Oliver grins and keeps on walking, dressed in nothing but a jockstrap. “Sorry, G-man. I couldn’t resist. You were presenting like a baboon in heat.”
Nearby, Kyle is already fully suited up in his goalie gear, resembling a Transformer with all the extra padding he’s wearing.
I head to my locker and strip out of my street clothes. “Does anyone think Coach is going to murder us today? It’s the first practice of the new year. He probably spent the break sitting at home and plotting new and creative ways to make us suffer.”
Oliver adjusts himself in the poor, overwhelmed jockstrap. “He texted me asking if I’d been ‘maintaining conditioning.’ That’s never a good sign.”
“I maintained conditioning,” Gerard says with a hand raised in the air before stepping into a pink jockstrap, his favorite color. It takes him three tries to stuff his penis fully inside of it.Some guys have all the luck.
“Sex with Elliot doesn’t count,” Kyle says flatly, his voice muffled by his goalie mask.
“I’m betting on power play drills until someone pukes,” I say. “He was pissed about our performance against Brickwood before break.”
“That wasn’t our fault,” says Nathan Paisley, one of our freshmen defensemen, whose hair is spikier than Oliver’s and pinker than Gerard’s jock. “Their goalie was a freak of nature. I swear he had six arms.”
“Try telling Coach that. I can already hear him saying, ‘Gentlemen, if you can’t score on one goalie, how do you expect to win a Frozen Four?’” My impression of Coach Donovan is terrible, but it gets a laugh.
“Maybe he’ll be in a good mood. Christmas miracle?” Gerard offers cheerfully.
“When has Coach ever been in a good mood?” Kyle asks, standing up. In full gear, he’s even more massive and terrifying. “Remember when we won against Maine by six goals, and he still made us do sprints because our passing was sloppy?”
“Fair point,” Gerard concedes.
“At least we’ll suffer together,” I say. “Misery loves company and all that shit.”
The locker room fills with the sound of twenty-something guys putting on their hockey gear. Velcro ripping, pads clicking into place, tape being wrapped around sticks. It’s a symphony that I’ve missed over break, as weird as that sounds. The routine is comforting, like reading a book on a rainy day or lying in front of the fireplace with your loved one. Not that I’ve had any experience in the latter.
“Five bucks says Paisley pukes first,” someone calls out from the other side of the locker room.
“Hey!” Nathan cries as another guy says, “I’ll take that bet!”
“Just remember, boys,” I say after I finish lacing up my skates, “what doesn’t kill us makes us marginally better at hockey.”
“That’s the spirit,” Gerard says, slapping me on the ass as I walk by him. He’s now fully dressed, though even in full gear, his ass is still impressive. “Now, let’s go see what fresh torture Coach has planned.”
We file out of the locker room, a parade of warriors heading into battle. Or, at the very least, into an intense practice that’ll have us all questioning the meaning of life by day’s end.
Coach Donovan is an imposingpresence on a rink that’s supposed to bring joy and success. If Oliver is a tank, then Coach is a behemoth. He’s squeezed into a BSU tracksuit that has long since surrendered to his physique. The navy fabric stretches across his frame, and I have to remind myself that staring at your coach’s body is probably grounds for being benched.
He glides across the ice with the kind of effortless grace that makes you forget he’s pushing forty-five. Those Adidas track pants pull tight around thighs that could crush a watermelon, and his ass rivals Gerard’s in sheer magnitude. Might even edge him out by a smidge, though I’d need a measuring tape and far more courage than I possess to confirm.
Jack Donovan is a living legend at BSU. The guy played an entire period with a dislocated shoulder during the 1992 championship game. There are plaques in this very building dedicated to his achievements. His jersey hangs in the rafters, number thirty-one, a constant reminder that mere mortals skate where a god once dominated.
He’s also the source of approximately seventy percent of my horny distress since freshman year.
I spotted him at that first practice, full of commanding presence, and my brain just…broke. The crush on him was sudden, painful, and completely unavoidable. Two years later, and nothing has changed. If anything, it’s gotten worse. The man aged like fine wine left in a barrel made of pure sex appeal.
I don’t feel guilty about it anymore. Used to, back when I thought lusting after authority figures made me some kind of deviant. Now I’ve accepted it as another quirk of mine.
I may or may not have found highlight reels from his playing days on YouTube. I may or may not have watched them repeatedly. I may or may not have taken matters into my own hands until I was tapped out.
That’s between me and my browser history.
“Alright, gentlemen!” Coach’s voice booms across the ice, snapping me out of my inappropriate reverie. “I hope you all enjoyed your holiday break, because playtime is officially over.”
He skates to center ice, and I force my eyes to stay on his face. His fiery red hair catches the arena lights, and those hazel eyes scrutinize us. Finding us wanting, no doubt.
“We’re halfway through the regular season,” he continues. “Gives us plenty of chances to prove we deserve a spot in the Frozen Four. Based on your performance before break, I’m not convinced you remember how to hold a stick.”
