“Dunno. Should you?”
I am seriously not in the mood for this. After practicing my, ‘I don’t hate you, that’s just my face-face’, I was twenty minutes behind schedule. Then my car broke down on the way here. Since I’m a loser with zero dollars to his name, Faith had to leave campus, pick me up, then bring us both back. Meaning we were both late. Meaning she’s pissed and I am even less ready topeoplethan usual.
“Look, I have some stretching routines to fine-tune, so if you don’t mind, maybe we can catch up later, and you can tell me exactly who it is you are.”
“Sure thing, Jimmy.”
Jimmy? That little fucker.
“I know it’s hockey etiquette to designate nicknames, but my name is James. Just James. Now, as I said, this is not the time or place. If you have an issue, we can speak about it later. Perhaps Professor Plum could join us and offer you some … professional assistance.”
The kid’s chin hits the ice, and I take that as my cue to leave.
I hear him behind me, muttering to himself, skates clomping on the rubber matting lining the halls between the ice, locker room and gym. Though he doesn’t shut up, he does gather the stragglers loitering outside once we’re ready to start. The players seem to respect him, and it’s only then I notice the C on his practice jersey.
Ahh, so this is the long lost Malkovich. His first name slips my mind, but I know they call him Cubby. Respect he may have, but I’m beginning to suspect he’s not the brightest spark. I watch, trying hard not to laugh, as he furiously unties his laces, discards his skates, then plonks on the prepared yoga mats—all while still wearing his helmet. I should probably ask him to remove it, but it’s more fun to see how long it takes him or one of hisboysto notice.
“Right, now as we discussed yesterday, Coach Harris has brought me here to work on strengthening, flexibility, and improving respiratory endurance. You’ll all be used to jumping on a bike or treadmill after a game, and we’re still going to do that, but we’re adding some other elements, too.”
“Wow,” Cubby moans. “Coach sure has a lot offaithin you totweakour routine. Hope all thattrustis warranted.”
Shit.
Faith. Trust. Does this kid know what happened at my old practice? Were his parents caught up in the scandal?
On the outside, I keep my cool and continue running through my pre-prepared program, but memories and accusations I’ve tried to repress bubble beneath the surface.
Bryan Ferris, my first placement supervisor, and founding practitioner of Ferris Health Group, had been embezzling business funds, employees entitlements, and defrauding insurance companies for years. He took me under his wing, called me Son, and duped me into investing my savings into the practice he claimed would one day be mine. When accusations were eventually made, the business was investigated, and the man who had been my mentor laid the blame squarely at my feet. Ultimately, I was cleared of any and all wrongdoing, but it was too late for my bank account, and the practice’s reputation. Mud sticks, and if it hadn’t been for Faith vouching for me with Coach Harris, I don’t know who else would have given me a chance.
Somehow, I get to the end of my rundown, and set the boys off to get to change and do their preferred cool down before we do some stretching.
Just how much my presence has skittered beneath Malkovich’s skin is evident when he makes his way towards a row of spin bikes instead of going to change. With disarming ease, he slings one leg over, mounts and settles in the saddle, the sight sparking a memory I need to forget.
I want to straddle your thick neck, watch you suck my dick and go town on my nipples until I blow my load all over that big furry chest. Then, I’ll return the favor.
I shake my head to clear the smut, and refocus on work—in particular the helmeted one with a broad back that tapers into narrow hips, I would find incredibly attractive should he not be who he is. He only does so maybe five or six full turns, hips gently rolling side to side, before he slows, turns and faces me. Someone’s realized he’s the only one still here. In full gear.
Lord, I wish I could see his face.
Peddling a little longer, the stubbornness I’m also afflicted with eventually subsides, and he relents, removing his helmet and slicking back his wet, dark blonde hair. Stray strands refusing to be tamed, are tucked behind his ears with huffs of disgust. I kind of feel bad for the kid. Maybe it’s time for me to save him from himself.
“May I have a word, Mr. Malkovich?”
“Can it wait?” he grumbles, peddling resuming. “If I don’t cool down, I won’t be able to walk tomorrow, let alone skate. I know you don’t care for such trivial things as disappointing or letting people down, but I do. I’m the captain.”
Right then.
“See, that’s what I want to speak to you about. I’m not sure if you have me confused with someone else, but I assure you, I care very much about my work and have no intention of letting anyone down.”
“Pfft. Whatever.”
“No, not whatever. Look, once our session is over, I insist that you come to my office so we can sort whatever this is out.”
“Can’t sorry,” he huffs, voice barely audible over the noise of the bike. “No time.”
“Make time, Mr. Malkovich.”
On a heavy sigh, he looks up from his feet, sweat dripping from his nose. Familiar blue eyes meet mine, and just like the wheels on the damn bike, the world slows to a halt. “My name is Cory. Just Cory, thank you.”
