“Coach Harris did suggest that, but since your actions affected a small business in the greater Boston community, we decided repaying that community via a variety of fundraising activities would have a more lasting, educational impact.”
“That’s right, boys,” Coach snarks. “Your Sunday afternoons now belong to us. Since we don’t have a lot of time to prepare for this weekend, we’re starting with an old fashioned car wash here in the Conte parking lot. And don’t think you can get out of it. This is considered an official team event, attendance is compulsory and staff will be onsite at all times to make sure no shenanigans are had.”
Great. I barely have enough study time as it is. Losing the one free day we have is going to hurt.
While I have enough brains to internally moan mine, others aren’t. Discontented grumbles are everywhere but Trent is the only one dumb enough to say the quiet part out loud. “Every Sunday? For how long?”
Ready for a fight, Coach crosses his arms over his chest. “Until you’ve raised enough to cover the repairs.”
“What! That could take weeks.”
“It could, Hoffman. But it could also end before it begins if the numbnuts responsible come forward.” Accusatory glances are flying everywhere, but no one raises a hand. “Right then. Sunday it is. Don’t forget your Speedos. Things are going to get wet.”
The squad’s been split into two groups, one remains here on the ice doing drills with coaches Harris and White, while the other is in the gym with Brady and James.
From the goodness of my own heart, I volunteered to hit the gym first, but Coach had a plan, and me thirsting over his physio wasn’t it. Instead, I’m standing on the sidelines, giving my opinion on new lines for this season. Not a simple task, and not one I think I’m qualified in.
“Are you sure you want my input on this?” I say, handing the last of the red practice jerseys to Larsson. “I mean, I can tell you that Tom, Sam and I work great together, but wouldn’t Brady or one of the other assistants be more knowledgeable?”
“In some things, sure. But you’ve got great hockey smarts, Cory. You’re intuitive and read the play as well as anyone else here. You’re also familiar with the after hours team dynamics, in a way we can’t be. It’s the beginning of a rebuild. Who’s inclusive and supportive? Who’s putting in the extra training? Who can be trusted? These things count more than you might think.”
“Trust is everything.” I nod. “If you can’t trust someone to have your back in the locker room, how can you trust them on the ice?” My mind goes straight to Hoffman. Can the team rely on rich boy Trent when he bullies whoever he deems the weakest among them? Then, to me. I don’t want them to know I wear glasses and love comics, for fucks sake. How can I be comfortable telling them I love dick? I don’t even know James. He’s practically a stranger. One who’s seen me naked, but still. Right now, I have more faith in him than I do the men I’m supposed to be leading.
“Exactly. Among us right now, we have five clowns that will let all their teammates take the fall for something rather than take accountability. We can’t have that. A center must trust his wingers. The goalie must trust the D-men. You all must trust your goalie. Coaches must feel they can trust toward their players, and vice-versa. Without that, we’re not a team. Without that, we have nothing.”
Man, captaining is hard.
The day that my leadership was announced, Noah was here, standing alongside Shane as the boys, half of whom are gone now, hooted and hollered their approval. “Call me whenever you need, Cubby.” He’d whispered, tapping the golden C on the chest of my jersey. Maybe it’s time to take him up on the offer.
“Okay three on three, red v black. Yellow vs Blue, and then the rest. Light contact.” Harris yells at the top of his lungs . I was so zoned out, I almost fell on my ass. “We need to protect those hands, boys. Come Sunday, you’ve got a lot of scrubbing to do.”
It’sdays like these that make me appreciate the feel of bare feet on any surface. By the time Coach sends us to change, my legs are shaking so badly, my feet aching, I can hardly walk. The moan I release, the relief I feel to finally sit and take my skates off is damn near orgasmic. By the sounds around me, I’m not alone in that feeling. The space is giving a porno set, more than a locker room.
Lucas collapses beside me, so exhausted he just lets his head clunk against the wall with a dull thud. “Ow.’” He runs a hand through his hair. “That was the worst. I still don’t get why we are all getting punished for something five of them did.” Subtly, he points to the same faces I too suspect to be the culprits—Brodie Townsend, Trent Hoffman, Brad Smith, Dean Cole, and Robbie McAvoy. All D-men. All under Hoffman’s thumb.
“Because we’re a team, Lucas. When we win, it’s a victory for all of us, even if only one line played well. Flip that and it’s the same. No one taking responsibility, means the whole team takes the loss.” I take my disgusting socks off and toss them in the giant laundry tub in the center of the room. As I celebrate my three-point landing, I look up, my heart skipping a beat to see James by the entry, leaning against the wall. That snooty, judgmental look souring his face as eyes scan the room. They settle on me, and I know we have to be all professional like, but I can’t stop myself winking as I strip my shoulder pads off in record time.
“Look at it this way,” I laugh, still watching James, but speaking to my neighbor, “at least we’re washing cars, not stinky jerseys and jockstraps.”
Almost despite himself, Lucas laughs too. “Not this weekend anyway.”
For no reason other than offering anyone with a mustache a better view, I stand and peel off my long-sleeved base layer. Right as it reaches my ribs, I hear James clear his throat. “Don’t get too cozy, gentlemen. You have fifteen minutes to change and then it’s straight into the gym.” He leaves in the few seconds where my face is covered, but I’d like to think he was sporting a blush. Maybe a touch of a chub, too.
All six-foot-fiveof James Plum’s deliciousness stands before us. Gone is the Bears sweatshirt he was wearing in the locker room. All that remains is a slutty sleeveless workout tee, gray sweats that highlight all those manly lumps, and a frown.
It’s a killer combo.
“Afternoon, gentlemen. It’s circuit time.” There’s a slight tremble to his voice. Is my big bear nervous?
Lucas, who appears to be my new shadow, elbows me in the ribs and does a shit job of whispering, “Why does he keep calling us gentlemen?”
“Because,” James replies, standing taller, one eyebrow raised. “Heis a gentleman and hopes by treatingyouas such,youwill act as such.”
I swear to god, I almost choke on nothing. Sir James fucking Plum can be all Mr. Fancy Pants here, but the last thing he said before he stopped sucking on my dick like a candy cane was something like,Cory, you’re mouth isfucking perfect.
Actually, as far as dirty talk goes, I guess that is kind of gentlemanly.
Brady writes our workout on the board, and mass groaning breaks out. “Boys, we want ten of the following, single-leg glute bridges, shoulder taps—times ten on each side. Next it’s side planks for thirty seconds each side, and finally five hip flexor stretches. Let’s see who can finish first, go!”
