“Is there anything I’m not allowed to do while creating content?” I ask, chewing on my lip. “What are my parameters for this?”
“Are you asking me if you can video tapethatexercise?” Barb laughs, watching as a player thrusts into the ice as he lays down on the ground. It almost seems as if he’s having sex with the ice.
“Yes,” I say, blushing.
“It’s refreshing that you’re this shy,” she says. “Yes, you can post exercises like that. Hockey is sexy, and you can lean into the fantasy in some respects as long as you also showcase how hard they all work.”
“I understand,” I say.
To all the little steps, let’s fucking do this.
MILES
“This stadium is insane,” Levon mutters, fully dressed in the visiting team locker room.
“It’s overkill,” I mutter. “Scorpions! You can dress up a Dragon, but it’ll still look the same when we beat them. What are we going to show New Orleans?”
“Scorpions win!” the room roars. There’s excitement and determination in their eyes as the buzz begins to build.
Dr. Diaz leans against the wall, watching the team alongside the other support staff, deep in thought. The medical professionals always see more than just a sport, plays, and wins. They also are cataloging the different injuries that could crop up with each player.
Any game could potentially be someone’s last, which is why I push my team so hard. Anything could happen, and regrets fucking suck. Ask me how I know.
I wonder if I would have made the same decisions with a different coach, one that gave a shit and didn’t sacrifice me to a particularly nasty D-line that knocked me off my skates. Our team still scored, but my back was done after that.
It’s what ultimately ended my career. I love coaching, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I still remember the days of cheering crowds, skating like my life depended on it, and the rush of excitement on game days.
I experience it in a different way now, and trust me when I say that it’s not the same.
“Let’s go!” I roar, watching as my team heads down the tunnel onto a rival team’s ice.
This is an important game. Heading out to the bench, I lean forward as I watch my players get announced. We have a few die hard fans who are here, but we are very much in enemy territory. My eyes narrow as I glare at Coach Freedman, noticing how he leans forward to talk to his players.
There’s a girl dressed in a black and red dress with leggings, along with a sweatshirt pulled over it all as she gazes around. Who the fuck is that?
I haven’t seen her before to my recollection, and there’s definitely never been a woman on the Dragon’s bench. I just don’t understand what her purpose is when she isn’t wearing their colors or jersey.
As the lights come up from the previously darkened mood lighting, I get sucked into the game and forget about her. I don’t need any distractions. Whoever she is, I hope she gives them bad luck.
It may not be healthy, but I definitely have unresolved issues when it comes to this coach and anyone that he works with. He doesn’t deserve the privilege of leading anymore.
6
LEVON
Fuck, this is brutal. No matter how much we fake directions or twist to get free of the Dragons, they’re right on top of us. It’s the same for us whenever they have the damn puck, and it’s like pulling teeth as our skates fight to push the line back toward the other side of the rink.
“Okay,” Coach Miles growls under his breath after the first period. “They’re really fucking good. I hate to give them any compliments, so don’t let that get around. We need to break free of this defense line.”
“Can I run my mouth now?” I ask, smirking. “There’s no better way to fuck with people’s heads than to feed on their insecurities.”
“Chirp away,” he says, nodding. “Do whatever you need to in order to get the puck through the net. Work together, yeah?”
“Yes, Coach,” I grunt, looking at my teammates. “You hear that? Gloves are off, people!”
Our break is up, and we jump back on the ice, ready to make shit happen.
“You really think you can keep this up?” I ask the player in front of me, smirking as the puck hits the ice.
