Which, while safer than thinking about him naked, is still something I shouldn’t be wanting at all. I glance back at him as I lay my glove and blocker on the bench in front of my stall. He’s grinning at Ahonen, a new addition to our forward line, smile lines fanning out around his brown eyes and several curls having escaped from whatever product he’d used to keep them tame. Blushing, I turn away. I guess I haven’t fully managed to stop fantasizing about him naked.
My hands are shaking so badly,it looks like I’ve got a medical condition. Held out in front of me, palms facing downward, I watch the tremors and will them to stop. Already, this morning, I’ve thrown up twice, and even still my empty stomach is clenching dangerously like it wants to try for a third. My heart has been pounding nonstop, and now this, because apparently getting the shakes is just another way for my body to betray me.
You can’t stand out here hiding forever,I tell myself, andwish once more that it wouldn’t have been weird to bring Nate along with me. Nate isalwaysthere to provide a buffer when I’m around Coach Mackenzie, and the lack of him now feels like I’ve suddenly lost my left leg and am still expected to walk. Taking a deep—very deep—inhale, I gently knock the knuckles on one of my shaky hands against Coach’s open door.
“Come in,” he calls.
“Hey, Coach.” I step into view, fighting the urge to run away as his eyes meet mine. He smiles and beckons me inside, because he’s nice and I’m being fucking ridiculous. Desmond’s desk is empty, which is a relief. I’d rather not have him here, just in case I do something embarrassing like hyperventilate. Or faint. Judging by the way my vision is spotty, it’s a real possibility.
“Micky, come in,” Coach repeats, squinting at me. “Have a seat. Everything all right?”
“Yeah, great. Fine. Everything is fine.” I fall, rather than sit, in the chair he indicated. My face burns and sweat begins to form on the back of my neck as my body heats up. Coach, probably realizing I’m ten seconds away from bursting into flames, gives me the kindest look I’ve ever seen grace his stern face.
“What’s going on?” he asks softly.
“I don’t think I can play anymore.” I exhale the words in a rush, so quietly even I could barely hear them. I watch Coach’s face, but his expression doesn’t change. Maybe he didn’t hear me. I open my mouth to repeat myself, hopefully at a volume more conducive to normal conversation, but he holds up a hand to forestall me.
“Desmond mentioned having a discussion with you about that,” he tells me. I feel such a strong flood of relief forDesmond, realizing he’s done me a massive favor. Now, Coach Mackenzie isn’t taken by surprise. Now, I might not have to force out all the words I’d spent last night practicing. Tears prick the back of my throat, and I have to swallow them down.
“Oh. That’s good,” I say, a little hopeful that he’ll take that as a resignation and I’ll be able to leave. I’ve only been here five minutes and already my shirt feels damp with sweat. I glance down at my hands—still visibly shaking.
“I’m sorry that you’ve been struggling, and I didn’t help you,” Coach Mackenzie apologizes, drawing my eyes back up to his. “It’s my job to make sure my players are comfortable, and I’ve clearly failed. I apologize for that.”
“No, it’s not…I just”—I pause, not really sure what I can even say to explain when I don’t even understand myself—“get really nervous. I hate knowing all these people are watching me fail, and it doesn’t matter how much I practice, I still suck. I’m never going to be Carter Morgan.”
Coach flinches slightly, rubbing his hand down his face and shaking his head.
“Micky. That is in no way what I was intending for you to think when I asked him to work with you over the summer. Anthony and Carter both have incredibly dissimilar styles of play—I only wanted to provide you with different instruction. Instruction that might be more beneficial than what we’d already been doing. I don’t want a string of Carter Morgan clones in goal—I want a Carteranda Micky.”
As if I wasn’t already blushing, now my skin is practically melting off. “Well…maybe, but…I don’t think I can play anymore, Coach. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, but I don’t think I can.”
“Okay,” he agrees. “I understand.”
“Really? I thought…I don’t know, I guess I thought you wouldn’t let me quit.”
“Would it work if I asked you not to?” he asks, eyebrows rising in question.
“Probably,” I admit sheepishly. It’s not as though I’ve got a backbone—I could probably be peer-pressured into doing anything.
“I want what’s best for you, and if that means I lose my starting goaltender, so be it. I’m not going to force anything on you, Micky.”
“I really like playing,” I say quietly. “But I also really hate it.”
“Believe me, I understand that dichotomy just fine,” he agrees sardonically. I loosen up my facial muscles enough to smile at him timidly, and he returns it.
I feel…sad, all of a sudden. It’s silly, because this is what I want. I dread game days, and sometimes even have a hard time dragging myself to practice. Only the draw of getting to spend time with Nate is enough to get me there sometimes. I don’t enjoy spending so much time in the gym or monitoring every single thing I eat. I love the sport, but if there’s one thing I know now, it’s that I’m meant to love it from the opposite side of the glass.
But hockey introduced me to Nate—without it, I wouldn’t have my best friend. I wouldn’t have met Vas, or Desmond. I’d probably have gone through four years of university completely alone, too shy and awkward to make any friends unless they were forced to spend time in my company the way the team was.
“You are always welcome at practice, of course. And I’d be happy to provide a ticket to all home games, if you’re wanting to come,” Coach adds.
“Really?” Shocked, I stare at him. Skate with the team, still? But without the fear of failure, and the dread of upcoming games? He can’t be serious.
“Of course,” he repeats. “You’re part of the team.”
Great. Now, in addition to the cold sweat, tremor, and high blood pressure, this meeting is going to make me cry. Maybe I should faint on my way out of the door, just to top off how fucking out of control my bodily reactions to normal situations are.
“Oh.” Coach waits for me to continue, but conversations with him are hard enough for me, without adding in the fact that he’s being nice. I glance around the office. “Where’s Desmond?”
