9. Ryan #2
Yeah, that would be to die for. With a low back but not too low, slinky strapped low heels, and a few black butterfly barrettes to keep my hair out of my face.
Sultry tones for the face, thick eyeliner, glittery shadows, and a deep berry lipstick.
My sigh was legendary as my dreams fizzled when another bag of equipment was tossed my way to load into the underbelly of the charter bus.
There was so much shit to haul. Moving a team was a huge undertaking.
The players were already milling around, the veterans razzing the two rookies.
They’d ride in the front with the coaches as was customary for newbies.
Why? Not a clue. But them were the rules, according to Arnaud, who was sipping some sort of non-carbonated drink from Canada that was made out of pine needles.
Using a kid’s yellow straw with a loop in it, he just stood off to the side, bright sharp eyes keyed in on me.
It was making me a little uneasy. Goalies had this zone they entered that most of us non-goalies could only puzzle over. Intense concentration.
I turned my back to him to start loading suitcases, even though I could feel his eyes on me.
Goalies were weird. And goalies that drank spruce beer or whatever the shit was called were the tippy top of the weird triangle.
Fall was blowing up some wild winds off Lake Ontario.
Cold, biting winds that held the tint of winter.
I shuddered inside my thin parka. The bus would be nice and warm, though, so I hurried to finish loading the gear then closed and locked the luggage bay.
With a slap on the back from Dad, we climbed onto the full bus and took a seat near the middle, between the coaches and therapists in front and the players in the prime seats in the rear.
Just like in school when the cool kids got the back seats. I’d never had a back seat.
I planned to listen to a couple of episodes of a TTRPG show that I enjoyed. With a soft lurch, the bus pulled away from the rink, heading west to Buffalo. Bob, who was seated in front of me, had his damn window open. No clue why, as it was fucking cold outside.
When I peeked through the seats, he met my look with a menacing one of his own. “Fresh air invigorates the nervous system,” he explained with zero patience.
“Oh, sure.” I turned back around to shiver in my seat. I didn’t argue with guys the size of the Innovation Square.
“Don’t torment the little one with the carrot hair,” Arnaud called from the seats behind us. Why was Bob up here with the trainers anyway? “He is cold at heart like a frozen codpiece, so the wind that blows in does make him feel at home.”
Bob’s reply was to hold his hand up over his head and flip off our starting goalie. “See! Witness the truth of my words. No heat resides in his furnace. His coal is cold, and his shovel is frozen to the icy ground. Doux Jésus! Save this burly man from the colds of his withering hot plates!”
Bob stood up, cracked his head on the overhead bin, and let loose a string of profanity that even made the head coach cough.
“What the fuck are you even talking about, Arnie?” Bob barked as he rubbed the top of his head. I began to slink lower in my seat as Arnaud was now leaning on the top of my headrest to address Bob face to almost face.
“What? What did you call me? Arnie? Ar-knee?!”
“Yeah, I called you Arnie. I wanted to call you something else, but this little kid here is shaking in his boots already.” Bob waved a big mitt at me. “Scared shitless because some pine-scented moron has their elbow in his head.”
“It’s okay, and I’m not a kid,” I meekly offered.
“See, he is fine. He is stout like the troubadours of Quebec!” Arnaud patted my head after removing his elbow from it.
“You, monsieur Robert, are a cold pickled cod with no sense of humor or taste. Also, because you have been so long with the window open, I now proclaim you master of the winter wasted lands. Forever more you shall be called Sir Pickle, and we shall shower you with gherkins for homage to your bitterly cold feces. No, faces. Yes! Cold faces! English is tricksy for my skilled tongue!”
“You’re a twat,” Bob countered, huffed, and dropped down into his seat with so much force I felt the impact.
“Pooh, pooh, Ser Pickle is pouting. No doubt soaking up his salty brine. You are a good boy, little carotte.” I got a stout whack on the head, then, thankfully, was left alone to freeze to death.
Dad was sleeping already, soft snores to my right rolling over me.
With quaking hands, I placed my buds into my ears.
I should have brought a thicker coat. Ten minutes or so passed with winter’s wrath whipping in that open window when someone from behind me tapped my shoulder.
I startled slightly. I was too deeply into the first stages of hypothermia to jump.
If this were Arnaud hoping to talk pickles or frozen cod pieces, I was going to cry.
No, no tears. They would freeze on my cheeks.
I looked up to see Gideon. He said nothing, just placed a hoodie with a panda eating ramen logo on my lap.
Then he moved back to sit with the players.
I craned around in my seat, checking out his bubble butt held lovingly in soft, worn denim.
When he was seated, he gave me a tender smile before pulling on headphones to lose himself in a book or perhaps a movie.
Chest buzzing with emotion, I rushed to pull the overly-large hoodie over my head, then, because I could and it wouldn’t look too weird, I bundled a handful up in front of my cold nose and breathed in Gideon.
My dick began to get fat as I sat there, eyes closed, inhaling his scent.
That hour ride was the warmest, most wonderful ride on a bus with boisterous hockey players that anyone would ever have.
I planned to never return this hoodie. I just might sleep in it. Yeah, I think I would do exactly that and pretend that the sleeves that hung far too long were Gideon’s arms cradling me as I drifted off…