Ihave no idea what this man is yelling about. Stealing his ideas?! Seriously. We’re not twelve. It’s clear he’s so incessantly mad that he’s not hearing anything I say, nor does it matter what I say. However, I keep defending myself just in case my words are actually penetrating his anger and he’ll remember them later.
Regardless, all my bases are covered. I went through the proper channels, gaining permissions along the way. My players have not only been coming up with ideas but also sourcing people to do the design and print and all kinds of things. Damari is local, so he has a ton of connections in town of places willing to ‘sponsor a date,’ so there’s zero cost to my players for the date auction.
The tournament has been equally successful. I’ve had players from all the sports teams signing up. I receive half a dozen emails daily from someone saying ‘so and so asked for a sponsor for this event and I’d like to provide…’ fill in the blank. It’s been incredible.
There’s also been movement with the corporate sponsors and some teacher sponsors. Honestly, I’m amazed and humbled that we’ve received so much support from every side. I’ve been intouch with almost every coach via email, though I’ve met none of them yet, and they’re excited to join in on some of my efforts to raise money.
It’s gone smoothly with everyone except Coach Lemon Frost. Who is mad at me for… what, exactly? He can’t honestly think Istolehis fundraising ideas, can he? That’s just… does he hear the words coming out of his mouth?
And then his mouth is on mine, and I’m so stunned that I just turn to stone. My brain feels like it’s run into a wall, dazed, and trying to make sense of what’s happening. He’s yelling in one breath and then the next, his mouth is on mine.
Just as I think I catch up, Lemon moves away from me. We stare at each other and then my hands move all their own and I grip his upper arms to bring him back. If we’re going to kiss, we’re going to do it right.
His mouth is already slightly open from the shock of the entire thing, so I feel like maybe that’s enough invitation to truly taste him. With a name like Lemon, my mind thinks he should taste like citrus at the very least. But he tastes like cherries. Sweet. Luxurious.
He’s small. I swear, he’s half my size. Thin but firm. Delicate and soft. I grip him tighter, pulling him awkwardly against my body as best I can since I’m sitting on the edge of my desk and he’s standing.
A door shutting down the hall makes him jerk from my grip. He takes several steps back and stares at me. Eyes wide. Then he turns and runs out my door.
For a minute, I stare after him. That didn’t really happen, right? Absently, I bring my fingers to my lips. They’re tingling. What the hell was that?! What the hell is the heat spreading through my body like this? He’s a hateful man and…
Shaking my head, I turn back to my desk and try to get back to what I was doing. I can’t focus. Hell, not even my eyes will focus.
After half an hour of being useless as I try to construct the game Lemon’s playing here, I twist my chair and kick off my shoes. Reaching for my skates, I lace them on. I stand as I pull a hoodie over my head and then grab my stick. Maybe some time on the ice will help.
Not for the first time, I’m grateful for this opportunity. The idea of never getting on the ice again after I retired was haunting. Seriously, I dreamt about it. I suppose that must be normal after spending more than three decades skating every available minute. To give up something you’ve literally spent your life doing is terrifying.
I appreciate the cool air against my skin as I skate in a figure eight around the rink for a bit before grabbing a puck from the wall. For a while, I do some skill work. Dribbling the puck and shooting it, imagining defensemen and a goalie in the net.
I’m not surprised when Seth shows up. Just as Denis said, he’s almost always here when he’s not in class. He smiles at me and I nod in greeting. For some time, we do our own thing. He stretches and skates around. Also planks on the top of the net with his arms and legs spread eagle. I’m surprised by how long he can hold it. Gear is heavy. Goalie gear is more so.
Then we played shootout for a bit. He blocks about half. This man is far better when there’s more than one person on the ice coming at him. I make a mental note that we need to work on that. Shootouts in overtime happen frequently.
Hockey allows me to not think about Lemon kissing me. In fact, I nearly forget it happened entirely. That is, until practice is over and I’m heading back to my office. As soon as I step inside, I swear I smell his perfume.
It’s definitely perfume as opposed to cologne. There’s something soft and floral about it. Pulling my skates off, I set them in their spot and grab my bag and helmet. I need to get out of this office for a while. That’ll put this event into perspective. Whichshouldbe that it was inappropriate.
Hell, I’m married. I have a wife. I’m not even gay or bi or questioning.
Frowning, I shut my office door behind me and walk down the wide hall with the blue, pink, and white stripes. This is a little earlier than I usually head home since there’s always something to do. Especially with half a dozen fundraisers that we’re trying to organize.
But I can still taste cherries in my mouth and the scent of his perfume is lingering in my nose. I should be angry, right? Not just at his presumption, but at the inappropriateness of it.
I’m not. I’m trying to be, but that’s the least of my concerns right now. The only thing I really feel is confusion. Not just because I wanted to kiss him, but that he’d kissed me at all.
My bike is parked close to the front. I open the saddle and drop my bag inside. After making sure the extra helmet I carry around is secure on the back, I pull mine on and straddle the bike. I turn it on and the roar of the engine starting calms my nerves. For a minute, I sit there with it idling and let the power under me settle the frazzled part of my mind.
After pulling the visor down and kicking back the stand, I maneuver out of the parking lot, moving slowly until I’m off campus.
I don’t live far. About fifteen miles on the outskirts of Glensdale. I take the long way, enjoying the way the air pulls at me as I ride. Focusing on nothing but the road and traffic, I work on clearing my head.
I’m only slightly successful. By the time I pull into my driveway and further into my garage, I’m no less clear about how I feel about this. Nor how to interpret what happened.
Jessica is waiting for me just inside the door like she is most nights. I think she stops whatever she’s doing when she hears my bike coming down the road so she can greet me. Most of the time, I love this greeting.
She smiles and it’s beautiful. She’s one of the most beautiful people I know.
“Hi,” she greets and immediately wraps her arms around my neck to hug me.
