The sound frustrates me. Retrieving the puck, I line up another shot, determined to perfect my accuracy. I mean, I’m alone on the ice. There’s no goalie, no opposing team bearing down on me, no audience at all. Missing the net seems nearly impossible, and yet I managed to do it.
Get your head in the game, Nagy.
It feels like my entire future is riding on the success of this year. No pressure or anything.
Lost in my thoughts, I almost don't hear the voice calling out to me. "Gabe! What are you doing out here?" Turning, I see Coach Overton standing at the edge of the rink, his hands on his hips and a curious look on his face.
Dan Overton is a former NHL player. He’s only in his early forties, but his pro career was cut short by an injury. Even though he’d probably earned enough to retire and live comfortably ever after, he didn’t want to leave his beloved sport entirely, and when he found out the NCAA and Claremont College were working together to bring Phoenix back into the college hockey circuit, he threw his hat in the ring to coach.
He's been the coach of our team since its inception. Sometimes, I’m convinced that he loves our team more than he loves his own kids.
I’ll admit that I startled a little at the sound of his voice. College doesn’t start up for another week, and I was pretty sure the building would be empty when I let myself in this morning. I should have realized Coach would be in his office. He’salwaysin his office. I’m convinced he’s got a bed hidden in there somewhere.
"Just sneaking in some extra practice, Coach," I reply, skating over to him. "Making sure I'm ready for the season."
It’s not like I can tell him that I’ve had extra energy thrumming through my veins since I hooked up in a kink club bathroom a few days ago. The only thing known to calm me down when I get like this is skating.
Well, skating and sex.
But, seeing as I haven’t heard from Justin since I left him to process everything we’d done and spoken about, sex is off the table right now. At least until I know where I stand with him.
Coach nods, a small smile playing on his lips. "I admire your dedication, Gabe. But don't forget to rest. You'll need your energy when the season starts."
I appreciate his concern. "I know, Coach. But this is my senior year. There are no second chances anymore."
The words feel forced as they leave my lips. Unlike most of my team, I’m not sure that I want to play hockey professionally. I’m not entirely sure that I don’t either, but the more I think about it, the more confused I feel.
He claps a hand on my shoulder. "That's the spirit, but try to keep some balance in your life, too. You’re still young: you won’t get your college years back.” There’s a surprising hint of melancholy in his tone before he gives his head a shake and then smiles. “Anyway, how about you finish up here and come to my office after you’ve showered and changed? I’d like to discuss something with you while I’ve got you here.”
I nod. "Sure thing, Coach. Be right there." As I skate back to center ice for one last lap, I let my gaze wander around the entire arena. It’s eerie seeing it so quiet, so devoid of life.
My family often joke that people only attend the games because they want an excuse to avoid the Arizona heat. But over the past few years, our team has slowly grown a following. Serious fans who want to see us succeed, and who let us (or, rather, our social media accounts) know when we’ve disappointed them.
Even though I’m not sure about my future after I finish college this year, I do enjoy being a part of this circus. I get swept up in the excitement, my heart pumping with the cheers of our fans evenwhen I’m on the bench, waiting to jump the boards and do my best to make them proud. The adrenaline of it all is addictive.
After taking my lap, I retrieve my puck and head back to the locker room for a quick shower. Then, with my hair still damp, I make my way to Coach’s office. His door is wide open, but I still tap my knuckles on the doorframe and wait for his permission to enter.
He grins at me and gestures to the seats in front of his big, cluttered desk. “Take a seat, Gabe.”
Doing as he asks, I watch as he steeples his fingers and then regards me in silence for a moment before he says, "I know you're not captain, but I'm counting on you to take the freshmen under your wing this year," he follows this up by shooting me a smile that almost feels knowing. "I've watched you with the new players over the past couple of years. You're good with 'em. You've got a real...nurturingkind of vibe."
His Texan drawl is kind of hot and, not for the first time, I wonder how a southern boy like him ended up being a pro-hockey player. Texas seems about as far removed from icy sports as Arizona. Then I blink rapidly to focus on the conversation at hand, because thinking of my coach as anything other than just Coach seems kind of weird and inappropriate.
I blame Justin for the desperate buzz beneath my skin. It's really all his fault. Justin, with his sweet smile and his 'help me' eyes. Justin, with his earnest interest in dipping his toe into age play at Club Kik. Justin with his hand —and then his mouth— on my dick.
Gah! Donotget hard in Coach's office, you moron.
Clearing my throat, I focus on replying, "You're not the first to accuse me of that," I joke. "I guess it comes from being a middle child in a big family."
"Well, it's a great quality to have. Makes you a natural team player if you're lookin' out for others as well as yourself." He tilts his head to the side and scratches fingers through stubble that seems to be turning a little salt-and-peppery, even if the hair on his head is still dark as night. "Using the same logic, you'd make a good coach or assistant coach, too. Even for a junior league. Weren't you studying medicine or somethin'?"
"Sports medicine,” I acknowledge with a nod of my head. "Yeah.”
He whistles, low and impressed. “Brains and brawn. But, more than that, it’s the kind of degree which ought to set you up in a career in hockey even if you don’t get drafted. But I think you’ve got as much a chance of that as Burns or Weston.”
I blink at him. “Really?” It’s no secret that Vincent Burns and Zach Weston are our best players and the two most determined to make it to the NHL. Zach’s even our captain this year.
Coach hums. “Really. But now’s the time to start thinkin’ about where you see yourself ending up if the NHL doesn’t come a-calling. It seems to me that you might enjoy working on the sidelines anyway.” He cocks his head. “Did you want me to see if our med team would mind talking to you about your options with your degree? They might even have some ideas about puttin’ you to work behind the scenes.”
