And my heart. My heart is off the charts racing. Blood’s pounding in my head. He needs to go now. “Great. So long as I can count on you to be professional.”
“Look, I know we were late today, but it was extenuating circumstances. I always bring my A-game, Coach.
“Not last season you didn’t.” I may not have known who the Jack Leslie on my roster was, but I know his numbers. “Might have to cut you from the team if you decline any further. What a shame that would be.”
That pulls a deep glare from him. Finally, something other than his cocky-ass nonchalance. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. I thought you were cool, man. You really gonna cut me because we slept together?”
“Not because of …that. Your numbers suck. You know it. You’re not bringing your A-game.”
He chews on his lip. He knows it’s true even if he’s right about there being some spite motivating my comment. I would have addressed it with him at some point. I’ll be speaking to each player privately.
“It’s a new season, Coach.” He spreads his arms. “Bring it on. I came to play.”
“Guess we’ll see.” It’s my turn to play off like I don’t give a fuck either way when, really, my mind’s spinning with explanations for his performance slide. Players don’t slide by accident. There’s always a reason. Often, it’s injury, but as far as I can tell, he’s not injured. Especially not his fucking knees.
“Can I go? Or you need some ice for that butt hurt?”
Anger flares. Mostly because he’s right. “Get out of here, Leslie, before I find you something to do you won’t like.”
Now I’m envisioning shutting him up by shoving my cock in his mouth. It’s the perfect cure for lippy brats.
He laughs like he knows what I’m thinking. “Glad we sorted things out, Coach.”
Coach.
Leslie.
Things’ll be fine if we create as much distance as possible. Glad he’s on board. “Consider them sorted, Leslie.”
* * *
The familiar chill of the ice permeates the air, bathing me in frosty anticipation. Now that I’m here, I’m yearning to get on the rink with my crew, see how they perform under pressure, decide on my lines, and build a team that plays well together.
Yesterday, they were put through rigorous testing, and it shows in the aimless way they’re skating around the ice today, already sore and tired. They’d better buck up. A hockey season is unforgiving. Going easy on them would be to their detriment.
Blowing my whistle loudly gets their attention. They skate in, some taking a knee to conserve every smidgeon of energy they can, some leaning over, resting their stick against their thighs.
I don’t mean to look for Leslie, but it happens, unbidden. Leslie is annoying. Or maybe I should say that my body’s reaction to him is annoying. There’s a fucking flutter in my chest and a tummy-drop sensation I didn’t know I was capable of. Tingles spread like a damn electric current through my nervous system.
I hate them.
I hate him.
“A reminder that this week is the week to show off.” They know I’ll be assessing them this week so I can make my lines. It’s standard stuff. “I don’t give a fuck about what you did last year or what position you held. Everyone is at zero today. Everyone works their way to the top spots.”
Pro-level athletes are a different breed. They thrive on competition. They perform best under pressure. If they couldn’t, they wouldn’t last for a game and have no business thinking about the NHL. Chances are, they’ll work themselves to puking today.
The enlivened buzz rises as they put on their game faces. Leslie’s showing his apprehension, probably worried I’m gonna put him on the third or fourth string just because. He needs to cut that shit out. Even if I was that petty, he should be telling me to shove my pettiness up my ass, not allowing it to defeat him.
“Ready to play fourth string all season, Leslie?” I say, feeding his fears, hoping it’ll piss him off.
The crease between his brow deepens and his lips form a cocky sneer.Bingo.“You can eat ice dick, Coach.”
The rest of the team is stone quiet, with only a few of his pals reacting in any way at all, via raising their eyebrows so high they’ve nearly climbed off their faces.
That’s it. Fight me.He’s only getting warmed up though. The fire in him isn’t hot enough yet.When I’m done with you, trouble, it will be.“How many push-ups did you get in two minutes yesterday, Leslie?”
He winces. “Thirty-six, Coach.”
