Chapter 5 #2
“She said, ‘The chairs are fine, Oliver. You’re just too big.’” I lean back, and the chair tips backward.
My stomach drops, and I slap my palm against the table to steady myself.
“Too big. As if it’s my fault I have a hockey butt.
As if years of skating and leg presses were a choice I made specifically to inconvenience break room furniture. ”
“A hockey butt,” Alex repeats, and there’s that almost-smile again.
“It’s a real condition, Alex. All the guys on the team have overdeveloped glutes from years of skating.
Gerard’s is practically the size of the moon.
Mine’s more modest, but it’s still enough to turn these chairs to kindling.
” I slap the metal seat for emphasis. “One of these days, this thing is going to collapse under me mid-sandwich, and Miranda’s going to have a workman’s comp situation on her hands. ”
Alex laughs again. Wow. Twice in one day. I’m counting that as a win.
“Speaking of guys with hockey butts, what’d you think of our season?”
Alex’s posture stiffens by a fraction, but he doesn’t retreat into himself the way he usually does. I consider that progress. “Of the season?”
I grin. “Yeah. Be honest. I won’t report back to your dad.”
His brow furrows slightly as he weighs his answer. “It was…intense. You guys are…” He searches for the word. “A lot. Gerard asked me to massage his glutes on my first day.”
I huff out a laugh. “Why am I not surprised?”
“He said, ‘My cheeks carry the weight of the franchise, little dude. Treat them with respect.’”
My fingers find the bridge of my nose, pressing hard enough to leave white marks on either side. I drop my head forward, eyes squeezed shut for a beat. “Please tell me you told him no.”
“I told him I’d be happy to address any clinically relevant muscle tightness in his gluteal region.”
That’s…surprising. Alex doesn’t strike me as the guy who would be “happy” to touch another guy’s ass.
If you’d asked me to bet, I would’ve guessed he’d flinch at the idea, then spend the rest of the semester avoiding Gerard, terrified of encountering that celestial moon-butt again.
But I guess I underestimated the kid. Maybe this is how he tries to prove himself.
Maybe, for all his shyness, he wants to be one of the guys.
I remember being eighteen and so terrified of letting people down that I’d agree to anything, even if it meant enduring low-level humiliation for the greater good.
(See: freshman-year hazing, which involved an ice bath, a live goldfish, and the men’s swim team.
Never again.) Alex is Coach Donovan’s kid.
He’s got the legacy, the expectations, the built-in pressure of being watched by the entire athletic department.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he signed up for this job solely to show he could survive in the belly of the beast.
“You sound pretty chill about it.”
Alex shrugs. “It’s a job. And, uh, I figured if I acted weird about it, everyone would think I’m a prude or something.”
“You’re not a prude,” I say, grinning. “Cautious, maybe.”
He laughs softly, crumpling the empty wrapper into a loose ball. “That’s what my therapist says.”
I smirk. “Smart therapist. But seriously, if you ever feel uncomfortable, you can say no. Gerard’s only legally entitled to compliments about his glutes, not hands-on service.”
Alex’s cheeks flush. Not the mortified kind, though; more like he’s relieved someone finally acknowledged the ridiculousness of hockey team culture. “Thanks, Oliver. I’ll remember that.”
“You should. Team rule: Only touch the butt if there’s a medical emergency, or a dare.”
He shakes his head, grinning for real now. “You guys have rules for everything.”
“Welcome to the Barracudas.”
Alex’s expression softens into something almost fond.
“It was good, though—helping out the team. I’ve learned more in the last two months than I have in an entire semester of classes.
Hockey players are—your bodies take so much punishment.
The hip flexor issues alone could fill a textbook.
And the fact that you guys play through injuries that would sideline normal people—” He catches himself, as if realizing he’s been talking for longer than his usual allotment. His ears turn pink.
“Keep going,” I say. “This is the most you’ve said to me in one sitting. I’m savoring it.”
He ducks his head but continues. “Kyle’s shoulder was a mess when I started. He’d been compensating with his traps for weeks, and nobody caught it because he refused to tell anyone it hurt.”
“That tracks. Kyle would rather chew glass than admit he’s in pain.”
“I noticed it during warm-ups. The way he was rotating his arm—there was a hitch. I pulled him aside after practice, and he bit my head off. But I got him on the table, worked through the adhesions, and set him up with a corrective exercise program. By the playoffs, his range of motion was back to baseline.”
“I remember that. He was a wall in the Frozen Four. That save in the third period? He wouldn’t have made it with the restricted shoulder. Not at that angle.”
“I’m looking forward to continuing to help you guys next semester,” Alex says. “My dad has already spoken with the athletic department to make me full-time.”
“Alex, that’s awesome!”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. You’re about to be a junior, and you’ve already locked down a position that usually goes to grad students. Own it.”
He fidgets with the wrapper of his granola bar, folding it into smaller and smaller squares. But he’s smiling. A real smile that transforms his whole face from anxious porcelain doll to actual human being. “Thanks. I’m—yeah. I’m looking forward to it.”
Silence fills the space between us. Alex brushes the crumbs off the table while I tap my fingers against my thigh, counting the seconds of quiet. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. The clock on the wall ticks forward.
“Oliver?” Alex’s voice drops to barely above a whisper, his eyes fixed on his delicate hands rather than meeting mine.
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“I noticed you’ve been staring at the door a lot today. Like you’re waiting for a specific someone to walk in.”
My mouth pops open. I didn’t think anyone had noticed. Apparently, I’m about as subtle as Gerard at a nude beach. “It’s nothing,” I say automatically.
Alex nods. He doesn’t push or pry, which somehow makes me want to tell him more than any amount of prodding would.
“There’s this guy—you’ve met him, actually. Ryan Abrams. We were friends when we were kids. I’ve been trying to reconnect, but he’s…” I wave my hand vaguely. “Skittish.”
“Skittish how?”
“Every time we cross paths, he’s already searching for the nearest exit. If I could get five minutes with him—”
“You could fix it,” Alex finishes.
I blink, surprised at his astuteness. “Yeah. Exactly.”
“Some people aren’t avoiding you because they don’t want to talk. They’re avoiding you because they’re afraid of what happens if they do.”
His words land deep in my chest, specifically in the space between my ribs where I keep the things I’m too afraid to say out loud. “Speaking from experience?” I ask gently.
Alex’s ears flame red as he flies to his feet. “We should check on the guys. I think I heard something else break.”
I didn’t hear anything, but I let him have the out. He gave me something real, whether he meant to or not. The least I can do is not make him regret it.
“Yeah,” I say, hauling myself out of the death trap chair with a groan.
As we get back to work, I can’t stop thinking about people who run away because they care too much.
I’ve been playing this all wrong with Ryan. Instead of hunting him down like some desperate hockey goon, I need to plant myself somewhere he’ll stumble across me naturally. Give him the space to approach on his own terms.