He’s not gonna break though, and it’s a good thing too. I’d be too tempted to give him whatever he wanted after another long day of lusting after him. That’s the worst idea imaginable. He’s already left me once, which is a warning beacon if I ever saw one. I’m not touching Leslie with an eighty-foot pole, let alone my pole.
“No problems, Coach,” he finally says. “Have fun catching an STI, eh?” He storms toward the entrance of the building.
“Uh, I’d better deal with that,” Dirk says.
His hockey fam follows him into the building. I’m delighted. Leslie gave himself away. I’m going to have fun with this.
Chapter6
Hockeyed to Death
JACK
His whistle sounds again. “Skate. Skate. Skate,” Coach chants. “Feet, feet, feet! You’re slow, Alderchuck. Lengthen your stride, Nolan. I’ve seen better skating in Pee Wee hockey, Leslie.”
Coachis grinding us into the ice. I thought I was in shape. I thought wrong. Can’t catch my damn breath. Can’t breathe period. There’s so much sweat in my gear that I could name myself a new ocean. Basically, shoot me now so I can go peacefully. It’s the second week of the training camp from hell. It’s made me realize I might not be cut out for what I once thought were simple hockey drills, never mind the NHL.
He blows a long whistle that signals the end of practice. We all fall to our knees on the chill ice, praying to the God of air to fill our lungs again and to wait until our muscles stop burning before we can think about heading to the dressing room.
I think I might be crawling there. Better yet, I’ll just die here and rest in peace on a bed of ice. It’ll be fun for my ghost to watch Coach Meyer have to explain to my parents how he hockeyed me to death. The captain will kill him. Ugh, but then he’d become a ghost too and I’d be forced to deal with him for all eternity. Okay, bad plan. I’m getting up.
Using my stick, I heave my sorry body off the ice and that’s when I remember the rule about thirty minutes on the bike, or some other cardio equipment, post-practice, and post-game. It’s well-known that a little light cardio post-workout improves recovery and decreases the likelihood of injuries. I’m not arguing the science, I just don’t fucking care right now, which is why it’s a rule—if it weren’t, we’d be less consistent with it.
I can’t even accuse Coach of being a lazy, tyrannical dictator. Unlike other normal coaches, he participated in most of the drills and proceeded to keep up with us like the maniac he is during the scrimmage. Seriously, why isn’t he in the NHL? He skated around us like we were pylons. He didn’t tire once. At times I didn’t know if I should be in awe or suspect steroid use.
But whatever. I’m still using his hockey card for dart practice.
Each scuff of my foot over the ice toward the rink’s exit is accompanied by the true fear that my jelly legs will melt out from under me. When I hit solid ground, my skates cut into the rubber flooring, and new muscles, ones I didn’t even know I had, complain about the ass-kicking they’ve just received.
An orchestra of moans, groans, and bitching from behind me say that my teammates are finally making their way off the ice too. I’m the first one to the dressing room though. I catch Coach mid-shirt removal. The white cotton tank underneath is soaked through, clinging to his fine ripple of muscles. Sweat droplets spray off the tips of his dark hair as he shakes his head left and right.
My dick—the only piece of my anatomy not used during practice—fills to a half chub, slowly stealing whatever’s left of my blood supply. It pisses me off. Stupid biology. My brain doesn’t want to want him to rail me, but my dick does because he’s so damn hot.
And good at sex.
Meanwhile, he’s over there calm and cool and collected.
I wasn’t born yesterday. I know he wants me just as badly as I want him even if he’s acting aloof. It’s not a matter of “do we want to fuck each other”, it’s about me not wanting towantto fuck him and him being so Dean Martin about it. I’m sworn off long-term relationships of any kind and that includes continuing relations with the same man. Hockey is my first love, trying to have another is pointless at this juncture in my life. I’m going to make it to the NHL this year come hell or high water. I’ll be traveling for most of the year. Rhett was right about that—there’s no time for real relationships with a schedule like ours. God, especially with the two of us having a schedule like that. It’ll be fucking Rhett all over again with Mercy—a guy like him isn’t giving up his dream hockey shot for me either.
I catch the smirk on his smug face. He knows the effect he’s having on me dammit. We’ve fallen into a dangerous game of cat and mouse and I’m definitely the fucking mouse, a hair away from lying down in the trap and spreading my legs for him.
Scowling, I pull out my hockey bag. It is what it is, I guess.
Thankfully, the boys file in behind me. They’ll distract me from the gnawing throb in my groin every time Coach walks by me. Or looks at me. Or breathes in my vicinity.
“You’re brutal, Coach,” Casey says. “Just sayin’.”
“Don’t tell me you’re tired, Alderchuck or I might have to call up my brother from Bantam to take your spot.”
Somehow, the team finds the energy to laugh, but only just. It really was the most brutal practice we’ve had in a while. Though even Coach’s younger brother probably could skate circles around us. Mad hockey skills are probably in the blood.
Before ripping the tape from my socks, I check my phone. Seven new messages. One from Rhett. His last message was chilling and I’m the kind of fool who’s a sucker for the “storm in like a beast and the take charge without really asking” sort of dominance. Tingles light up my body and excitement pools in my gut.
Should I check now or later? Definitely now.
“My cock misses being inside you.”
Jesus. That’s a lightning rod to my dick. It’s Pavlovian by this point. Rhett knows what to say. Knows what I like.
