“Ready to order, gentlemen?” Gwen, the cock-blocker, who’s suddenly not my favorite, smiles down at me.
“I’ll—”
“Hmm hmm.” Clearing his throat, James places a hand over mine, pointing to the menu with the other. It’s such a masculine, dominating move and my dick likes it. “We’ll both have the Arrabbiata, and maybe a serve of Zuppam and truffle-parmigiano fries to share.”
“Excellent, and can I get you something else to drink?”
“Just water?” Hand still holding mine, he checks for consent with a look he has no right delivering in public. Or, maybe it’s just a normal glance, and I’m kind of obsessed. Either way, I nod, and am lucky to manage that. With his whole face, and warm leg against mine, his hand, his … him. Fuck, it’s too much.
Gwen takes the menus and heads to the kitchen, leaving me reeling, swooning and realizing, this is no hook-up. This could be something real.
James is a man. A real man. And right now in his presence, I feel every bit the kid he insists on calling me.
I am in way over my head.
We satin that restaurant for two hours, just shooting shit about family, comics and hockey. I’ve never been so turned on by conversation, or watching someone eat.
Now I’m back in reality. Back to pretending it’s not the gaze of James and James alone I feel, as Coach Harris paces before us, face shifting between pride and annoyance.
I wish it was just me and James again. That he was about to chew me out instead of Coach.
“Boys, I’m not sure how you managed it, or if I approve of the methods, but with one Sunday and a lot of skin, you raised more than double the target.” A stick tapping chant of NO MORE SUNDAYS, echoes around the rink, but such is the power of our leader, silenced falls on the rise of a single hand. “Not so fast.” Merriment turns to fear, the sound of twenty smiles dropping to pouts almost deafening.
Coach pulled me aside when I arrived, so I know what’s coming.
They’re right to sulk.
“I expected the fundraising effort to take longer, and because I’m fucking brilliant, I’d already planned ahead.”
“What does that mean?” Trent says, ‘cause he’s a dick who never shuts up.
“What it means, Hoffman, is I’ve got you for one more Sunday”
Trent’s fists clench and doubling over like he was just sucker-punched in the guts is a tad dramatic. “This is bullshit.” Okay, so he’s a dumb, pathetic dick. Just as I suspected.
Coach outright ignores Trent’s flailing, and continues, “Right, so, one more Sunday means more money for charity, which, despite what some think, is always a good thing. Now, warm up, ladies, then pair off for some two-man passing, let’s go.”
Behind me, Trent is losing his tiny mind. “I hate that guy. How is him underestimating us our problem?”
I shrug. “Just lucky, I guess.”
“Yeah?” Falling behind, he presses his palm into my spine and shoves. “Well as long as you know you’re never getting lucky with me, you little cocksucker.”
I’m able to steady myself, and mean to shove him right back, But before I can, Lucas is holding me back, and Sam’s in Trent’s face. “What did you say, Hoffman?”
“You heard me,Sammy. I called your little boyfriend a cocksucker.” Ducking his head around Sam’s wide frame, he glares, hate coloring his eyes. “Or does he prefer Fairy?” His crew of D-men idiots group around him, and I fear this is going to spiral out of control. I need to be the one to end it. I’m the captain. But for some reason, my voice, and nerve fails me. “Deny it all you like,Cubby. But we all saw your little outfit yesterday. No straight dude dresses like that.”
Once again, it’s Sam, who’s as much a fighter as I am seven foot tall, who defends me when I can’t. “You’ve seen Cory at O’Reilly’s. The bunnies love him. He’s not gay.” He protests, fists bunching Trent’s jersey beneath his chin. “But even if he was, so the fuck what? Doesn’t mean he’d be interested in your dumb ass.”
Three short, sharp whistles ring out, and James’ baritone voice then Hulk-like frame steps in, pulling the boys apart as easy as he would do two slices of bread. “We got a problem here, gentlemen?”
“No problem,” I rush to answer, ignoring the daggers Sam and Lucas are shooting my way. “Sam was just helping Trent with his pads. They got a little twisted.”
“Okay then. Now that they’re un-twisted, get to center ice. Go,” he snaps, when no one moves. There’s no way he’s buying that, but he nods and skates away regardless, Trent and cronies shadowing.
Sam gives me a nudge with his shoulder. “Just ignore him. We know you’re not a?—”
“Not a, what?” I snap, stupidly misdirecting my contempt. “Not a queer. A poof? Well what if I was? Would you be so quick to defend me then?”
