You’re extra salty today. Get out of the wrong side of the bed?”
“Since my shitty bed in our even shittier basement is jammed against a wall, I’m going to say no. Saltiness is just a delightful personality trait.”
“Yeah, but it’s normally like … chicken salt. Flavorsome and kind of sweet, not just dry your mouth out straight up salt from the ocean. Or that fancy pink stuff. Hey, you’re Aussie. Do you remember chicken salt? Shit I miss it.”
As Brady continues to ramble about Australian condiments, I zone out. Thankfully, we’ve been traveling for seventeen minutes, so the rant lasts only three more and we’re pulling into the exalted grounds of Harvard.
“You speak all fancy like, Doc Plum. Is this where you went to school?” Sam, who I’ve also been ignoring, asks. I can’t pretend I don’t hear him now, as Brady is staring at me, waiting for my response too. I don’t need to look, to know Cory is also.
“No.”
“Oh. Well, where did you go?”
I really don’t want to tell them it was BU. They’ll tear me apart limb from limb, and I really need them to be a physio.
“School. Hey, look.” I point out the window.
“Cheerleaders.” I’m not even lying. Beside the bus parking zone, a gaggle of pompom touting girls barely dressed in hot pants and tight, cropped jerseys, are shaking their wares for all to see.
Every head on the bus bar three, mine, Brady’s and Cory’s turn, so it’s almost a perfect distraction.
“You’re into girls? Why aren’t you looking?” I ask Brady.
“What’s the point? None of them can pull off short-shorts like Quinny … or Troye. ” He blushes at the last bit, then leans forward. “Don’t tell Troye I said that. I mean it’s true, but don’t tell him.”
My narrowed eyes accidentally dart to Cory. “Don’t worry, Brady. I can keep a secret.” It’s petty and pathetic, but man, it feels good too. As I stand, I see him and Brady exchange glances. No doubt the latter will know everything that happened before I step outside.
Halfway through the second period, I’m seriously wondering why any human would subject themselves to a career in coaching. I’m fairly certain the jam and cheese sandwich Dylan and Faith made for me is capable of carrying out my instructions better than this defensive unit is.
“Do they deliberately do the exact opposite of what you tell them, or is that just a happy coincidence?”
Coach Harris and White share a patronizing laugh, then slap me on the back in unison.
“Bit of both. Welcome to coaching,” Harris says, the maniacal smile receding as Nurse knocks the puck back into play rather than gloving it.
Fortunately Cory is there to clear the puck from the zone, but it’s called as icing.
That means a face-off and we’ve lost more than we’ve won.
The ref tosses Sam after he must blink too aggressively, and I watch, teeth biting into the flesh around my nails, as Cory takes his place.
Face to face, the size difference between he and his opponent, Parker, is almost identical to that between us. Why that, and his stern face of determination has me breaking into a light sweat is better left unexamined.
As too is my exuberant reaction when he wins, and taps the puck back to Lucas, the growing friendship and connection that saw Cubby blurt our secret evident. They can read each other. Trust each other and a twinge of jealousy that has nothing to do with sex, sparks inside me.
Other than Ryan, I have no friends. Cory was someone I felt like I could be me around. Grumpiness didn’t deter him. If anything he seemed to like it. He’s a dork like me, read my fic, and instead of giving me shit for writing such absolute trash, he used it to up his game in the bedroom.
The way that turned me on is yet another thing I’ll be leaving well alone. Then there’s those slutty little glasses. Why do they have to be so … slutty? I snort a laugh as I picture him, sans specs, reading the upside down menu at O’Reilly’s, then rub my chest to ease the pang that memory creates.
Christ. It’s only been a week, and I miss him. Or maybe, it’s the wasted potential, the loss of what we never really had, that stings.
Either way I have to get over it. I’m too bitter and jaded to let the trust Cory is building with his team be rebuilt between us.
Turning my attention back to the game, I feign the deserved enthusiasm.
Ignore Coach Harris’ chewing and do my job.
We end up winning the game, but only because Harvard’s latest recruit, Trent, gave us two power plays, then kindly earned an assist on the match winner.
Old habits die hard I guess, as Cory fooled the twit into passing the puck to him in front of an open net.
With a flick of the wrist he snuck it above the goalie’s right glove.
It was a beautiful goal. Cheeky, but beautiful. Quite like the man who scored it.
“See what Trent did?” I say to my huddled up D-men in the locker room. “Don’t do that.”
Bailey, who is an absolute smartass, wipes the non-existent tears from his eyes. “Truly inspirational, Coach Plummy.”
“That’s why I get paid the big bucks.” After ensuring my boys did play well, and the potential of forming a brick wall defense is there, I send them off to the showers, and sulk back out to the ice.
The Zamboni is already doing its thing, scraping, refreezing, resurfacing. My skin itches with the need to get out there. Fucking up a fresh surface was always one of my favorite things.
“You did good today, Plummy.” I roll my eyes but can’t stop my lips from twitching into a smile.
“You’ve got the boys saying that now, Basse. Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome.” He slaps me on the shoulder then mirrors my pose, gripping and leaning against the boards, knuckles almost white. “How did you enjoy your first time? Was it everything you dreamed?”
“It was. Thank you for being so gentle.”
“Bet Trent’s teammates aren’t being too gentle with him. I can’t believe he fell for Cubby’s tricks.”
Feeling a sudden headache coming on, I release my grip on the boards, and pinch the bridge of my nose. “He can be quite persuasive.”
“So I’ve heard.”
I am not touching that with a ten foot pole. Instead I knock Brady’s foot with my own. “Hey, it was your first game too. How are you holding up?”
Skewing his lips to the side, he takes a second before answering.
“Not as bad as I thought it was going to be. I missed it, but seeing how far Nurse has come in preseason was kind of satisfying.” His face then transforms into a blushed smile brighter than the arena lights above us.
“That helped, too.” He points to the approaching Troye and Quinn, the latter holding a sign in front of her stomach.
Goalie coaches do it better.
“Did her father see that?”
“Nah,” he laughs, blush intensifying. “She only held it up once he hit the rooms. She’s a risk-taker, but she’s not stupid.”
Quinn breaks into a sprint then jumps into Brady’s arms, while Troye looks like he’s fighting hard not to do the same. “You did so well, baby.” She swoons. “Didn’t he Troye?”
“He did.” He nods, biting his lip. “You stood still, barked orders, then paced up and down like a perfect little soldier boy. Maybe when we get home you can blow my—”
“Troye!” Groaning, Brady buries his face into his hands. “Not here.”
“What? I was going to say, bugle. Get your mind out of the gutter, Basse.” His head then swivels, smirk intensifying as an unimpressed Coach Harris appears. “Good win, Dad.”
Coach mutters something about punks under his breath, then turns to me.
“Ah. I was wondering where half of my coaching staff went to. Should have guessed. Quinny, you are to hockey players what flames are to moths.” I’m not quite sure if he’s joking and don’t particularly feel like hanging around to find out.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Coach. Did you need something?”
“Yes, Malkovich is complaining about his shoulder. Can you have a look for me?”
“Coach White is treating him now, Sir.”
“Coach White has his hands full with Nurse and his groin.”
“I bet he has,” snorts Troye, who is again ignored.
“Besides, you’ve done a great job on his treatment. No point switching now.” He then pops a piece of gum in his mouth and motions down the race. “Off you trot, Plummy.”
The urge to argue is so strong I almost choke on the words, but without saying. “I can’t touch him because I’m angry that he told people he blew me. Or even better, please don’t make me, ‘cause I want to fuck him,” there is no way to justify my refusal.
Instead I nod, turn and sulk away to my certain doom.