But he does it anyway and Bers locks him out. It’s fun just to see him try.
When I blow the final whistle, all my players collapse where they stand, rolling around and groaning on the ice. “Hit the bikes, children. I want thirty minutes. Then you can go home and die.”
“We can’t even drink beer,” someone whines from their grave on the ice. “You’re cruel, Coach.”
“How is he even still standing?” another one of them whines.
“My guesses are he’s secretly from an alien race or is actually Neo,” the less well-behaved Alderchuck groans.
Naturally, my eyes move to Leslie who’s probably regretting some of his buffoonery now that his muscles are seizing up. He turns his head, and his eyes find mine. God, he’s pretty. Even when he’s nothing but a pile of bones and hockey gear on the cold ice.
My heart seizes. It might be kinder for someone to put me outta my misery.
His smile is serene and then he bites the air like he’s fucking Iceman from Top Gun. I treat him to my best scowl before I strut off the ice.
* * *
Things get worse through the first week and I’ve resorted to insane measures to get over my crush on Leslie. Because that’s all it is. Just a crush. I’ve at least had crushes and I know how to handle those. The good thing about a crush is that it loses steam and fizzles into nothing after a while.
I wish this would wear out faster.
On the bright side, whatever it was bogging Leslie down is nowhere in sight. He comes out of the first week of training camp my star player. I’m not the only one watching him on the ice. The whole team is transfixed by him. He’s given new meaning to the term showoff. Literally. People want him to show off and while he’s happy to do it, it’s in a fun way that has others cheering him on and wanting to see more.
The problem is, I want to see more of him. So much more. It’s bad enough that I’m always aware of him. When he skates by, I know it’s Leslie, even when I’m not looking up, even when my attention is elsewhere.
He was a pompous mother fucker when I had no other choice, but to put him on my first line. I was the one who challenged him. I deserved it. I wanted him to fight for that spot and he did. I put him with the Alderchucks. Nolan, Boulder, and Miller will be my second line, which means my most proficient troublemakers are my best players.
Of course.
I didn’t participate as much today, wanting to watch them from the outside and analyze how well they’re gelling as a team. We’ve got new players this season that some of the vets haven’t played with before. I need them cohesive by the time our first exhibition game rolls around in a couple of weeks.
I’m also planning on being done with my dick’s Leslie infatuation by then too.
Heading straight to the showers, I turn it on ice cold, hoping to freeze my erection away while at the same time teach my brain that no good comes from crushing on Jack Leslie.
I’m dressed and drying my wet hair with a towel by the time the men file in from the gym, post-cool-down cardio. It’s the time of the day when I’m forced to view Leslie in a tight grey t-shirt, drenched in sweat. His hair is loose, absent of the white Wildcats hat that’s seen better days and my hands itch to dig into those locks with rough fingers and force him to his knees so I can shove my cock into his smart mouth.
That’s exactly where brats like Leslie belong.
Dammit, my dick’s sprung to life again. Cold water torture was a waste and isn’t working. Guess I can cross that one off my list of ways to stop pining over Leslie. My sister suggested that I burn something of his. No, correction. Originally, my sister told me I wasn’t trying hard enough to win him over and I had to explain to her three times that he’d rejected me. It seemed to sort of hit home on that third round and then she gave her witchy suggestion. A lot of good that would do anyway. I already burned his letter and that did shit all to get rid of him.
He peels off his sweat-soaked shirt and his shorts are next to go. Christ almighty. He’s in nothing but tight pair of boxers. Everyone can see him, and boy are they looking. Hard not to. He isn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. All the men strip down before they hit the showers. The difference is he’s supposed to be mine, but he’s not and he’s on the market, his naked body serves as a loud advertisement for his goods.
Leslie has goods, let me tell you.
As stealthily as I can, I check out the other naked men in the room to see if there’s even a smidgeon of the heart-palpitating sensations I get from Leslie’s very presence. Maybe I’ve been too hyper-focused on Leslie because of what happened. Because heleftme. That does all kinds of bad shit to my insides. Basically short circuits my brain and creates an atmosphere of chaotic vigilance.
Okay, they’re attractive, sure, but there’s nothing else. Not a single flutter. My dick barely gives a fuck. Maybe someone’s been doing witchy shit to me, and I’m cursed. Unrequited longing is a cruel fucking curse.
Unrequited longing now, eh, Merc? Though it was just a crush?
One of the new guys walks behind Leslie on his way to the showers and takes a nice long gander at his ass as Leslie removes his boxers, unveiling the creamy flesh of his perfect ass.
My inner alpha jackass thunders to the surface and damn the consequences. I’m over to Leslie with a towel so fast. “Towels need to be used in the locker room, guys,” I say to everyone, but I’m only holding a towel out for Leslie.
His face screws up in consternation, processing my words, and when he figures me out, his face lights up with mischief. “Sure thing, Coach,” he says, accepting the towel. He wraps it around his shoulders like a cape. It only hangs to mid-torso, leaving his ass and dick on proud display as he walks off toward the showers, waving his tail just to be an asshole.
My hand should be spanking his cheeky ass.
