Chapter 5
Five
Like an Ad for Cheap Menswear
Beck
I wouldn’t say the Stickhandlers are a good team. They couldn’t score on the Ice Cats even on their best day.
But they try hard. And they have fun. Seems like a weird thing to notice, but it’s true. These guys laugh after every play. They’re taking it seriously, but only up to a point.
I’d honestly forgotten what that’s like.
It shouldn’t really come as any surprise that Forest is their best skater.
He’s a defenseman, which totally fits his personality.
And he plays hockey the same way he tends bar—with this quiet intensity that makes everything around him run smoother.
He's not flashy, but he's always exactly where he needs to be.
He uses his size to his advantage, and watching him use that big body to protect the puck, all controlled power and solid muscle, makes my stomach do things that have nothing to do with hockey.
I just want to strip him down and show my appreciation in some highly specific ways. Is that really too much to ask?
Apparently, it is.
Practice ends before I’m ready, and as soon as my ass hits the bench, I start shucking off my sweaty pads. I need to get out of this building before anyone sees me. It’s not like I know everyone in the Cougars organization, but I’ve been to goalie clinics and training camps here.
My whole goal in life is to get back into this building for good. But that can only happen if I play some better hockey.
It takes a while to pack up goalie gear, and by the time I’ve put on my hoodie and my cap again, some of the guys are already streaming toward the lobby. Sadly, Forest isn’t one of them. I feel him waiting for me, so I hustle away from the bench area.
Unfortunately, he’s hot on my heels. “James, hold up a second.”
“No can do. I gotta…” My brain glitches as I try to think of an obligation I might have on a weeknight after ten p.m. “Wash my car.” Even I wince after that comes out of my mouth.
Forest catches up to me easily, because the guy is fit. He steps in front of me, blocking my path. “You can do that in a minute. I just wanted to say I appreciate what you’re doing, but…”
“Yeah, I got the message already,” I grumble. “Don’t worry.”
“Kid, it’s not you.”
“Sure. I totally believe you. Maybe you could stop calling me kid, though.
‘Too young for me’ is a dumb excuse, by the way.
Like, penguins mate for life and nobody tells them they're too young. They just waddle around being all committed and stuff.” Oh God, why did I say that? Why do I always say things?
“Ki—” He catches himself. “James, it's really not you.”
“Sure. Right.” I sidestep him and accelerate toward the lobby.
And, fuck, as I step through the doors, I remember there’s a poster on the wall with my face on it.
Not just my face—it’s a promotional flyer for the Ice Cats, and four of us are featured in our game-day suits.
It looks like an ad for cheap menswear. I’m careful not to make eye contact with it as I enter the lobby.
The exterior doors are in sight, and I lengthen my stride.
But then the impossible happens—Clay Powers, head coach of the Colorado Cougars, struts into the lobby from an adjacent hallway, wearing Cougars workout gear, a puffer vest, and a duffel bag over his shoulder.
There’s a beautiful gym in this building, and he probably got a workout in before heading home for the night.
I keep my head down, but it doesn’t work, because Forest draws an audible breath. “Coach Powers,” he stage whispers.
Of fucking course, Forest recognizes him. Powers is something of a legend at Sportsballs for the way he supported his player Hudson Newgate when he came out last year. Besides, the guy’s handsome face shines out in HD from every screen in the bar on game nights.
I’ve only spent snippets of time with Powers, but he’s always been a gentleman and far better at peopleing than I ever will be. Which is why he stops to acknowledge Forest. “Hey, you’re the bartender from Sportsballs. I remember you. Good practice?”
“The best!” Forest booms. When he smiles, it totally changes his face. “Thanks again for letting us use your ice.”
Powers smiles back at him. “Our pleasure.” Then his polite gaze shifts to me, and he does a double take. “Beck? Is that you under there?”
Fuck! “Hello, Coach. I’m just, um… It’s a little volunteer work. Before I wash my car.” Oh God. That was fumbly, even for me.
Coach gives me a quizzical smile. “Nice. So generous. How are things going for you this season?”
“Great!” I say, in spite of mountains of evidence to the contrary. “Getting my legs under me. Gonna have a strong January.”
“Happy to hear that,” he says, slapping my shoulder. Then he gives us both a wave and heads outside.
I sag. “Shit.”
Scully skids to a stop beside us. “Something wrong, boys? That was a great practice.”
“Yeah, it was.” Forest points at me. “Until Coach Powers stopped by to say hi to this guy. What are you not telling us? Who’s Beck?”
“I am,” I mumble.
“Then who’s James?”
“Also me.” I sigh. “Becker James.”
“Becker James,” Sully says slowly. “I’ve heard that name before. You’re the backup goalie for the Ice Cats in Loveland? That must be why your face is on that wall.” He points at the poster, and I sigh again.
“No shit?” Forest says, dropping his hockey bag. “Really, kid? What the hell have you been doing in my bar?”
“Dunno, man. The same thing as everyone else in your bar?”
He squints at me like it doesn’t quite compute. “Then what are you doing here tonight? Is this a joke to you?”
“No, asshole,” I snap. “Just playing some hockey and shutting down some idiots. You’re the one who’s making it weird.”
Scully chuckles. “Kinda true.”
Forest turns on his friend. “Is it even legal for him to play for us?”
Scully rubs his chin. “Pretty sure there aren’t hockey police, Forrester.”
“Forrester?” I squint at my favorite bartender. “You have two names, too? Alert the media.”
Scully claps him on the shoulder. “Seth Forrester. Forest is just a nickname.”
Seth Forrester. I like it. I like everything about him, even though he never misses an opportunity to shut me down.
Is there such a thing as having a kink for hot bartenders who hate me? Must be.
“Now that we know who everyone is,” Scully says patiently. “Why don’t you stop making that angry face, Forest? Jesus. We’re going to give the Plague the smackdown they deserve. Everything is right with the world.”
He sighs. “All right. Sorry.” He picks up his bag. “You’re not going to get in trouble with your team?” he asks me.
“Not if we don’t tell them,” I say. “Nobody has to know. Unless the Plague all have Ice Cats season tickets, and also a special fan club for goalies who don’t get a lot of playing time.”
Forest’s expression softens just a little. “They’re mostly based in Centennial, so you’re probably in the clear.”
“Good to know.” I head for the doors and out into the night.
“See you next Tuesday!” Scully yells after me. But I don’t even turn around.