Him

So this coaching thing? It’s harder than it looks.

At the start of the morning session, it feels easy. I set up some drills for the youngest offensive players and run ’em like crazy. There’s a whistle around my neck, and they have to do whatever I tell them. Easy money, right?

Not so fast.

When I take on a scrimmage for the older teens, all the wheels fall off. It’s not that the kids are no good. Their skill levels vary from awesome to virtuosic. But they don’t work in sync like a college team. They’re headstrong and irrational. They listen to what I say, and then they go do the opposite.

They’re teenagers. And after ten minutes of play I’m basically beating my head against the plexi, praying for my own death.

“Pat,” I beg. “Please tell me I wasn’t like this.”

“You weren’t,” he says with a shake of his head. “You were three times worse.” Then that traitor has the balls to exit the building, leaving me in charge of thirty sweating hormone-crazed teenage hockey punks.

I blow my whistle for the millionth time. “Offsides! Again. Seriously?” I ask Shen, an arrogant D-man who’s been torturing the goalie for my whole session. The two of them have some kind of vendetta against each other, and it isn’t helping the general chaos. “Faceoff.”

Play starts again when I drop the puck. I look up to see Canning walking down the chute to assist me with the scrimmage. Thank Christ. His calm face is like a cool drink of water.

I skate over and hop the wall to greet him. “Why didn’t you tell me this job was hard?”

He grins, and my heart melts a little in the usual way. “What’s hard? You’re not even sweating.”

I am, though. Because even as I turn my head to watch my players, Shen goes sliding backward into the goalie he’s been taunting, knocking him over. It looks intentional, and Canning must have thought so too, because we’re both scissoring over the wall to get over there.

“What the—” starts Killfeather, the goalie.

Shen smirks. “Sorry.”

“Fucking chink,” Killfeather swears.

“Faggot,” Shen returns.

My whistle is so loud that Canning claps his hands over his ears. “Two minute penalties!” I roar. “Both of you.”

“What?” Killfeather yelps. “I didn’t touch his ass.”

“For your mouth,” I snarl. “On my ice you don’t use a slur of any kind.” I point toward the sin bin. “Get.”

But Killfeather doesn’t move. “You don’t get to make new rules.” His sneer is as big as the banner advertisements lining the boards.

All the players are listening, so I can’t do this wrong. “Ladies, it is a rule. Two minute bench minor for unsportsmanlike conduct. If you’d kept your trap shut after he hit you, your team would have a power play right now. I’m doing this for your own good.”

“Sure you are.”

In spite of that parting shot, both my troublemakers finally aim their bodies toward the penalty boxes. So I issue my parting shot, and I make sure that everyone can hear. “By the way—science has proven the correlation between calling someone a faggot and having a really small penis. You do not want to advertise that. Think about it.”

Canning doesn’t say anything. But he skates off, too. I see him take a seat off to the side and then bend over as if he’s retying his skates. Whatever, right? But then I see his back shaking.

At least somebody gets my jokes.

The rest of the scrimmage lasts about a decade. When we finally break for lunch, Jamie catches up to me on the way to the locker rooms. “Science has proven?” He chuckles.

“I do science on the side.”

“Uh-huh. I’m thinking of skipping the dining hall today and grabbing a burger at the pub in town. You down?”

“Fuck yeah,” I answer. Then I wince and glance around to make sure none of the kids are lurking around. I don’t know if I’m cut out to be an authority figure. I’ve spent four years surrounded by Northern Mass hockey players who drop F-bombs in every sentence, and I keep forgetting I need to censor myself while I’m at Elites. The teenagers here swear like sailors—at least when Pat and the other coaches aren’t around—but I refuse to corrupt the younger ones with my filthy mouth.

“Fudge yeah,” I correct.

Canning gestures at the emptiness around us. “We’re the only ones here. You can say fuck, dumbass. You can say anything, really.” With a grin, he unleashes a string of expletives. “Fuck, shit, cock, pussy—”

“For the love of Christ!” a loud voice booms from behind us. “Do I need to wash your mouth out with soap, Canning?”

I choke down my laughter as Pat appears. He shakes his head in disbelief as he stares at Jamie, then narrows his eyes and turns to me. “Actually, what am I saying? Canning wouldn’t even know those words if it weren’t for you, Wesley. Shame on you.”

I flash Pat an innocent smile. “I’m pure as the driven snow, Coach. Canning was the one who corrupted me.”

They both snort. Pat claps me on the shoulder and stalks past us. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that, kid,” he says over his shoulder. “And both of you, watch your mouths around the campers or I’ll kick your motherfucking asses.”

Jamie and I are still laughing as we duck into the locker room to ditch our skates and change into our sneakers. When we exit the building a few minutes later, I feel like I’ve just left an icy pool and stepped into a sauna. The humidity in the air is stifling, causing sweat to roll down my back. My T-shirt sticks to my chest like plastic wrap.

Shrugging, I yank it over my head and tuck the fabric in the waistband of my gym shorts. The atmosphere in Lake Placid is as casual as it gets—nobody’s gonna care if I walk through town rocking a bare chest.

Canning keeps his shirt on. I think I might prefer it that way, because his shirt is paper-thin and doing the same clinging thing mine had done, which gives me a decadent view of every hard ripple on his broad chest. Fuck, I’m yet again jealous of his shirt. I want to be the one plastered to his chest, and the ache I feel for him brings a spark of guilt.

We’re good now. We’re friends again. So why can’t my traitorous body just be cool with it? Why can’t I look at him without imagining all the dirty, dirty things I want to do to him?

“So what’s the deal with you and that girl?” I hear myself ask. I don’t particularly want to hear the answer, but I need the wake-up call it’ll bring, the reminder that lusting over this guy is a disaster waiting to happen.

“Holly?” He shrugs. “Nothing, really. We just hook up. Or rather, we used to hook up. I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of her now that we’ve graduated.”

I arch a brow. “Just a hook-up? Since when are you into a friends-with-bennies arrangement?”

Another shrug. “It was convenient. Fun. I don’t know. I’m just not looking to settle down with anyone right now. Holly understood that.” His voice takes on a note of challenge. “What, you disapprove?”

“Nah, I’m all about fuck buddies.”

We pass the toy store and duck out of the way of two moms pushing strollers. Both women swivel their heads in my direction and stare at my tats. Not with contempt, but intrigue. It happens again on the next block when a group of teenage girls stop in their tracks at the sight of me. The words “tattooed hottie” tickle our backs as we walk past.

Jamie chuckles. “You sure you don’t want to go the bisexual path? ’Cause I’m pretty sure you won’t have any trouble in the chick department.”

“S’all good. Wouldn’t be fair to the straight guys if I threw my hat in the pussy ring. They wouldn’t stand a chance.”

His expression turns thoughtful. “I’ve seen you fool around with girls before. You seemed interested.”

I know he’s thinking about all those nights we snuck into town and flirted with the locals. But we were fifteen, maybe sixteen then, and I was still experimenting, figuring things out.

“Were you just pretending to enjoy it?” he asks curiously.

“Not so much pretending as trying to enjoy it,” I admit. “And it wasn’t awful. I didn’t go home afterward and scour my skin off in the shower. Making out with those girls was… I don’t know…it just was. I did it, it was all right, but it’s not like I was dying to rip their clothes off and get inside them.”

The way I’m dying to rip your clothes off and get inside you.

I clench my teeth, annoyed with myself. Christ, enough. It’s not going to happen with Canning. I need to stop this.

“Got it.” He nods, then tips his head. “Who does it for you, then? Like, what’s your type, looks-wise?”

You. “Ah, I’m not picky.”

We reach the corner pub, but he doesn’t make a move to open the door. He just lingers on the sidewalk and chuckles. “Really. So you’ll just stick your dick in anyone?”

“No,” I concede. It feels so fucking weird discussing this with him. “I’m not crazy about twinks, I guess. I don’t like the whole scrawny, young boy vibe.”

“So you like ’em big.” A broad grin fills his face as he winks at me. “So to speak.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, big’s a nice bonus. Tall, athletic, not too hairy—” That makes him snicker. “—and, I don’t know…” I start to laugh. “You seriously want to hear all this?”

His eyes flash with hurt. “Why, because you’re talking about guys instead of girls? I already told you, I’m not some uptight prude who—”

“That’s not what I meant,” I cut in hastily, and he relaxes slightly. “It’d be weird even if I was describing a chick. Like, what two guys stand around describing their perfect sexual partner?” I widen my eyes and look around. “Did we wander onto the set of Sex and the City? If so, I’m Samantha. Called it.”

The tension diffuses instantly, as Canning’s lips twitch uncontrollably. “You know actual character names from Sex and the City? Shit, if you hadn’t told me you were gay, I would’ve figured it out just now.”

“That was an extremely insensitive case of stereotyping, Jamie,” I say primly. “Just for that? You’re springing for lunch. Asshole.” But I’m grinning to myself as I flip him the bird and stride into the bar.