6. Colby
SIX
Colby
I wish Novi hadn’t said anything. I love that he did, that he felt comfortable enough to tell me, and I’m relieved he’s not a homophobic dickweed, but now I replay our moment in my head every time I see him.
And as one of his coaches, I see him a lot. Not only in person but on a screen.
I have to analyze the way his body moves, and even though he’s covered with all that padding, I know what he looks like underneath all of it.
He might no longer be the fresh-faced rookie I knew, and he might have had almost two decades of strain on his body, but he’s still as solid as ever under that jersey. I know because I’m staring at his naked abs. Right now. And the trickle of water that slips between them.
It’s not like I’m purposefully looking. I’m making my way through the locker room, which is noisy with conversation and heavy with body spray, trying to get to the team trainer’s office, and he’s in my direct line of sight.
Fresh out of the shower. Wrapped in only a towel. It’s my feet’s fault for slowing.
The view takes me right back to being beside Novi as his teammate.
All those showers together. Well, not together together, but in the same vicinity.
Dressing down after a game, suiting up to go home, we’d been in ten different states of undress every single day.
It took all my strength not to watch him the whole time like a creep.
I force myself to keep moving past him before I can repeat old patterns. I’m not allowed to think about Radimir Novicov in that way. I shouldn’t have done it back then, and the stakes are even higher now.
Everyone knows he’s going to retire when his contract is over at the end of next season.
If I can keep my thoughts under control until then and Novi wants to come out and have a real relationship, maybe that’s when I can think about asking him on a date.
Until then, I have to be professional. One hundred percent hands-off.
Where am I going again? Why am I in the players’ locker room? I can’t remember.
“Turkey,” Jeremy, our head trainer, calls from the door to the treatment room. “You’re up.”
Ah. Yes. Trainer. Talkies. All of the professionalism.
Jeremy sees me coming and gives me an up-nod. “You need to see me?”
“For a moment, if I can.”
Turkey follows me into the room, whips off his towel, and throws himself on the massage table face down. “I swear my ass is on fire.”
Do not look at the gorgeous man’s hockey butt. Do not look.
“You might need to see the team doctor for a Z-Pak about that,” Jeremy snarks.
Turkey doesn’t even lift his head, only throws up his middle finger. “My sciatica is acting up.”
“Oh. That I can help you with.” Jeremy grabs some massage oil and gets to work on Turkey’s lower back, but I tell myself to look at the roof and not the naked ass.
I haven’t had sex since moving to LA, Novi is in my head, and I’m a gay man with a bare ass right in front of me. Life is not playing fair.
Having been in locker rooms for most of my life, I know how to keep boundaries in place, but when Jeremy starts massaging Turkey’s glutes, I again forget why I’m even here. I’m thankful that it’s Turkey and not Novi on that table, or I might be in real danger of crossing professional lines.
“Coach Kessinger?” Jeremy says, and I snap out of my “do not look” mantra.
My gaze snaps from the ceiling to his. “Sorry, I can come back after the team has cleared out.”
“You can talk freely,” Turkey says. He lifts up on his elbows and holds up his headphones. “I won’t be able to hear if you say how everyone else sucks while I’m the best.”
Jeremy switches from his hands to working his elbow down Turkey’s lower back.
“Ah, fuck,” Turkey grunts.
Yeah, I can’t do this. “A-all good. I-I I’ll come back.
” I turn on my heel to walk out the door, only to run right into more naked skin.
This time with my body and not my eyes. My face connects with a hard nose, and whether it’s his familiar scent or the Russian curse that comes out of his mouth, I know it’s him without having seen him yet.
My eyes are too busy scrunched together against the pain from headbutting Novi.
Of course it had to be Novi.
“No wonder you didn’t make it out of AHL. You move with your eyes closed.”
If I weren’t so mortified over tripping over my feet, my words, and making my coworkers uncomfortable with my inappropriate thoughts, I’d laugh at Novi’s perfect deadpan delivery.
I’ve missed it.
Even though my insides scream at me to flee the room, I hold strong and shake off the awkwardness as much as I can.
“I actually came in here to talk about you,” I say to Novi.
Even though the scrunch in his forehead lets me know exactly how much he distrusts me, I keep in my eye roll.
“You refuse to listen to me when I say your knees are old and you’re pushing them too hard.”
“My knees are not old. You’re old.”
Behind us, Jeremy and Turkey snicker.
“I’m younger than you,” I point out.
“Same draft class. Same age.”
“So you’re admitting you are old, then?”
Novi grumbles under his breath.
“All I’m doing is trying to make sure you get through the next two seasons without an injury that could leave you retiring early.”
“Why would you put that in the universe?” Novi looks up at the ceiling and around the room. “He didn’t mean it. No injury. No retirement.”
“I see you’ve only gotten more superstitious since we played together.”
“Wait,” Turkey says. “You two used to play together?”
Still being horny, still being in Novi’s general vicinity, instead of picturing us on the ice together, my mind immediately goes to that night in our hotel room. Him hovering over the top of me.
“You didn’t tell me that,” Turkey says to Novi.
That is to be expected, considering Novi’s concerns over his and his family’s safety, but it still hurts that he hasn’t even acknowledged that we know each other.
I force a small smile. “It was one season a billion years ago. He didn’t even remember me until I reminded him. I don’t hold it against him. As well as old knees, he also has an old brain.”
“You have old face,” Novi grumbles some more.
“Were you needing some physiotherapy, or do you want to come review your game tape with me so I can show you what I’m talking about?”
Novi glances between Jeremy and me. “I was only looking for massage. I don’t need physiotherapy.”
I internally sigh. Big macho man will risk his remaining two years in the league to avoid admitting weakness.
“Then meet me in the video room.” I gesture for him to leave and then turn back to Jeremy once Novi’s outside the treatment room. “Can you keep a spot open for him to come to you after I’ve spoken to him about his knees?”
“Will do.” He goes back to working on Turkey while I catch up with Novi.
“I’m not injured,” he says like a petulant child.
“I’m not saying you are.” I walk with my hands in my pockets as we leave the locker room and head into the hall outside so I’m not even tempted to reach for him. To reassure him, stop him from continuing so we can face each other to talk about his future in hockey. I won’t do any of it.
Hands in pockets. Eyes straight ahead.
“Then what is your problem with my knees?”
“I’ll show you.”
We reach the video room, and I hold the door open for him.
We’re the only ones in here, which, normally, I’d be fine with because it would give me that chance to work one-on-one with my players. But with Novi, one-on-one is dangerous.
“Sit,” I say, and Novi sits in the closest recliner chair.
We have state-of-the-art technology here, so when I pull up some shots of Novi on the iPad, I can send it to the large screen on the far wall. I refuse to sit, and I hold back from even standing near him.
“Here.” I circle a still shot with the stylus pen where Novi’s knees are too far inward while he’s changing direction.
“I see nothing wrong.”
Stubborn son of a bitch.
“This”—I circle it again—“is what people do when they’re overcompensating for the pressure on their knees. It’s a reflex brought on by your hips to try to protect yourself, but in the long run, all it’s going to make you do is tear something. A ligament, a tendon, your meniscus.”
“I’ve always done that. Hasn’t been a problem.”
“That’s what I thought it could be too. So when I noticed it, I went back to old footage of you.” I pull up some other stills I saved from my very professional research of looking up old game tape of a man I used to jerk off over.
If being gay hadn’t already reserved my spot, this is what would send me to hell.
“Look. No pigeon knees, and this was only a couple of seasons ago. See how your thighs and knees are completely parallel to each other? And, in fact, if you can almost see the slow progression from this point to—” I flick through more images I’ve lined up. “—now.”
Novi’s finally quiet. It’s slowly sinking in. He’s coming around.
“I don’t see a difference.” He really is stubborn. “But hypothetically, how would someone fix that?”