Chapter 2 #2
Were any of the players on the team guys he’d played with when he’d been at GH? Probably. Maybe? It was possible some of the seniors had been freshmen when he’d been a senior himself. He was attempting to do the math when a shadow fell over him.
“Thought that was you,” Coach Bedley said. He took the seat next to Alex. Alex secured his sleeve over his cast, hiding the giant purple cock and balls. Fucking Jay.
Bedley was a big guy, rough around the edges, but he was a stellar coach. Alex never would’ve been drafted without him. Bedley had spent almost twenty years coaching in the AHL before making the move to college hockey. He claimed it was less pressure but Alex couldn’t see how that could be true.
“Hey, Coach.” Alex offered his right hand, remembered it was broken, then offered his left.
Bedley snorted and they shook left hands.
“How’s it going, Dean?”
Alex wiggled the fingers sticking out of his cast. “It’s going.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. You’ll be out for a while, it seems. I’m surprised you’re here instead of with your team. Sticking around long?”
“A few weeks.”
“Miss us that much?”
Alex didn’t deny it. Playing for the NHL was a dream come true. But playing for the GH Mountaineers had been…well, for lack of a better, non-cheesy phrase, the time of his life.
Bedley nodded at the ice. “Let me know if you want to get on the ice with my guys while you’re here. If you’re not going to practice in Tampa, might as well practice here. Give my guys some real competition.”
“You don’t think Colgate is real competition?”
Bedley scoffed. “Please.”
Alex considered Bedley’s offer for a second. “I don’t know. We’ll see.”
“If you want to get back in the game in full-form once that cast comes off, you need to spend time on the ice. Shoulda stayed in Tampa, practiced with your team.”
Alex didn’t take offense. Bedley was all about the game, first and last.
“I have some stuff to take care of here,” Alex said.
Bedley grunted. He nodded at the players again and said, “Tell me what you see.”
“What do you mean?”
“You notice everything, Dean. That’s why I always said you should be a goalie. I saw you arrive when practice started, which means you’ve been here a while. So tell me what you see.”
To Alex’s utter surprise, Bedley took a small notepad and pencil out of the pocket of his GH-branded windbreaker.
“What?” Alex huffed a laugh of disbelief. “Are you serious?”
Bedley waited for him, pencil poised above his notepad.
“Okay.” Alex leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.
“That guy—” He pointed at a tall dude who punched the Plexiglass.
“—gets angry too easily. It costs him the puck. Your backup goalie doesn’t interact with the other players enough on the ice.
Shorty over there, number twelve? Nerves get the better of him. ” A freshman, if Alex had to guess.
“Do you have anything nice to say?” Coach asked, the scratch scratch of his pencil flying over paper.
“I’m getting to that.”
A whistle blew. One of the assistant coaches said something Alex couldn’t hear, and the players set their hockey sticks aside and started cool-down laps.
“Your D-men play together as if they’ve been doing so since they could skate,” Alex said.
“Your forwards are really fucking fast. And that guy, the left-winger, number nineteen.” Alex pointed to a player who was chatting with the guy next to him, hands gesturing as he spoke.
“He’s agile. Got great footwork and speed.
Incredibly flexible. He’s smart, looks for openings. He’s got a lot of talent.”
“He’s also a math genius.”
Alex looked at Bedley.
“Seriously. I swear he does math during games, like he’s calculating the perfect angle at which to shoot the puck at the boards so that it ricochets into the net.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He does it in a split second,” Bedley added. “I wouldn’t have noticed it if I didn’t know the kid like I do. It means he’s overthinking things on the ice, and I don’t know yet if that’s a hindrance or a gift.”
“Only time will tell,” Alex said.
“You were right when you said he was smart. He’s also the most dedicated player—and student—I’ve seen in a long time.
He’s doing a kinesiology degree, so most of his classes have labs once a week on top of lectures.
He has a key to this place and comes in to skate and shoot the puck on mornings we don’t have practice.
” Bedley crossed his arms over his chest. “And I get the feeling he doesn’t get a lot of support at home.
The kid kills himself working two jobs on top of classes, practice, and games, never mind the amount of homework that comes with a science degree. ”
Two jobs? Holy shit. Alex had never known a Division I player who’d had time for one job during the school year, let alone two.
“But Jesus, he’s also the biggest shit I’ve ever worked with.”
A laugh burst out of Alex. “Really? Ever? In your twenty-plus years of coaching, that guy’s the biggest shit you’ve ever coached?”
“He’s arrogant, and loud. Thinks he’s God’s gift to the world. And don’t ever put him in front of a reporter. The stuff that flies out of his mouth…”
Alex made a mental note to peruse the online archives of the student newspaper later. He was about to ask Bedley for the player’s name when yet another whistle blew, and the players trudged off the ice.
“Come on.” Bedley stood. “Coaches Hannon and Spinney will want to see you.”
Alex followed Bedley to the offices where he spent a few minutes catching up with his old coaches. By the time he said his goodbyes and stepped back into the hallway with Bedley, twenty minutes had passed..
Two men carrying equipment bags exited the locker room, one a tall Asian guy and the other… The other was lean and wiry and had curly brown hair.
“Here’s the little shit,” Bedley said under his breath, nodding at the guy on the left. At Mitch.
Wait. Mitch Greyson, the shit with the in-your-face attitude Alex had met yesterday, was a math genius and super talented hockey player?
Something wasn’t adding up. Mitch’s personality on-ice—he had great stick-handling skills, uncanny vision as to where his teammates would be and didn’t hog the puck, even though there had been a couple of instances during practice when he should’ve—didn’t mesh with his personality off-ice.
Although, there were hints that Mitch was equally as smart both on and off the ice.
Alex had seen them last night when Mitch had come to the lecture prepared with questions.
Mitch was clearly serious about two things—school and hockey.
Who the hell was this guy?
Alex wasn’t in the mood to be hit on again and he briefly considered slinking away. Mitch spotted him before Alex could decide and he lost his chance to escape unseen.
Mitch’s mouth kicked up into a half smile.
“Greyson, Yano,” Bedley said. “Meet Alex Dean, defenseman for Tampa. He was a Mountaineer before your time.”
“We’ve met,” Mitch said, smirking, mischief alight in his eyes. “Come to see me play?”
Alex raised an eyebrow. Yano rolled his eyes.
Bedley sighed and stepped aside. “Get out of here, Greyson.”
“Yes, sir, Coach.” Mitch stepped forward into the space recently made by Bedley. He kept his eyes on Alex and that infuriating smirk on his lips never faltered.
If Alex had to guess, he’d say the brush of Mitch’s bicep against his as Mitch slid past him wasn’t an accident.
“There’s a party tonight at Mama Jean’s,” Mitch said, full of smug defiance. “You should come.”
Well, Alex knew where he wasn’t going to be tonight.
But seriously, the kid was going to a party the evening before he had to get on a bus for a five-hour drive to Hamilton, New York, where his team would play a mid-afternoon game against Colgate? For real, who was this guy?
Yano rolled his eyes again. “Ignore him.” He pushed Mitch to get him walking. “It was nice to meet you, Dean. See you in the morning, Coach.”
Mitch and Greyson headed down the hallway and as Alex and Bedley watched, Mitch threw Alex a wicked grin over his shoulder.
Bedley sighed again. “See what I mean?”
* * *
Mitch hated parties. So much, in fact, that he’d rather work at a bee farm surrounded by hundreds of bees plotting his death, one bee sting at a time.
A headache pulsed at his temples. He hid in a bathroom stall at Mama Jean’s and massaged his temples with the thumb and middle finger of one hand. The other hand held a beer he didn’t want, bought for him by someone older. Mama Jean’s was packed for tonight’s party, whoever it was for.
He had to be on a bus tomorrow morning at seven.
Mitch checked his watch: nine-fifteen. He had a biomechanics lab on Tuesday and a musculoskeletal tutorial on Wednesday he needed to do the readings for.
His weekly written assignment for his human growth, motor development, and physical activity class was due Thursday, not to mention all the reading he still needed to do for his electives.
Tomorrow was a write-off unless he could get some reading done on the bus ride to and from Hamilton.
On Sunday, he had a full shift at his part-time job at the long-term care facility in Montpelier, then a two-hour session tutoring a couple of freshmen in college Algebra 101.
It was brainless work for Mitch that provided him with some much-needed cash.
His partial scholarship helped, but it covered only about sixty percent of his expenses.
He still needed to pay his bills, and for gas, food, rent, and a portion of next semester’s tuition and textbooks.
He had some cash left over from his full-time job at a café in Montpelier last summer, but if an emergency came up—like the car broke down or he needed to replace lost or broken hockey equipment—he was fucked.