Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Professor Bravo looks over his shoulder at the classroom clock. His signature tell–but I wait for the official call. “Well, class–”
I bolt for the door.
Professor Bravo might as well be on the replay; his words so slow compared to my body. “We can call it early.”
Behind me, Terrance yelps as he stumbles before catching himself on the back of another student’s chair. “Sorry!”
Oh, sweet Terrance, your manners will be your downfall.
By the time he makes it out of the lecture hall, I’m halfway to the ice rink, its glass exterior sparkling in the mid-afternoon sun.
The whole structure is like a mausoleum, in memoriam of a time when the The Dingbats weren’t a third-rate team.
Which, I guess makes me a grave robber of sorts, since I’m in here more days than not running my routine and working to perfect my footwork.
Over the facility entryway, a fierce dingbat extends its clawed feet, ready to snatch all who enter, deer antlers atop its head like a crown.
Unlike the other renditions of our beloved mascot, it lacks tiny fangs and beady black eyes.
I sprint past the black and white faces of former Dingbats.
The decals are somewhat faded from time and largely faded from all the post-defacement scrubbing.
Lots of these guys look better with blacked-out teeth and eyepatches, if you ask me.
Cold air hits me and I stop running. I catch my breath, walking up to the barrier. I bang on the acrylic, a warbling sound echoing across the empty ice. Terrence catches up, running his hand through his hair with a moan of anguish.
“Man, come on!”
I ignore him, sitting down and unlacing my sneakers.
“I wanted to get some practice shots in before meeting the new coach.”
“And I want to run through my new program.” I swap my sneakers for the skates in my bag.
Lugging them around campus isn’t ideal, but if I don’t get here right after afternoon classes end, I risk Terrence or some other puck-head hitting the ice first. Hockey skates tear up the ice bad, and I’d be better off practicing in the dance studio than scratched up ice.
Terrence joins me on the bench. “Qualifiers are soon, yeah? You’ll rock ‘em.”
“You’re sweet, and still not getting into the rink.”
Skates on, and in a few steps, I’m weightless.
The ice ferries me to the center of the rink.
I pause, taking in the empty stands before landing on Terrence.
He squints in my direction, his lips pulling into a pout, an impression of some ancient judge who’s already picked his season favorite.
Terrence is sitting right where the judges would be too.
Sometimes I’m jealous of hockey’s rules.
Skating has plenty of its own rules and regulations, but it also has style and artistry.
Refs don’t let an elbow fly just because there’s passion behind it.
Losing points because a judge didn’t like the chosen arrangement happens more often than anyone is comfortable admitting.
I press on with my warm-ups, taking a couple laps before shifting my weight to skate backwards.
Up in the balcony, an impressive set of horns catches my eye.
The imposing figure has their back to me, but Leroy is speaking to them, his hands and face animated.
I don’t think much of it and transition into a spin.
Terrence lets out a whoop and a clap. Leroy and the stranger turn towards the sound, and that’s when I get a good look at them both.
The other guy has horns that put Leroy’s to shame.
His handlebar-shaped horns are as wide as his shoulders.
His fur is as pale and short as the ice shavings left behind by my skates.
A huge white Minotaur. Where have I seen that before?
My stomach drops and I try to push the dread all the way down to the pick of my skate, catching the ice as I propel myself into a C turn.
Terrance doesn’t clap this time. Leroy returns to his conversation with.
.. There’s no way that’s the guy I was talking to last night.
What are the odds there are two Minotaurs in our humdrum college town?
The rest of my practice is such a blur, I don’t even notice the rest of the hockey team has shown up. Everyone is dressed in pads, eagerly awaiting their allotted rink time. Leroy shouts at me from across the ice. “C’mon Rod! Unless you’re looking to join the team.”
I take a bow like it’s a real competition before exiting the ice. Any other day, I’d shoot him a comeback, something about how the Dingbats can’t get any worse even with me on the roster. I swallow, give Leroy a nod, and keep my head down as I put my guards on my skates.
Totally-not 3dge-m3 steps in front of the hockey team and clears his throat. “I’ll introduce myself, that is, if Leroy hasn’t already told you everything you need to know about me.”
Some of the guys chuckle. Terrence knocks Leroy with his shoulder and gives him a good-natured but shit-eating grin.
Leroy defends himself. “I’ve been telling them to be on their best behavior, coach.”
“Right now, your best behavior is below average.” The harsh comeback hangs over the ice.
He clears his throat. “You all will call me Coach Chris. Now listen, I am not interested in last season or any season before that. Far as I am concerned, we’re rebuilding this team from the ground up.
I’m going to have you boys running drills like you’re in the youth league.
Like it’s your first time on ice. Just because you’re on the team doesn’t mean you’ve proven anything to me. ”
I can practically hear the whole team gulp simultaneously. As entertaining as it is watching the Dingbats sweat, I’m way more interested in the speech itself.
“Now who am I to say this shit, right? I’ve been playing since I was six, like a lot of you, and I joined the ECHL at twenty. I’ve been knocked down by some guys in the big show, scored on a few of them too.”
From where I’m sitting I can only see the coach's backside, so not a bad view at all—but the confidence in his voice tells me he’s smiling.
He’s got the whole team hanging on his every word.
The only interruption is my heart thudding in my ears– completely unrelated to the nice view of his ass.
Even if his tail is swishing as he talks.
It's a cute distraction from my utter panic.
I’ve seen 3dge-m3—Coach Chris’ dick, and I told him to bounce on mine!
There’s still the possibility it’s not him. Sure he is new in town, has the same coat color, and a magnetic ass—but I don’t know everyone on campus. Or in town. Someone’s cousin could be visiting for the week ,and that’s who's been asking me to step on them. Maybe Coach Chris has a twin.
I rifle through my bag for my phone, typing out a single word and sending it just in time.
TwinkleTop: Tonight.
“I’m going to push you guys hard this season– starting right now.” Coach Chris claps his hands. “Let’s go, groups of four for circle chaos.”
While the guys file onto the ice, coach pulls his phone from his pocket. I stand up, trying and failing to get a look at his phone over his thick shoulders. He slides it back in without a second thought before shouting orders.
I’ve bawled my eyes out after a competition, but I’ve never run so fast out of an ice rink in my life.
The worst part is my head is completely empty.
I’m painfully aware of every step I take back to the dorm.
I shrug my bag over my shoulder so many times, I’m surprised I don’t pull a muscle.
I need to talk to someone. But Terrence is in practice—and even if he wasn’t he’s not an option.
I do have other friends—but maybe best to avoid anyone on campus.
Alexsandra has known me forever, and she’s in Europe, but that means she’ll be asleep for several more hours.
I’m not sure I trust anyone else to keep their mouth shut. 3dge-m3—shit, Chris, hasn’t done anything wrong. At least I don’t think he has. If sexting with strangers is illegal, then I’m just as guilty. I’m 21. Far as Chris knew, he was texting some townie. If this gets out—shit, is he even out?
Hockey and figure skating are complete opposites in that regard.
Boys in my middle school decided I was gay before I did, based solely on the fact I did ballet and figure skating.
Admitting that Matthew Breslen from third-period math was right was way harder than admitting I liked boys.
At least I could commiserate with the other guys in my sports; a lot of them had it way worse than me.
It’s real rough when the only girl you’ve ever held hands with is your pairs partner, who is also your sister.
Meanwhile, there’s never been an out and active NHL player.
From what I hear it’s a little better in the minor leagues.
Like a lot of sports, the baked-in homoeroticism really pushes guys into toxic territory.
I don’t know. Maybe it’s gotten better. I should ask Terrence or Leroy if there are any gay coaches. Real casual conversation.
Back at the dorm, I take a long, hot shower and find myself counting the stall’s wall tiles.
I’m surprised I don’t use up the building’s hot water.
My hair is still wet when I crack open my Aesthetics textbook.
It’s like I haven’t left the shower. I read each word independent of one another, finding it impossible to string together the sentences.
Like I don’t struggle enough already in this class.
Accepting that I’m not actually getting any work done, I check my phone. Practice should be over by now. Most nights I grab dinner with Terrence and a few guys from the team, a good chance to feel out what the situation is with Chris, but I’m impatient and send a text to Terrence.
How’s the new coach?
I open up poundr. My message is still marked as unread.
Maybe Chris panic swiped the notification so he’ll never see my message.
That’s the good ending to this story, the kind of thing I can keep to myself till graduation.
Then, when it’s safe, Terrence and I can have a laugh over it.
Hahah. Rod saw Coach Chris’ dick, hilarious.
Terrence responds faster than expected.
Dude I dunno he’s intense but nice about it.
wdym?
still feeling him out
Fair enough.
I attempt to study some more when my phone dings.
I’m expecting another message from Terrence, an offer to go into town for dinner instead of the dining hall, but it’s a poundr notification.
I could ignore it, narrate my own happy ending, and save Terrence’s graduation present. But I tap the notification.
3dge-m3: I’m free at 8. your place or mine?
Like any good college student, I put off doing the actual hard work.
TwinkleTop: 8 is good. Your place. I have roommates
Maybe I should add, you actually know him! But that’s a bit much. For my own peace of mind, I shouldn’t assume 3dge-m3 and Coach Chris are the same person.
I make my way to the dining hall. My thoughts are so damn loud I barely hear Terrence calling to me from a few yards away.
“Hey!” He touches my shoulder as he comes up behind me. His hair is wet after practice, the only time anyone ever sees him without a backward baseball cap. He’s got me trapped under his arm as we enter the dining hall. “Perfect timing, I’m starving, did you bring my empty tupperware?”
There’s no rule against taking food out of the hall so long as you can carry it out. Terrence loves to talk about how his fellow students fail to fully abuse this rule. But he fails to realize most people have a concept of shame. That and a more refined palate.
A bunch of freshmen at the front of the line slow us down as they struggle with scanning their IDs. Terrence pushes, “I left it on my desk.”
“Sorry, I zoned.” Despite making fun of his beat-the-education-system-life-hack, I do usually bring him his tupperware from the dorm.
“Nah, it’s alright. Hey, we could go halfsies on a pizza later tonight.”
“You know this isn’t what coaches mean when they suggest meal planning.” I land a soft elbow into his gut. “And you know I can’t have late night snacks right now.”
“You say that all the time.”
“And I’ve got plans tonight.”
“Yeah, demolishing a two topping twelve inch with me.”
“Sorry, can you say that a little louder?” We swipe our cards. “Really emphasize the twelve inches part.”
We grab food and convene in our usual spot, right as a few other guys from the team file in. Terrence eyes my plate of more beans than rice and a good helping of salad. “Damn you’re serious about the diet already.”
“Maude wants me to start yoga.” I stab some leafy greens onto my fork.
“Are you gonna?”
I chew and give Terrence a nod.
“Is that what you’re doing tonight? I bet I’d look good in yoga pants.”
I roll my eyes to hide the fact that Terrence is right. He, like so many hockey players, has a great ass.
“You are not outshining me, bubble butt. I’m going solo.” I eat more sad salad, hoping depressing roughage will distract from the fact I just lied to my roommate.
This will all be funny later…