Faking It with the Forward: Wittmore U Hockey

There’s nothing more pungent than a locker room full of hockey players after practice. The scent is foul. A mix of new and old sweat, feet, and whatever body spray the guys think they can mask it with.

Trust me, nothing works.

“How was that?” I push my fingers between the tape and his sweaty ankle, barely able to get them in. “I feel like that is as tight as we should go if you want to keep up your mobility.”

The size twelve foot shifts. The man it’s attached to, a player for the Wittmore U varsity team, nods slowly. “I don’t know. It feels a little wobbly.”

“Okay, we can wrap it a little tighter next time, but you need to let me know if it’s giving you problems.”

“Thanks, Twy.” Pete slides off the table and yanks my ponytail before offering me his fist. I bump it in return.

“That’s what I’m here for.” I’m in my second year working with the trainers for the men’s hockey team, but it’s my first as the official intern. My days are spent taping and wrapping sprains, bandaging broken noses, and checking for concussions. Pete suffered a sprained ankle last season and always feels better with it wrapped tight on the ice.

“Everyone gather around,” Coach Bryant steps out from his office into the locker room. He taps his clipboard on a nearby locker to get the attention of the players. The guys have just come in from the rink, filing in the door that leads to the ice, loud and talking trash, tossing pads and their blue and silver jerseys into the laundry bin. “That wasn’t too bad,” he smirks, then adds, “for a bunch of guys who took the summer off.” His tone hardens, the team logo, Bluto the badger, painted behind him on the wall. “Playtime is over. From here on, it’s about focus and determination. About hard work and who wants it the most. We have two months until the season starts.” His eyes ping from player to player. “Can I expect a hundred percent from each and every one of you?”

As a group, the guys call out their affirmative, some louder than others, but all sincere. Badger hockey is the number one sport at Wittmore U, even football takes second place, which is blasphemy where I’m from. Failure isn’t an option for anyone in this room, especially after last year.

“Because if not, I’ve got a long list of men who didn’t make the roster this year, and each and every one of them is eager for a shot.”

A voice booms from the back, “We’re ready, Coach!”

“Cain,” Coach gestures to the back of the room, “step up here.”

From my spot near the training room door, I watch a shirtless Reese Cain rise from the bench and push through the other guys to stand next to Coach Bryant. It’s not like he’s hard to miss. Six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and intense blue-gray eyes. He’s got that look that’s usually reserved for quarterbacks or underwear models. That kind of genetic superiority that eludes the rest of society. The only visible imperfections are the slant of a formerly broken nose and a thin white scar under his bottom lip.

Neither make a dent in his looks.

I know Reese isn’t perfect. There’s the fact he knows exactly how good-looking and talented he is. Or how ever since he broke up with his long-term girlfriend, he’s used his power to seduce and conquer every female, and possibly a few males, on campus.

Not that I’m keeping track of Reese Cain’s life or anything. Everyone knows about his breakup. It was hot gossip for months last year. The rest? Well, it’s just part of my job to know the injury histories of our players. I spent the summer going over the roster and their charts, familiarizing myself with each player. Reese Cain, and his broad shoulders, happens to be one of those players.

That’s all.

“After three years of stellar performance on the ice, and showing great leadership during last year’s tournament, Cain’s earned the title of Captain of this years’ Badgers.”

“Yeah, boi!” A shout from the locker room calls. Jefferson Parks. Cain’s best friend. The rest of the room claps and cheers, happy with the announcement. It’s not a surprise that he got the position or that his teammates are pleased about it.

“Thanks, guys,” he grins with those straight, white teeth. “Last season was rough. We made it to the big time, and didn’t get the trophy, but this year, under my leadership, I promise you, we’ll get back and take the whole damn thing.”

“Hell yeah!” Axel Rakestraw, the team goalie, pumps his fist, and the rest of the guys clap. Our head sports trainer, Coach Green, whistles his support next to me and I catch a dose of the enthusiasm, clapping with the others.

Coach Bryant nods his approval and adds, “Get some rest and I’ll see you at morning skate. If you need to stop by Coach Green’s office, he and his staff will be available.”

Coach Bryant turns and heads into his office while Coach Green, my boss, steps over to talk to one of the players nursing a bruise he got during practice. “Twyler,” he calls, “grab me one of those ice packs.”

“Yes, sir.”

 I step toward the training room and hear, “You should let Twy check out your injury, Reid.”

I look back when I hear my name. “You have an injury?”

Reid frowns and glances at his buddy. “Nothing you can help with, Twyler.”

“Are you sure?” I step closer to Reid. He’s a sophomore on the offensive line. “I can take an assessment and—”

“You hear that, Reid?” Jefferson calls. “Twyler wants to assess your problem.” He smirks in my direction, revealing the dimple in his cheek, and a slow heat rolls up my spine. “Reid has a severe case of blue balls, sweetheart. As far as I know there’s only one remedy for—”

“Perkins!” Coach Green barks at me, “What’s the status on that ice pack?”

“I’m on it.” I take the opportunity and duck into the office, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. I should’ve seen that one coming. Jefferson always has a way of making me feel self-conscious. They all do.

Taking a deep breath, smoothing down my athletic shorts and Badger hockey T-shirt, I grab the pack out of the freezer and fall into my old habit of just wanting to be invisible. No. No hiding. This is my job, and these guys are all assholes. I knew that when I accepted the position. Clenching the ice pack in my hand I start for the door, but then stop short.

“—how many times do I have to tell you. That girl is off-limits. Not just because you’re a bunch of heathens and aren’t worth the air she breathes, but because this isn’t the time or place. Leave her be. She’s not your sweetheart. She’s not your girlfriend. She’s here for one thing; to do a job, and that doesn’t include dodging your pathetic attempts at flirting!”

“Aw, come on, Coach. Jeff was just messing around. No one here sees Twy like that.”

The humiliation I felt a moment before amplifies by a million when Reese steps in with that little nugget. Of all the guys on the team, he makes me the most nervous. Like palms sweaty, tongue-tied, nervous.

 It’s not just his looks, although that doesn’t help. It’s like looking straight at the sun. My real issue is the way he interacts so effortlessly with everyone. There’s not a trace of insecurity, and he uses that skill not just to command the team, but to win over everyone around him. People like that make me uneasy. Like how can it be so easy for them, when it’s so hard for me?

“Twy’s like the little brother we always wanted, right, Sunshine?” Reese adds, noticing me in the doorway and giving me a wink.

Sunshine. Like the way people call a big guy Tiny, Reese started calling me Sunshine.

Because of my not-so-sunny disposition.

A strangled laugh erupts in my chest. “Yeah. No worries here. I’m not into any of you.” I wave my hand at the room of shirtless men in front of me. “Like, at all.”

The room full of desirable, sexually active, ripped hockey players stare at me like I’ve grown two heads as if they’re trying to figure out how it’s possible.

“Good,” Coach Green says, stroking his beard. “Glad that’s cleared up.”

What’s been made clear is that in the last ten minutes I’ve had my hair pulled, my fist bumped, and the captain of the hockey team just declared that I’m not just undateable, I’m reminiscent of a little brother.

And I agreed.

Fuck my life.

 It’s bad enough that for the past two years, the guys on campus have made it brilliantly clear they’re not interested in me, but it’s worse that Coach Green reinforces this with his little speech anytime one of the guys dares notice that I’m actually female.

But Reese Cain’s declaration is the nail in my coffin.

“Now,” Coach Green says, walking past me and toward the office, “who besides Reid and his underused balls needs something looked at?”

I walk in the door of my house, tossing my backpack near the door and heading straight to the kitchen. There’s a leftover burrito with my name on it, and after a long day of classes and assisting with practice, I’m starving.

The kitchen is small—well everything in the house is minimized. We live in an area called Shotgun, named after the tiny, narrow cluster of houses that were originally part of a community built for the local mill. The mill closed at some point in the seventies, but as Wittmore expanded, it became coveted student housing. A kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, and a shared bath. That’s all me and Nadia need.

I can tell she’s home. Music pulses from behind her closed bedroom door. That and the kitchen sink is a mess, coffee grounds are all over the counter, and a dirty pot sits on the stove. I grab a plate, toss the burrito in the microwave, and start straightening up. Nadia and I are opposites, proof that the roommate match system through the university has its flaws. She’s a business major while I’m studying Kinesiology. She’s a social butterfly, while I prefer just hanging out with one person at a time. Her confidence initially made me feel even more insecure. She just understands all the social games I don’t. Like social media, or flirting. She’s so comfortable in her own skin, it makes me all the more aware of how uncomfortable I am.

I had plans to find a new roommate the following year, but then Ethan happened. She didn’t judge me. She had my back, and ever since then I’ve tried to do the same for her.

Her door opens, music spilling out with her. She’s got her phone in her hand, barely stopping to take a selfie, camera angled down to catch the top of her cleavage pushing out of her sports bra. I glance down at my eight-year-old, worn hoodie that I tossed on after practice.

Total opposites.

The microwave beeps and I take out the plate.

“Hey,” she says, turning the music down on her phone. “How was the first day of practice?”

“Easy enough. No major injuries.” I make my way over to the couch and grab the remote off the coffee table. “They made Reese captain.”

“Oh, really,” the mention of a hot guy grabs her attention, and she leans against the kitchen door. “Like he needs something to make his ego bigger.”

“Right?” I take a bite of burrito and add, “Oh, and apparently, Reid Wilder has a severe case of blue balls.”

That really grabs her, and she lifts an eyebrow. “That means he and Darla broke up.”

I shrug and turn on the TV, ready to settle into a relaxing night of true crime. “I guess.”

She gets quiet, and I look away from the screen to see her scrolling on her phone. Probably looking for proof of the breakup.

“She unfollowed him on Chattysnap.”

“There you go.” The dating lives of the players is the least of my concerns. It’s a revolving door and I learned quickly not to take their interest in anyone seriously. I find an episode of Murders and Mayhem and press play. Leaning back, I sense Nadia watching me and I look up again. She’s not just watching me. Her big brown eyes are all droopy and pathetic.

Dammit.

“Nadia, no.”

“You know he’s in my top five.”

“No,” I say again, firmly. “You promised.”

There’s no other way to put it; Nadia is a self-proclaimed jersey chaser. The kind of girl that has made it her mission to hook up with as many varsity level athletes as possible. She’s convinced one of these guys is going to be her prince charming, turning her into the wife of a professional athlete.

Little does she know, it’s the opposite. I hear the chatter in the locker room, how they feel about the puck bunnies that make it easy on them. Nadia is the type of girl they hook up with—but they don’t marry.

Because of our friendship, Nadia has kept her interests to mostly football and basketball players, maybe the occasional fling with someone from the baseball team if she’s feeling particularly degrading at the time. She’d, one thousand percent, be into hockey players, but once I started working with the team, I declared them off-limits.

There was no way I could look them in the eye, or sprained wrist, if I knew they were hooking up with my best friend.

“But…” she crosses the room and sits next to me, her bottom lip protruding in a pout.

“You know I love you, but I can’t have you sleeping your way through my team.”

“Why? It’s not like you’re sleeping with them.”

It’s not an insult. It’s the truth. “First of all, I can’t. I don’t want to compromise my position, and even if I wanted to, they think of me as a little brother—firmly reinforced today by Coach Green.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh no. What happened?”

“Nothing new.” I tell her about the team meeting and the fist bump and how Reese Cain said no one thinks of me as dateable.

“Reese said that?”

I nod, shuddering at the memory. “Then he called me ‘Sunshine.’”

Her nose wrinkles.

“Babe,” she throws her arm over my shoulder, “that isn’t even remotely true. You’re hot, in your own athletic shorts-wearing kind of way. You hide behind that tight ponytail and those heavy hoodies. They have no idea what you’re packing underneath.”

I squirm out from under her affection, tugging at my favorite hoodie that I’ve had since middle school, and give her the side-eye. “I like to be comfortable.”

“I know, but I also know you think it’s easier this way—keeping guys from noticing how freaking amazing you are.”

“That’s not exactly true.” It’s completely true. My past relationships with men weren’t the best and I’ve learned not to trust my instincts. Dressing down, playing invisible… it is easier.

She gives me a look that says she’s calling my bluff. The truth is I’m scared to follow my heart, but Nadia? She goes after exactly what she wants—for better or worse.

“I know what you’re doing,” I tell her.

She bats her eyes innocently. “Me?”

“You’re flattering me, hoping you can butter me up, so I’ll say it’s okay to date Reid. But I know you. That will be a short fling and you’ll move to the next and the next and…”  She won’t stop until she’s bagged them all—until she’s bagged their king, Reese Cain.

Nadia wants the golden ring.

And I’m the only one standing between her and trying to get it.

“What if I promise to only go after Reid. One guy.” She grabs my hand. “He’ll only be single for a minute before he’s either back with Darla or moved on to someone else.”

She’s right, and really, is it fair for me to cockblock my best friend?

“Fine,” I relent, “but only Reid.”

She squeals, throwing her arms around me. “Thank you!” She grabs the remote and turns off the TV.

“Hey! I was watching that!”

“Guess what? The husband did it. He always does!”

“That’s not true—”

“Twy, there’s no time to waste. I need you to introduce me to Reid tonight.”

I still. “What’s tonight?”

“Party at the manor.”

“A party? At the hockey house? I don’t know…can’t we just do something more casual? Like on campus?” Panic blooms in my chest. “Like, a good old-fashioned coffee shop meet-cute?”

“No chance. I don’t want meet-cute. I want meet-hot, and I can’t wear my slutty stuff on campus. I need to make a good impression and fast. Reid won’t be single long.”

I sigh, already knowing this is a terrible, awful idea. “You know, he may be into you for just you and not your tits and ass.”

She cups her ample breasts and squeezes them together in an impressive display of cleavage. “But they’re my best features.”

The sad part is that Nadia believes that.

Against my better judgment I say, “I’ll go, but I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Even if he wants to, you can’t sleep with him immediately. You have to give this a real shot. An actual date, not just a hookup.” Because that’s where it always goes wrong for Nadia. Not trying to be a prude, I’ve just seen it over and over. “Play hard to get.” She glances down at her low-cut tank and raises her eyebrow. “Fine, play kind of hard to get. Just… for me?” And for her—because I know Nadia really does want something with one of these guys. A future, and she’s not getting it the way she’s going about it. “Do that, and I’ll introduce you and be your wingwoman for the night.”

“Deal.”

I reach for the remote, certain I can get in a few episodes while she gets ready, but she holds it out of my reach, and pulls me off the couch, instead.

“What’s happening right now?”

She looks me up and down, her eyes filled with excitement. “You’re showering, changing and doing…something with your hair.”

“But—”

“Twyler, I know one thing for certain; my wingwoman doesn’t wear hoodies to parties.”