Him

Our coaching schedule picks right back up again the next morning, and I hit the ice ready to coach the hell out of these kids. I had a rough start last week, letting their hot-headedness and inability to follow my instructions get to me, but I’m determined to take a page out of Jamie’s book and exercise some patience.

Don’t get me wrong, I know how to be patient—when I’m playing. But watching other guys play? Seeing the mistakes they’re making and then watching them make them all over again instead of correcting them based on my advice? It’s maddening.

The kids are listening better today, though. I’m running some basic passing drills with my forwards, switching up the lines every so often to let them get a feel for their teammates’ style and technique. For the most part, it’s going okay, but one kid—Davies—hogs the puck no matter what line he’s playing on.

I blow my whistle, tempted to rip my hair out by the roots. Davies has just ignored my instructions again, snapping a weak wrist shot at Killfeather instead of passing back to Shen like he was supposed to.

I call him over, and he skates up to me, red-faced and surly.

From the corner of my eye, I see Jamie watching us carefully, as if he’s assessing my coaching prowess. Pat’s watching too, from the bench, and I’m gratified to see he’s finally quit scowling at me. Last night Canning and I had shown up too late at the dining hall to catch the live performance, but luckily, Georgie filmed it on his iPhone. And trust me, I’m never going to forget the sight of Pat and his four coaches shuffling around and singing the most off-key rendition of “Oops, I Did It Again.”

I don’t think Pat will forget it, either. Or stop hating me for choosing the stakes of that soccer game.

Focusing on Davies, I cross my arms over the front of my Northern Mass hoodie and ask, “What kind of drill are we running?”

“Um…?”

“Passing,” I clarify.

He nods. “Right.”

“Which means you need to pass the puck, kid.”

“But last practice you gave us that whole speech about not hesitating. You said if you have a shot, you take it.” His chin juts out defensively. “I had a shot.”

I mock gasp. “Wait—the puck made it past Killfeather? I must’ve missed that goal.”

His expression goes sheepish now. “Well, naw, I missed, but…”

“But you wanted to score. I get it.” I offer a gentle smile. “Look, I’m with you, kid. There’s no sweeter feeling in the world than watching that lamp light up. But lemme ask you something—how many forwards are usually on the ice?”

“Three…”

“Three,” I confirm. “You’re not playing alone out there. You’ve got your teammates with you, and it’s not so they can skate there and look pretty.”

He cracks a smile.

“Shen had a shot. If you’d passed to him, he would’ve one-timed that baby right in, top left corner. And you would’ve gotten the assist. Instead, you got nothing.”

Davies nods slowly, and a burst of pride goes off inside me. Holy fuck, I’m reaching him. I can see him absorbing the words—my words—and suddenly I understand why Canning has such a hard-on for this coaching thing. It’s…rewarding.

“You need to trust your teammates,” I tell Davies.

But for some reason, that wipes the smile off his face, a dark scowl taking its place.

“What is it?” I ask.

He mumbles something I can’t make out.

“Can’t hear you, kid.”

He meets my eyes. “It’s kinda hard to trust them when I know they want me to fail.”

“That’s not true.” Except even as I voice the protest, I know on some level he’s right. Some players do have the tendency to be cutthroat, to only look out for themselves. It suddenly makes sense why Davies is always looking to be the star—because he thinks that’s what everyone else is doing.

“It is true.” His gaze strays toward the net, where Jamie is talking to Killfeather. “Especially with Mark. He fuc—frickin’,” he corrects. “He frickin’ loves watching me screw up. And then he lists everything I did wrong the next day at breakfast, or dinner, or when I’m trying to fall asleep. He’s all about the mind games.”

I stifle a sigh. “You’re roommates, right?”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters.

“You guys ever hang out outside of practice? Talk about something other than hockey?”

“Not really,” he says with a shrug. “I mean, he talks about his dad sometimes. I don’t think they get along. But that’s pretty much it.”

“You want my advice?”

His expression is earnest as he nods again.

“Try getting to know him. Develop some trust off the ice.” I jerk my head toward Jamie. “The first day I faced off against Jamie—uh, Coach Canning, I mean—I was a total a-hole. Cocky, full of myself. I taunted him every time I took a shot at goal, did a little victory dance every time I scored. I swear, he wanted to murder me by the time practice was over. He told Coach Pat he hated my guts and suggested they send me back to whatever jackass planet I came from.”

Davies snickers. “But you guys are bros now.”

“Yup. And we were roommates back then, too. We were in our room after that first practice and he just sat there glaring at me for a good hour.”

“So what’d you do?” Davies asks curiously.

“I suggested we play a game of ‘I Never’. Took a while to convince him—he was still pretty annoyed with me—but I wore him down eventually.”

I smile at the memory. We’d passed around some cans of Red Bull I’d stolen from one of the coaches and gotten to know each other by saying the craziest things. I never pissed my pants at a Bruins game. I never mooned a bus full of nuns during a school trip to a gum factory. Those were mine, of course.

Jamie’s had been more serious—I’m not an only child. I don’t want to play for the pros one day. Yeah, he hadn’t quite mastered the “never” part of the game, but I hadn’t minded. My thirteen-year-old self was having too much fun getting hopped up on sugar and caffeine. We stayed awake until four a.m. and could barely get up the next morning.

“After that, we were inseparable,” I say with a chuckle.

Davies chews on his lip. “But Coach Canning is cool. Mark is…kind of a dick.”

I swallow a laugh. “You never know, he might end up being the coolest guy you’ve ever met.”

“I don’t know…”

I give him a good-natured slap on the shoulder. “Just give him a chance. Or don’t. Do with that advice what you will.” Then I snap into Coach Wesley mode, blowing my whistle loud enough to make him jump. “Now get back out there and share the wealth, kid. Hog the puck one more time and I’ll bench you for the rest of the practice.”

The week goes fast.

When Jamie and I were teenagers, everything took forever. A summer was a lifetime. But I’m already two weeks into my six-week stay in Lake Placid, and I can’t figure out where the time went.

After dinner with the kids on Friday night, Jamie and I have dorm duty. That just means counting heads and yelling “lights out” when ten o’clock comes. Then yelling it again when they fail to follow through.

By eleven it’s totally quiet. Jamie is lying on his bed texting someone. And I don’t like it. Not at all. So I climb onto his body, straddling his ass, my chest to his shoulders. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says without looking up.

I drop my nose into his hair and take a deep breath of him. He smells like summertime, and I can’t get enough.

“Dude, are you sniffing my head?”

“Just checking to see if you were paying attention.”

“Mhm,” he says, tapping away on his phone.

I settle in a little further, my dick waking up to the fact that I’m this close to Jamie’s ass. Funny how he thinks it’s weird when I sniff his hair, but he’s perfectly fine that I’m about two seconds from dry humping his backside.

Times they are a changin’.

We’ve been going at it every night like puck bunnies in heat this week. Pinch me. It’s like a blowjob relay race around here. And we’ve gotten really good at passing the baton.

But my favorite thing is just to make out while we rub off. Kissing Jamie Canning is mind-blowing. I’m greedy for it, because I know in my gut it won’t last. The summer ends for me in four weeks, and Jamie’s interest in me may be even shorter. So I’ll take all I can get.

It’s one hundred percent honest to say I’ve never been happier. But of course I can’t say it aloud.

Trouble is, it’s harder every day to express any of the fuck-it-all attitude I’m famous for. And I’m not going to look over his shoulder and read the text. That would be an asshole thing to do, right?

I look. The screen says HOLLY.

The next instant I feel a fucking tsunami of jealousy. “You want to go to a movie?” Except I don’t want to go to a movie, and they’ve probably started already. “What’s at the theater this week, anyway?” I ask. As if I care. I’d rather get naked and make out.

“A chick flick and a kids’ movie,” he says. “I checked.”

“Bummer. Blowjobs, then?”

He snickers. But he’s still holding that goddamned phone. I’m not saying a word, though.

Right.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Texting Holly.”

I can’t help it—even the sound of her name on his lips tenses me up. The first and only time I met the girl, she had sex-tousled hair and a dreamy smile on her face. It bothers me that Jamie was responsible for both of those things.

“What’s she up to?” I try to sound casual.

I fail, because he turns his head to roll his eyes at me. “Is that your way of asking if we’re sexting?”

I shrug.

Jamie starts tapping on the phone again. “We’re not sexting. We don’t do that anymore, by the way. And tonight she’s stuck babysitting her little cousins on Cape Cod. They keep watching the same movie over and over again, and she’s about to quit the family and join a traveling circus.” He turns to smile at me. “I suggested fire eating, but she thinks trapeze would be fun.” He stops talking, those brown eyes holding a hint of amusement. I think he’s this close to calling me on my dickish behavior.

Then he doesn’t. Fucking Jamie. Always so easygoing. Some days I’d give up a limb to be more like that. But not a leg, because I need those for skating. And not my arms… God, I’m stuck inside my head tonight.

Do I need a blowjob or what?

Jamie reads the screen again and chuckles, and I want to grab the phone and bash it against the wall. The only thing holding me back is the fact that Cape Cod is like five hours away from here. Maybe six.

So I start kissing his neck instead. That’s something Holly can’t do.

After a while, it works. He sets the phone down and drops his head onto the pillow. “You feel good up there.”

“Yeah?” I thrust my hips downward and feel him pushing back at me.

I slip a hand under his T-shirt, stroking his side. Then I work the shirt upward and kiss his back, and he flattens under my touch, his body lazily shifting on the bed.

“Want you,” I whisper. Lately, those two words define me.

“Have me,” he says.

My heart stutters in my chest, and my dick hardens into the approximate texture of an iron bar. Does he even mean it the way it sounds? We haven’t talked about fucking since the one time. I want him so badly, but only if he wants it.

Only one way to find out.

I climb off him and yank his shorts down. And his briefs. His ass is perfect—strong and round, with a tan line cutting across at his waist. I kiss the tan line, because I have to.

“Mmm,” he agrees, his eyes shut. I watch as he pushes his hips into the bed. Like me, Jamie has two speeds: horny and asleep.

I yank off my shirt and then my shorts. The more of my skin that touches his, the happier I am.

Then? His phone rings.

I swear to God, if that’s Holly…

Since I’m lying on his body, I swallow my annoyance and ask if he wants me to get it.

“Just check the number,” he says lazily. “It’s probably nothing.”

But Jamie’s phone doesn’t usually ring at this hour, so I look. It’s not Holly. The display says KILLFEATHER.

“Um… It’s a camper.”

He lifts his head up quickly. “Really?”

I hand over the phone, and he answers.

“Hello?” He frowns. “Where are you? Where?” Another pause. “I’ll be right there.” He ends the call.

“What’s the matter with your goalie?”

Jamie scowls, and I can’t help noticing even his grumpy face is hot. “That was Shen using Killfeather’s phone. Apparently my goalie is drunk with two of your forwards. They’re not far away, but Killfeather won’t come home, and they didn’t know what to do.”

I reach for my shirt. “Let’s go. Where are they?”

“Behind the high school.”

“That’s original. When I got you drunk, it was on the roof of the Hampton Inn.”

Jamie laughs, tugging his clothes into place. “They can’t all be Ryan Wesley. The town would have to double the size of its police force.”

By silent mutual agreement, we leave the dormitory like thieves in the night. If it’s necessary to call in reinforcements, I’m sure Jamie will do it. But sometimes it’s just better to handle things quietly.

Once outside, we book it toward the high school. There’s a fence around the place, but Jamie points to a two-foot gap. When I squeeze through ahead of him, he puts a warm hand on my back, and I shiver slightly.

I’m so gone for him. I hope he can’t tell.

We find our charges sitting on their asses in the gravel under a sign that says “The Blue Bombers”. It’s fitting, because these kids are bombed. Especially Killfeather.

Jamie crouches down to talk to them. “What seems to be the trouble here?”

“We’re, like, drunk,” Davies says. “Annnnd Killfeather won’t go home. But we can’t leave ’im here.”

“I see.” Jamie somehow keeps a straight face. “Why won’t you go home?” he asks his goalie.

“Just…sick of it all,” Killfeather slurs, his head knocking back against the brick wall. “Tomorrow we gotta just do it all over again.”

“I see,” Jamie says again. “How much did you all drink?”

Shen makes a face. “A six-pack.”

Wait, what? “Each?’ I ask sharply.

Killfeather shakes his head. “No.” He pushes a six of longnecks into the light. The bottles are empty, of course.

“What else?” I demand.

Looking sheepish, Davies pulls an empty liter bottle of some local beer out from the shadows. Jamie takes it and reads the label. “Okay. Anything else?”

Three heads shake.

“Where’d you get it?” Jamie asks.

“Paid a guy.”

Jamie tips his chin up to look at me, and I can see him struggling not to laugh. That’s how we got our beer at that age, too. “Sidebar,” he says, standing and beckoning to me.

I walk around the corner of the building with him. We’re only a few yards away, so he puts his lips right to my ear. “Seriously? They got wasted on less than three beers each?”

Turning to whisper my answer, my chest brushes his shoulder. I let my lips brush his jaw before I speak. “They have zero tolerance and a really fast metabolism. Weren’t we the same?”

Jamie chuckles and his breath tickles my ear. “So no hospital.”

“Nah,” I say quickly. “Nobody ever died from two and a half beers. Let’s march ’em around, sober ’em up and then put ’em to bed.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jamie stalks back around the corner. “Okay, ladies. Let’s go. We’re going to make a deal. You three go for a little walk with us, and we’ll take you home without turning you in to the authorities.”

“Like, the police?” Shen slurs.

“Naw, he means Pat,” I clarify.

Shen struggles to his feet. “Okay. Lesh go.” Davies rises, too.

That leaves Killfeather still sitting there. Not budging.

Jamie leans over, offering a hand. “Come on now. You have practice in the morning.”

“Won’t be good enough,” Killfeather mumbles.

“You’ll be a little hung over,” Jamie admits. “But that’s never killed anyone.”

Killfeather gives an adamant shake of the head. “Won’t be good enough for my father. Never will be. Nothing is.”

Ah. I could have written that speech myself. “Don’t play hockey for your dad, dude. You have to play for yourself.” I try putting a hand out, too. This time he takes it. I haul him to his feet, which mostly works. He has to steady himself against the wall for a second, but then he’s vertical on his own power. “Seriously. Fuck ’im. It’s your life.”

Killfeather’s head dangles a little in the classic drunken pose. “He needs to chill out.”

“But some never do,” I tell him. The truth hurts, but he should understand this as soon as he can. “And you still have to live your life. If you don’t, then he wins. What a waste, right?”

The young goalie nods with his whole body, like a horse. But he’s listening to me.

“Let’s go, then.”

“Where are you taking us?” Davies asks.

“We’re going to have a little history lesson,” Jamie replies. “You chose to imbibe about fifty yards away from a legendary spot.” He leads the kids across Cummings Road, and I manage not to make a crack about it. They shuffle along behind him until we’re standing in a dusty parking area behind the Olympic stadium. “Okay, what’s famous about this place?”

“Um,” Shen says. “The arena. Where the U.S. beat Russia to win the gold in 1980.”

“Ah,” Jamie says, raising a finger in the air. “The U.S. did beat the impressive Russian team four to three, with a team of twenty college students. But the gold medal game was two days later, against Sweden. Four to two. But that’s not why we’re here.”

“It isn’t?”

Jamie shakes his head. “See that hill?” He points over his shoulder, and we all look up.

“I see another parking lot,” Killfeather mutters.

With a closed fist, Jamie cuffs him gently under the chin. “That’s not just any parking lot, and it’s not just any hill. Herb Brooks was the coach of the U.S. team. That’s why the building is named after him now. He put his guys in all their pads and ran ’em up and down that hill.”

“Sounds like a party.” Davies sighs.

“We’re going to find out.” Jamie rubs his hands together. “On a count of three, everyone runs up there. We’ll go together. You too, Wesley.”

“I’m not running,” Shen complains. “Too drunk.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, gripping his shoulder. “Shoulda thought about that earlier. Let’s go.” I clap my hands.

“One, two, three!” Jamie takes off across the gravel. There’s a grassy bit where the hill begins, and he reaches it quickly.

I hang back to make sure the boys follow him. And they do, at a sluggish pace. That’s fine, because we really don’t need any injuries. The moon is up, though. It’s not all that dark, and there are floodlights at the top of the hill.

We’re all breathing hard within minutes. The hill is a real bitch, and I’m glad I’m not wearing my pads. The kids make it up to the top eventually, grumbling all the way. Then the five of us are panting in the parking lot, hands on hips, wishing we had water.

“I don’t feel so good,” Shen mumbles.

“In the bushes if you’re going to yarf,” I say quickly. This parking lot belongs to a golf club. We’re already trespassing.

He lurches off, just making it to a boxwood before there are sounds of retching.

“We’ll walk ’em down slowly,” Jamie says, stroking his chin. “And buy some water.”

“And Advil. I have some in our room.”

“Of course you do.”

I have to bite back a smile. Another silly, ridiculous night in Lake Placid with Jamie. I hope the next four weeks go slowly.

On our way down, I have a little chat with Davies. “So… Why’d you guys have to go and get drunk? You could get kicked out of camp.”

He sticks out his chin. “You told me to.”

“Say what?”

“You said to spend some time with them off the ice. I did that.”

I give this some thought. “Okay. It’s my job to tell you to quit breaking the rules. But I hear where you’re coming from. And I like that you called Coach Canning when Killfeather wouldn’t go home.”

“I wouldn’t just leave him there.”

He gets a friendly slap on the back for that. “Good man. Stay out of trouble and we can keep these shenanigans private, okay?”

“Okay.”

We walk back to the dormitory through the fresh summer air while the moon rises higher over the lake. I can’t wait to get home.