Normally James’s presence in the locker room wouldn’t make me nervous, but he’s got one of his signature shit-eating grins on. That usually means we’re in for something ridiculous and likely embarrassing in the name of team camaraderie.
Last time James approached us with that specific look on his face, it was so he could ask (read: force) us to pose for Fabio-esque, bodice-ripper photos. They were used for special edition covers of his wife’s romance books, and all the proceeds from the sale of the books went to a local women’s charity. It was a good cause that I would have volunteered for even if it wasn’t mandatory, but I still shiver when I think of all the body oil and heaving bosoms I had to deal with on set that day.
Whatever James has up his sleeve today can’t be as bad as that, right?
“Not so fast, boys. Before you hit the town tonight, James has some stuff to discuss with you.” Coach Manicini’s voice booms through the locker room, cutting through and quieting the chatter andcelebration. When he has everyone’s attention, he nods and James steps up to address the room.
“Thanks, Giovanni. Great game tonight, fellas. The score might have been close, but that wasn’t for lack of trying on our part. Beautiful effort from offense and defense alike. I’d love it if we can keep this kind of momentum going on all season. Right now, I want to talk about the upcoming holiday season. You all know I’ve been organizing volunteer events for local charities for the last few years, but this season, I want to go bigger. I have some plans for us to team up with some of the other franchises in the city to do some extra good in our community this winter.”
My ears perk up at that. I’m always interested in any and all volunteer opportunities. My favorite thing about playing professional sports is getting paid to play my favorite game with my friends, like a perpetual recess. My second favorite thing about playing professional sports is the financial security the job provides, as well as the time and resources I have to give back. I spent too much time as a kid listening to my mom barter on the phone with utility companies to keep our lights on until payday and skip meals so that I could go to bed with a full belly to forget what a privileged life I lead now.
“In addition to the events we do every year, likethe annual toy drive and our team visit to the children’s hospital, there will be events happening every week from Thanksgiving through Christmas all around the city and benefitting several different charities. Think volunteer kitchens, pet adoption events, spending time teaching and playing with youth leagues, the whole sha-bang,” James continues. “We’re partnering up with the city’s hockey, baseball and basketball teams to make this work. Not just athletes—coaches, support staff, families—anyone who is willing to lend their time is welcome, so there will be enough bodies to make this opportunity to give back a big one. Does anyone have any questions?”
I have none. I don’t care who, what, where, when or why these events are, I’ll be at as many as I can with a smile on my face. A few of my teammates raise their hands, though, and James gives us some clarifying information. There will be a calendar and sign up event for all of the events emailed to us by tomorrow afternoon. Attendance at any given event is not mandatory, but players who choose not to donate their time will be strongly encouraged to open their wallet and make a monetary donation. Events will be scattered to best accommodate each sport’s season and travel schedule. Tasks will range from serving meals at soupkitchens to teaching kids how to throw the perfect spiral.
Once all the questions have been answered and my teammates are satisfied with how they’re expected to spend their free time—or money—this holiday season, James and Coach exit the locker room, leaving us to our post-game shenanigans before hitting the town to celebrate our win.
The familiar post-game rush is still buzzing through my veins, pulsing in my chest like wild electricity. I’m feeling high, intoxicated, and horny as hell. I am so ready to find a man—or two, or three, if they’re down for a little group play—to share some orgasms and burn off this extra adrenaline with.
2
MOZZARELLA STICKS ARE THE ANTIDOTE TO BAD JUJU
Alex
“Why are we going out on a Sunday night again?” I groan as the oversized SUV a few of my teammates and I have piled into slows to a stop at a red light. The button of my jeans digs into my belly button and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Two hours ago, I was having the most perfect night off. I had a mango and avocado face mask softening my skin, a new season of some “Real Housewives of Backstabbing Bitch County” lined up on my TV, and a stomach full of the best dim sum San Francisco has to offer—hence the jeans digging into my belly button. I’m a fit guy, but soy sauce bloat is real. I was going to veg out all night and wake up early and well-rested for morning skate tomorrow.
That is, of course, until three of my teammates Miles, Syd, and Dallas showed up on my doorstep.
“The football team won their game against Philadelphia, and it is our duty as San Francisco athletes to support our brothers in arms! We’re all going out! Put on real pants, Holmes. It's going to be so much fun!”
Well I’m not having fun, and my tummy hurts.
“Because we just came off a stretch of away games—” Miles starts, but I hold up a hand in front of him. Miles is the team captain of the San Francisco Thunder and has been my buddy ever since we were assigned roommates during our rookie year in the league. We were traded together when San Francisco was building the league’s newest hockey team. Miles is probably the guy I’m closest to on the team, but in a “he’s like my pain-in-the-ass older-brother” kind of way.
“Exactly why I want to be relaxing in my own bed, where I don’t have to hear you snoring over the noise of your CPAP through the hotel wall. Seriously dude, I thought that mask was supposed to stop you from snoring but all it does is keep you alive longer to annoy me. I can’t figure out why the hell Sarah willingly sleeps in the same bed as you every night.”
Miles hits me with a knuckle punch to the top ofmy thigh and I groan, the pain from his pointy fist radiating under my skin.
“Mother fucker…” I mutter under my breath.
“We just came off a stretch of away games where we cleaned up in Nashville and Chicago, and the Redwoods won their home game today. San Francisco sports are on fire, and we need to celebrate it.”
I huff out a breath. Miles has a point. If he didn’t, I would’ve slammed the door in his face when he showed up at my apartment instead of getting dressed to meet the football guys at some club in the Mission District. It’s the Thunder’s first season in the NHL as a fully formed hockey team, and even though we’re only a few weeks in, we’ve been killing it so far. It may only be November, but it’s high time we pat ourselves on the back for our winning record. As the freshman class of the San Francisco Thunder, there is a lot of pressure on our shoulders to prove that we belong, not just in the city, but in the league. The sports analysts had all but written us off before preseason even began.
“Any team can do well in exhibition. We won’t know what The Thunder is made of until they’re on the ice in a real game,” they said.
“They won’t last two years in San Francisco. Even their football team doesn’t play in the city. There’s areason the league has avoided the area—it’s all a bunch of baseball and basketball fans,” they said.
“They’ve got a female owner and a female on the coaching staff, and they expect us to take them seriously as a professional hockey franchise? Pathetic,” they said, and that one just straight pissed me off. As if gender has any indication on whether someone is a good business owner or coach.
Also, dudes who refer to women as “females” give me the ick, big time.
Well, fuck them all. We’re a month into the season and we’ve only lost one game. Hell, in eighteen games, I’ve only let five goals past me. I haven’t been on a hot streak like this since college, so there.
Those geriatric, misogynistic sports analysts can suck on my super-goalie nuts.
And besides, we’ll be doing a bunch of charity events with the other San Francisco teams in the next few weeks. Coach Hannigan and the team owner, Charlotte Gagnon, told us all about it on our flight back from Detroit earlier this week, so it can’t hurt to go out and get to know some of the guys before we’re serving mashed potatoes together at the local soup kitchen or whatever.
