Chapter 10 ’Wiener Boy’ Doesn’t Hit The Same
'WIENER BOY' DOESN'T HIT THE SAME
Elliot
Alex
I’m starting to feel like we’re in a long-distance relationship.
Elliot
I feel like I’m going to regret saying this but…
Tell me more.
Alex
I haven’t seen you since Thanksgiving!
Elliot
True. But we’ve texted every day. And you FaceTime me at least twice a day.
Alex
You don’t always answer.
Elliot
Sorry Goat, the NFL has rules against cell phones on the sidelines.
Alex
I read somewhere that Joe Montana used to call his wife from the sidelines every Sunday with the team phone.
Elliot
Aww, that’s actually really romantic.
I don’t think we have those phones on the sidelines anymore, though. Even if we did, I don’t think I’d risk the wrath of Coach Mancini or Coach Cannon to make a phone call.
Alex
Sigh. Chivalry is dead.
*gazes out window longingly* When will my husband return from war?
Elliot
I’m not at war, Alex. I’m in Santa Clara. And I’ll see you tomorrow at the rink, won’t I?
Alex
Bold of you to assume you were the husband I was yearning for.
Elliot
Do you yearn for a lot of other men, Little Goat?
Alex
Nope. It’s pretty much just you, El.
I giggle down at my phone, grinning like an idiot as I read Alex’s last message for the hundredth time. I’m trying not to read too much into it. I swear, I’m trying. I’ve been repeating the same mantras to myself over and over in my head.
Alex Holmes is straight. He told you so himself.
Alex Holmes is not interested in more than friendship.
Alex Holmes is an adorable himbo with golden-retriever-at-Disney World-on-steroids energy, he doesn’t realize what a flirt he’s being.
But man, saying that he yearns for me?
Doubling down when I call him on it?
How am I not supposed to let that go to my head?
A towel snaps, whipping me in my bare calf and breaking me out of my giddy thought spiral.
“You’re smiling like a creepy clown again, Baker. What did the hockey player say this time?”
I look up to find Breaker staring down at me in my seat on the locker room bench, arms crossed against his naked chest and a white towel wrapped around his waist. Steam from the showers billows around us, and while the scene would be sexy in theory, the smell of musty man undergarments and Breaker’s “I’m on to you” look really eats at the fantasy.
“Why do you think I’m smiling at something Alex said?”
“Because you’ve been glued to your phone all week, and every time I read over your shoulder, you’re flirting shamelessly.”
“Okay first of all, don’t read my messages over my shoulder. Second, how many times do I have to tell you? We’re just friends.”
“And yet, the goalie is out there yearning for you. Are you aching for him, Elliot? Do you ache for the handsome, charismatic, unavailable hockey god like he yearns for you?”
I scoff, rolling my eyes and standing so that I can get dressed and leave this conversation. Practice is over and we have another volunteer event today, so after we wrap up, we’re headed back to the city. But Breaker places a hand on my shoulder, gently shoving me down before sitting next to me.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a dick, you just make it so easy.”
I knuckle punch Breaker’s thigh and he yelps, smacking my chest then rubbing at his leg.
“I’m kidding, Elliot! I’m kidding. I’m just looking out for you.
I’ve done the whole “all-consuming crush on the straight best friend” thing, and it fucking sucks.
When all those lines of friendship start to blur in your mind, it messes with you.
I got lucky with Lennon, but most of the straight dudes walking around out there aren’t just waiting for the hot football star to give them their bi-awakening. ”
“Bold of you to refer to yourself as a football star, rookie,” I mutter, raising a skeptical brow in Breaker’s direction.
“Dude, it’s my third season in the league. I’m the franchise quarterback, and need I remind you that I led this team all the way to the playoffs during my first year?”
“You stumbled your way into the playoffs during your first year with the help of a solid team at your back. Literally at your back, pushing you into the end zone time and time again. I appreciate you looking out, Lawson. I really do. But I’m a man in my thirties.
I’ve been around the block. I’ve done the “crush on the straight guy” thing more times than you can count.
Trust me when I say that I’m good. I only met Alex a few weeks ago, and yeah, I was attracted to him but I’m not anymore.
We’re getting to know each other as friends.
I’m not going to fall in love with the guy. ”
“Famous last words…” Breaker sing-songs. He stands and walks away, whistling as he crosses the locker room. That’s the annoying thing about twenty-something young bucks, especially those who are happily and securely in love. They think they know everything.
Well, I’ll show Breaker. I am not falling in love with Alex Holmes.
Never, ever, ever.
A short while later, the team bus pulls up behind the still-sparkling, brand new hockey rink in San Francisco, and those of us from the Redwoods that volunteered for today’s kid’s skate are shuffled into the visiting-team locker rooms. This is my first time at the Levi’s Center, but it's clear they spared no expense when building a home for San Francisco’s newest pro-team.
Our facilities at Twin Peaks Stadium are great, but I can’t help but note that we don’t have a full-spectrum infrared sauna in our recovery areas, and they have two just for guest use.
I wonder if I’ll get a chance to relax in one of those babies when the event wraps up today. I could use some deep muscle relaxation.
Everyone changes out of their streetwear and into attire more fitting for a hockey rink.
James and the other general managers had hockey jerseys made with our Redwoods colors, last names and numbers for us to wear today, and next week when the hockey team visits our stadium, they’ll have their own Thunder-themed football jerseys.
It’s a cool way of putting up a united front as San Francisco teams, but I can’t say I’m the biggest fan of the long hockey sleeves.
Once today is over, I will most definitely be cutting this thing into a cute, cropped muscle tank.
“You’re not putting on pads? I know we’re playing with a bunch of kids, but if they’re anything like my daughters, their slapshots are bound to be lethal.
” Coach Cannon says, patting my shoulder as I fiddle with the sleeves of my jersey.
It’s still weird to think of him as “Coach” since it was only a few seasons ago that Luke Cannon was the quarterback for The Redwoods.
We played together for a few years before he was taken out of the game by a knee injury, and I know I was happy as hell to learn he was joining the coaching staff this year.
“No pads for me. No ice for me, actually. I’ll be manning the snack station in the penalty box, where I can keep my feet on solid ground.”
“Dude, you’re from Minnesota. You don’t skate?” Cannon looks appalled by the notion.
“Nope. I prefer to keep my balance on flat, solid shoes and not go gliding around on death knives, thank you very much.”
I don’t add in the fact that I never learned how to skate because even at a young age, I knew hockey was an expensive sport.
If I was tempted to play, Mom would’ve moved heaven and earth to make sure I had what I needed.
She would have picked up extra shifts and scoured yard sales and thrift shops for the cheapest but best used equipment.
But I couldn’t put that on her, so I invented a fake fear of ice skating that eventually developed into something semi-real and played football instead.
I’m lucky I fell in love with the gridiron—and lucky that my high school football department was thoroughly funded and I didn’t need a ton of cash to play.
“Alright, have fun slinging nachos at the little snot goblins then. If you want some lessons, come find me or my husband. We’ll ask our two-year-old if she’ll help you out.”
I snort, letting the slight jab roll of my back and continue getting ready.
I’m not surprised when I head out to the stands and find an impressive set up for the snack station.
The kids invited to the event today are disadvantaged youth from all over the Bay Area who have an interest in watching or playing hockey and other on-ice sports, so it's only natural that the team owners and general managers have pulled out all the stops to give them a day they’ll remember.
We’ve got a hot dog station, a s’mores bar, snow cone machines, cotton candy, crudite—we’ve even got a hot chocolate station with seventeen different kinds of chocolates, whipped cream, candy toppings and mugs that the kids can color with food safe markers and take home as souvenirs.
I’m even more happy to be back here on this side of the plexiglass because with all this sugar, there’s bound to be at least one projectile vomiting situation out on the ice.
And when I’m suddenly overcome by giddyness, that’s what I blame it on.
I’m excited to be away from the splash zone.
The butterflies losing their shit in my stomach have nothing to do with adorable Alex dressed to the nines in all of his goalie gear, currently skating backwards and dragging around a couple of littles who are holding on to his stick.