“Dude, it’s my third season in the league. I’m the franchise quarterback, and need I remind you that I led this team all the way to the playoffs during my first year?”
“You stumbled your way into the playoffs during your first year with the help of a solid team at your back. Literally at your back, pushing you into the end zone time and time again. I appreciate you looking out, Lawson. I really do. But I’m a man in my thirties. I’ve been around the block. I’ve done the “crush on the straight guy” thing more times than you can count. Trust me when I say that I’m good. I only met Alex a few weeks ago, and yeah, I was attracted to him but I’m not anymore. We’re getting to know eachother as friends. I’m not going to fall in love with the guy.”
“Famous last words…” Breaker sing-songs. He stands and walks away, whistling as he crosses the locker room. That’s the annoying thing about twenty-something young bucks, especially those who are happily and securely in love. They think they know everything.
Well, I’ll show Breaker. I am not falling in love with Alex Holmes.
Never, ever, ever.
A short while later, the team bus pulls up behind the still-sparkling, brand new hockey rink in San Francisco, and those of us from the Redwoods that volunteered for today’s kid’s skate are shuffled into the visiting-team locker rooms. This is my first time at the Levi’s Center, but it's clear they spared no expense when building a home for San Francisco’s newest pro-team. Our facilities at Twin Peaks Stadium are great, but I can’t help but note that we don’t have a full-spectrum infrared sauna in our recovery areas, and they have two just for guest use.
I wonder if I’ll get a chance to relax in one of those babies when the event wraps up today. I could use some deep muscle relaxation.
Everyone changes out of their streetwear and into attire more fitting for a hockey rink. James and theother general managers had hockey jerseys made with our Redwoods colors, last names and numbers for us to wear today, and next week when the hockey team visits our stadium, they’ll have their own Thunder-themed football jerseys. It’s a cool way of putting up a united front as San Francisco teams, but I can’t say I’m the biggest fan of the long hockey sleeves. Once today is over, I will most definitely be cutting this thing into a cute, cropped muscle tank.
“You’re not putting on pads? I know we’re playing with a bunch of kids, but if they’re anything like my daughters, their slapshots are bound to be lethal.” Coach Cannon says, patting my shoulder as I fiddle with the sleeves of my jersey. It’s still weird to think of him as “Coach” since it was only a few seasons ago that Luke Cannon was the quarterback for The Redwoods. We played together for a few years before he was taken out of the game by a knee injury, and I know I was happy as hell to learn he was joining the coaching staff this year.
“No pads for me. No ice for me, actually. I’ll be manning the snack station in the penalty box, where I can keep my feet on solid ground.”
“Dude, you’re from Minnesota. You don’t skate?” Cannon looks appalled by the notion.
“Nope. I prefer to keep my balance on flat, solidshoes and not go gliding around on death knives, thank you very much.”
I don’t add in the fact that I never learned how to skate because even at a young age, I knew hockey was an expensive sport. If I was tempted to play, Mom would’ve moved heaven and earth to make sure I had what I needed. She would have picked up extra shifts and scoured yard sales and thrift shops for the cheapest but best used equipment. But I couldn’t put that on her, so I invented a fake fear of ice skating that eventually developed into something semi-real and played football instead. I’m lucky I fell in love with the gridiron—and lucky that my high school football department was thoroughly funded and I didn’t need a ton of cash to play.
“Alright, have fun slinging nachos at the little snot goblins then. If you want some lessons, come find me or my husband. We’ll ask our two-year-old if she’ll help you out.”
I snort, letting the slight jab roll of my back and continue getting ready. I’m not surprised when I head out to the stands and find an impressive set up for the snack station. The kids invited to the event today are disadvantaged youth from all over the Bay Area who have an interest in watching or playing hockey and other on-ice sports, so it's only natural that the team owners and general managers havepulled out all the stops to give them a day they’ll remember. We’ve got a hot dog station, a s’mores bar, snow cone machines, cotton candy, crudite—we’ve even got a hot chocolate station with seventeen different kinds of chocolates, whipped cream, candy toppings and mugs that the kids can color with food safe markers and take home as souvenirs.
I’m even more happy to be back here on this side of the plexiglass because with all this sugar, there’s bound to be at least one projectile vomiting situation out on the ice. And when I’m suddenly overcome by giddyness, that’s what I blame it on. I’m excited to be away from the splash zone. The butterflies losing their shit in my stomach have nothing to do with adorable Alex dressed to the nines in all of his goalie gear, currently skating backwards and dragging around a couple of littles who are holding on to his stick.
The whole thing is unbearably cute. I don’t think there is a kid out on that ice who is older than ten or taller than four feet, and they’re all decked out in hockey gear that makes them look like a gang of padded up penguins. Between dressing hot dogs and stirring hot chocolates, I watch as the Thunder guys take the kids through skating drills, play rounds of tag, and shoot pucks back and forth. My favorite part is when the kids line up on the ice and start takingshots on goal. Alex is so good with them, putting on a show of diving to catch pucks and just narrowly letting them slide past him, letting the littles feel like they got one over on the real NHL goalie.
He looks so damn intimidating—and so damn cute—in all of that padding. I have to actively remind myself not to think about what he looks like underneath it all. It’s an especially inappropriate time to be thinking horny thoughts about myfriend.
By the time the drills and play practice are over and the rink is opened up to family and friends for free-skating, I feel like my heart has grown three sizes in my chest.
“Hot Dog Man! More ketchup!” A pair of blonde twins in pink gear and pigtails yell up at me.
“Lemmie, Mellie, you know me! I’m Elliot, not Hot Dog Man!” I say with a chuckle, holding out a bottle of ketchup and squeezing more on to their dogs. One funny thing about being a famous football player in an arena full of famous hockey players is that the kids don’t give two squats about you. They’re here for the hockey gods, and all of us football players have been reduced to mere peasants. It’s refreshing, though I prefer ‘Hot Dog Man’ to the other nickname I’ve been given by some of the older kids. ‘Wiener Boy’ just doesn’t hit the same.
“Hot dogs! Hot dogs! Hot dogs!”The girls start to chant as they run away with their freshly ketchup-ed dogs.
“All these hockey players around, and the hot dog man is the most popular guy in the place. Typical.”
I turn to find Alex next to me, looking like a whole entire snack and making my mouth water. He’s in his pads still, but dressed casually in a pair of black compression pants and Thunder hoodie, with Franny the fanny pack buckled around his waist. His damp hair is tucked under a backwards baseball cap, with little dark strands curling out from underneath the rim. He still has skates on his feet, so he’s taller than me for once, and he’s got a second pair of skates slung over his shoulder. His cheeks are pink from exertion, his hands tucked sweetly into the pocket of his hoodie as he rocks side to side next to me. Aside from the neon green bag, he looks relatively normal like this. Not that I don’t love the butterfly clips and body glitter version of Alex, too. I think I’m starting to love all the versions of this man.
Fucking hell, it almost hurts to look at him. He’s so pretty, it’s entirely unfair.
“I don’t know, Goat. You had an entire hoard of littles hanging on to your every word out there. I just provide the snacks.”
Alex takes his hat off, running a hand though thewet curls and then places it back on his head. I get a whiff of his scent—sweat and soap and woodsy deodorant that makes me want to bury my face under his arm and inhale him all day.
But like, in a cool, casual, “I totally don’t think you’re hot and I’m not at risk of falling for you” kind of way.
“And what a good job you did at snacks, Elliot. But you’re done, I’m springing you free. Come skate with me,” Alex says, pushing my ass down onto the bench behind me. He bends at the knee in front of me and whips the skates off his shoulder. I don’t even have time to appreciate the view of Alex on his knees—let alone talk myself out of appreciating the view—before he has my left foot propped up on his knee and is untying my laces.
“Woah, woah, woah there, Goat. I don’t skate,” I protest, trying to take my foot back. But Alex pushes on.
