Peaches and Pucks

Chapter 1

HARRY

I’m not entirely sure how I ended up on a stuffy chartered motorcoach surrounded by Sharks. That would be the Sharks, the boisterous fifth-grade boys’ hockey team from the school I teach at. Yet here I am.

The less-than-luxurious bus chugs down the interstate, transporting us to picturesque Warwick, Rhode Island—site of the New England Peewee Hockey Division Three semifinals.

The fact that I know any of those words is something my father would take pride in.

Mainly because the only sport I ever entertained as a child was hiding in the back of gym class, hoping to be picked last for any team and then knowing I’d be placed in whatever position required the least amount of athletic skill.

Way back in right field, staring at the clouds?

Keeping the bench warm while the taller, more svelte guys played basketball?

Collecting the misfired and out-of-bounds balls on the tennis court?

I’m your guy. I have zero knowledge or interest in hockey and would prefer to keep it that way.

As a fifth-grade language arts teacher at Crossroads Elementary, my only extracurricular duties include working with Christine Wong, the music teacher, on the musical each year.

We closed Into the Woods JR. two weeks ago to rave reviews.

It’s identical to the regular version, except it completely removes the entire tragic second act.

Nobody missed the death and despair. Go figure.

“Peterson, you alive?” Darius Hill—Coach Hill to the boys on the bus—asks. He’s the PE teacher at Crossroads and the one person who makes my life uncomfortable at school.

“All good,” I say.

I force a grin and hold up my worn copy of Lord of the Flies. Regardless of my previous interactions with Darius, William Golding’s classic will be the only tension between civility and chaos on this overnight hellscape of a trip I was roped into.

I’m not sure what I ever did to him, but the tension in the air is palpable whenever he’s around.

Maybe it’s my lack of sports knowledge beyond women’s figure skating and the occasional leer at men’s tennis because of those thick thighs in short shorts .

. . or my disinterest in his lunchtime fantasy football conversations in the teacher’s lounge .

. . or the fact that I love to suck dick.

From the moment I was hired, Darius Hill has made it abundantly clear he doesn’t like me.

“Thanks again,” he says from three uncomfortable inches away.

We’re crammed into the only vacant seats near the back of the bus, him against the window while I’ve got the aisle—right next to the bathroom that vaguely smells like an overused outhouse at a hot dog eating contest.

“No problem.”

Except it is a problem. I’m not supposed to be here.

I should be home in bed, eating ice cream from the container while watching the new season of that show about a ridiculously attractive American woman who moves to Paris and spends her time eating delicious food and fawning over gorgeous French men—none of whom have any interest in sports.

“I never took you for a guy to take a dare,” Darius says.

My eyes are fixed on the screen four seats ahead of us playing Despicable Me 4, which is completely lost on me since I’ve never seen Despicable Me 1-3 or any of the Minions movies.

It’s really all drivel that works well, even without my headphones plugged into the seat for sound, and I try to get lost in the Minion playing a banana like a saxophone.

As my grandmother would say, this isn’t great theatre, Harry.

But I can see Darius in my peripheral vision, wearing the Bruins cap that’s apparently superglued to his scalp and burning a hole into the side of my head with his light hazel eyes.

His face is adorned with scruff that seems to defy time, always maintaining the same perfect length by some inexplicable straight-boy sorcery.

“I’m not here for a dare.” I keep my eyes focused on the chaotic little yellow people.

“Oh? Why, then?”

I face Darius, taking in the athletic suit with his name emblazoned on the chest. My eyes dart down to ‘Coach Hill’ stitched over his firm pec, taunting me.

“I’m here for the kids.” I nod at the group of boys on the bus.

Most of them are plugged in, laughing at the immature animated antics.

Fifth-grade boys are interesting animals.

Developmentally, they’re typically behind their female counterparts.

Smaller. Less aware of the world around them.

In a few months, the total onslaught of body odor will be in full effect, and I’ll be forced to deliver my dreaded ‘personal hygiene’ chat to them.

It’s that or cosplay as Esther Williams and wear a nose plug to avoid the ripe onion smell while attempting to teach the intricacies of Treasure Island.

Darius raises his right eyebrow. He’s a cocky motherfucker. I refuse to lower myself to his level and take the bait. As Michelle Obama says, “When they go low, we go high.” God, I wish I had her arms.

I lift my chin, meet his gaze, and continue.

“Without another staff chaperone, the trip would be canceled. It’s not the boys’ fault Mr. Applegate’s dog went into labor and he had to take her to the emergency vet in New Hampshire.

He didn’t even know she was expecting. A surprise poodle pregnancy.

You can’t make this stuff up.” I shrug. “And I was . . .”

“Available.”

As Darius smirks, a surge of frustration pulses through me, my hand involuntarily twitching with the overwhelming desire to wipe that smug expression off his face.

“I was in the office. Mrs. Stephen was in full panic mode. I wasn’t letting her take the hit. She’s mere months away from retirement. There was no way I was making her ride the bus to Rhode Island with a group of fifth graders and . . . you. It was my civic duty to step up.”

“And you were available.”

“Yes. I didn’t have any plans on a Friday night. Sue me.”

“You did a nice thing, Peterson.”

“Thank you.”

I pull my lips in, the corners of my mouth tightening, while my fingers glide through my hair, untangling the knots. My curls are becoming wild and untamed. I need to schedule a trim.

“I never knew you had an interest in hockey. We don’t read musty books.” He flicks the tattered cover in my lap. “Or break out into song mid-thought like those fairy-tale characters.”

I leer at him, and if I were in an old-timey cartoon, I’m relatively certain smoke would be billowing out of my ears.

“You’re right—zero interest in anything related to pucks.

Delightful fairy from A Midsummer Night’s Dream aside.

I’m here because Johnny Rodriguez gave me his best sad puppy dog eyes about the team not being able to play in the semifinals because of Mr. Applegate’s unexpected visit from the canine stork. ”

“Mrs. Stephen would’ve come. She’s done it before. She actually enjoys hockey.”

Darius pulls his baseball hat up, exposing the tiniest bit of his dark brown hair at the top of his head.

The man lives in a cap. In the four years I’ve been at Crossroads, I’ve only seen him without it once.

Once. When that chipmunk wrangled its way in through the girl’s locker room and he used his hat to scoop it up and bring it outside. What a fucking hero.

“I think you’re curious,” he continues, his eyes lingering a little too long on my face for my comfort. “About . . . hockey. You know I play on an adult team, too. If you’re genuinely interested.”

The shit-eating grin reappears, and once again, I’m back in middle school, being taunted by the boys on the playground. Except now, the boy is wearing a full-grown human costume.

“Hockey?” I ask, quickly lowering my voice to make sure any boys awake and not plugged in don’t hear me question the reason we’re headed to The Ocean State on a rickety, out-of-commission tour bus.

“A bunch of angry men with too much testosterone banging into each other and hitting each other with sticks? Sounds positively dignified.”

Darius huffs, and his nostrils flare. He has the most perfect nose on that annoying face, and how dare he have sexy nostrils too?

“You're not interested in a bunch of dudes swinging our sticks back and forth?”

“Will you keep it down? And stop,” I whisper-shout. “There’s no need to be inappropriate.”

Darius stands, holding on to the ledge of the overhead railing.

“We’re almost at the rink. I need to move to the front of the bus.”

Before I can rise or move over, he shimmies in front of me. The dark navy and—I’m guessing—polyester blend of his workout pants passes inches in front of my face. His bulge comes dangerously close, and I’m tempted to punch him in the dick.

“Me? Inappropriate?” he asks, standing in the aisle. “We have to share a room tonight, Peterson. I’d never think of it.”

Darius winks and walks toward the driver. His plump ass looks like two soccer balls in his damn athletic wear. And now I’m making improper sports references.

The bus veers off the highway, and a mix of excitement and nervousness blankets me as we approach the rink.