“Unless you’ve already scared them off, the Plums will be back today, and I expect a better display during James’ session than what I witnessed yesterday. You are not preschoolers. You are adults. Act like it.”
Once he’s done chewing our asses out, Coach calls out our next drill, splitting forwards and D-men for zone work. Still sulking, I slide on my helmet, and join the rest of the forwards at center ice, all the while, trying to figure out who the other Plum is. Does Professor Plum have a brother or sister? A second hit Plum would fit Coach’s demand for better behavior. The boys are pigs, and would have squealed as much if there were two of her.
I’ve got no time to ask, though, because Coach White has set up for five-on-five drills, and the next hour is lost in a blur of sweat, not quite blood, and for the new guys, definite tears.
The first few weeks of preseason training are demonic. It’s not so bad for me this year, as I started early in Montreal. But for the others, skating ’til you vomit is not unheard of. And should we fuck around, and really piss Coach off, bag skates are guaranteed. Judging by the hue his quickly balding head is taking, they’re imminent.
Training and trying not to set him off has at least taken my mind off that dick Jimmy. I’ve hardly thought about him.
Not at all.
Okay so maybe I thought I’ve heard his name a few times, but in my defense, the guy’s I want on my line this year, have names that make it really hard to stay focused. Fellow winger Tom Swallow’s, for instance, unfortunate nickname is Spits. I mean, come on. How could I not go there?
The other is Sam Bailey, and when you’re up against the boards fighting tooth and nail for the puck, Bailey can sound an awful lot like Jimmy.
After an hour of pain, Coach blows his whistle forty-seven times and calls it quits. “Listen up, men. James has a few words to say before he runs us through some new stretching routines. Give me respect or give me bag skates.”
Called it.
A loud back-slap echoes across the ice, but with a crowd of players surrounding whoever it is, I can’t see who’s on the receiving end of Coach’s not-so-gentle touch. Slowly, as the crowd disperses, I catch sight of a mop of brown curls, amber eyes and then that fucking mustache.
No fucking way. It can’t be.
But it is. It’s him. Jimmy. The married guy who blew me last night is standing beside Coach in a Goddamn BC hockey trainers’ polo.
I tug on the sleeve of whoever is closest and point to the swine. “Who the fuck is that?”
“That’s James Plum. Professor Plum’s bro,” Lucas replies with a snort that heavily implies I’m an idiot. “He’s a physio student doing placement and he wants us to do Pilates,” he scoffs again, voice dropping as James speaks.
“G’day boys. Sorry I missed most of the session, but I caught the last twenty minutes or so, and I can already see a big attitude shift from yesterday.” Na uh. No way is this dick going to stand there and give us a pep talk. “That was some good, honest, hard work?—”
“Honest? Honest?” I scoff. “Like you’re in the position to lecture anyone on honesty.”
Nervously, a few bodies around me still, but no one at the front of the gathering seems to have heard me. Which is probably a good thing.
But then again it could also be a very, terribly bad thing.
Who’s to know?
James keeps talking, I keep fuming, and by the time he sends us off to get a drink before meeting back up in the gym, I’m practically levitating with rage. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
The boys head off in varying directions, and I make a bee-line for trouble, skating way too fast and snowing the fuck out of him as I stop. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
One eyebrow raises as he scans me, skate to helmet. If I was any less furious, I might think he looks sexy as hell in his polo and tight pants he must have painted on. That whistle hanging around his neck is doing things to me too. But I am so, no, it’s not.
I don’t think he smells fucking amazing either.
“I’m James Plum,” he says, offering an extended hand. “New physiotherapist student. And you are?”
Taking advantage of my additional skate added height, I slip closer until I’m right in his face. “I’m your Kryptonite.”
“I’m your Kryptonite.”
It takes strength I didn’t know I possessed not to laugh in this cocky little upstart’s face. Instead, I return to my factory setting, sarcasm. Yes, it’s the lowest form of humor, but at the rink, bottom dwelling is where I feel most comfortable. “Lex Luthor? Is that you?”
The cute number four snorts, and looks around for backup. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“Well since I’m guessing that’s a no to bald billionaire industrialist, no. No, I don’t. Should I?”
