I scowl. “What’s worse than being benched?” A scout can show up at any time and if you’re benched that game, not only do they miss the opportunity to see you play, but they might also inquire as to why you were benched. No coach wants trouble on their team no matter how awesome they can play. Not following the team rules no matter how stringent they are is a big no-no. I mean, within reason, but no one’s gonna care that we were deprived of potato chips for seven months.
“You don’t want to find out.”
“You’re such an asshole, you know that?” Now I do shake him away from me.
“There you go,” he calls after me as I’m opening the door. “Use that energy on the ice, Leslie, and to deflate your over-eager dick.”
Oh, I will. I’ll do him one better. There’s no finer way to get over a crush than by getting under someone else.
Jack Leslie words to live by.
Chapter7
Hockey Gods
MERCY
I’ve created my own version of hell. I’m exactly where I’ve never wanted to be. When I’m not with him, I think about him. When I am with him—which is a lot of the time—I watch him and only him, which isn’t fair to the rest of the team.
I told him I’m neurotic about everyone’s stats and while that’s not a full lie it’s not a full truth either. I’ve paid a lot more attention to his. Part of the reason is my unhealthy obsession with him. The other is my genuine befuddlement as to why he hasn’t been drafted yet. Sure, his stats have declined but no one’s called him up for a game? I just don’t get it.
It’s puzzled me to the point I’ve considered calling one of the scouts I’m still friendly with in Vancouver to come to check him out both to make sure I’m not crazy and to get him noticed.
But no. I can’t do that, can I? It’s not unheard of for coaches to do such things, but it nags at me that I’m not doing it for anyone else on the team who would make a good draft candidate.
That’s a problem for future me to contemplate.
Currently, it’s suppressing the urge to check my own players into the boards for staring too closely at his ass. What do they see with all that padding?
It’s the way he moves, Meyer. Like a goddamn cheetah.
He catches the eyes of half the team. They all know he’s single.
I’ve never been possessive or jealous like this. I’ve never cared. Now I care big time. And I’m gonna knock Samson’s teeth out if he flirts with Jack one more time. “Switch lines, Samson. I want to see you with Alderchuck.”
“Which Alderchuck, Coach?”
I don’t care. Pick one. Just skate the hell away from Leslie.“Both Alderchucks. Leslie, you’re with the Boulder, Nolan line.”
Samson shrugs and skates off—mission accomplished—and Leslie turns around to give me what for, but something on my face must give me away and he smirks before skating toward his new line on the other side of the ice.
Cocky little brat. He knows just how to get under my skin.
I need to work faster on this getting over him thing, something I vowed I would do the other night when he nearly passed out on my sofa. It was tempting to take him to bed for some withdrawal sex or even to cover him with a blanket and let him sleep there till he woke up if just for the look on his face when he did. That would have scored me an extra point in the unofficial battle waging between us. I definitely won a few points that night as it was.
I’m losing the battle today. He’s flirting on purpose to piss me off. It’s working.
I might break a few bones if he keeps this up. Like McDavid’s if he doesn’t skate his ass to the line and away from Jack’s personal space. It’s a relief when I can call an end to practice, but the tension in my body remains.
“Hit the bikes, thirty minutes then the showers.”
I wasn’t as active in today’s practice as I have been, needing to stand back and analyze where we’re at and what kinda shape we’re in for our first exhibition game against Boston. It’s a home game. Ari, Cody, Bryce and Theo are flying out for it. The two angered members of the Meyer teen division still aren’t talking to me and the fact that they won’t even come to watch a live AHL hockey game says a lot about where they’re at.
I’m towel drying my hair when a call comes in from a number I don’t recognize. “Hello?”
“Is this Coach Meyer?” a smooth voice says. It’s a cultured voice. The kind of voice that says things like, “And make sure you give it a double wax or heads will roll.”
“It’s Coach Meyer. Who’s this?”
