“Yeah, I would, because it’s no ones’ business but yours, and because you’re my captain, and my friend. At least I hope you are.”
“What he said.” Lucas nods, before shrinking under James’ distant glare and skating toward him. For a physio, he’s pretty fucking terrifying. And I’m pretty fucking confused.
“Since when have you, frat-boy-jock Sam, the most popular sophomore on campus, considered me a friend?” Sure he’s friendly enough here at practice, and the few times we’ve hung at O’Reilly’s. But there’s a big difference between teammates and friends. Then it hits me. “This ‘cause of my sister, isn’t it? You were flirting with her?—”
“No!” He blushes. “No. I mean, yes, I was flirting with her ‘cause she’s hot, but no, I didn’t do that because of her. I like you, is all. You’re cool, Cubs.”
“Me?”
“Bro, is there someone else here?” Checking over each shoulder, he laughs. “Yeah you. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”
“Because literally no one, not ever, has ever said, implied or thought that.”
“That’s not true,” he counters. “Lucas thinks the ice he skates on flows from your ass.”
“That’s because Lucas is as big a dork as me.”
Sam laughs again, recapturing the attention of James, whose furrowed brows give a silent, shut the fuck up and get out here, look. One that Sam hears too.
“Looks like we’re a team, Cubs,” he says, nodding towards the pairs already shooting, then holding out his gloved fist. “Buddies?”
“Buddies.”
Maybe it wasthe knowledge that I had a friend or two on the team looking out for me; the constant heat of James’ gaze; or the stupidity of my showboating to keep it, but even for me, someone who loves hockey and practice even on the shittiest of days, today was extra fun. Sam and Lucas shadowed me, making sure their bodies were always between Trent’s and my own, but when Coach pulled them aside to work on their edge work, he struck.
Not satisfied with chirping as we competed during the final scrimmage, the asshat decided to check me into the boards. Aiming to protect my head, which was down over the puck, I had just enough time to slightly twist, allowing my shoulder, rather than my neck, to take the brunt of the impact. It worked, so I don’t have a concussion, but the radiating pain is so intense, I can hardly raise my arm to tug my jersey over my head.
“You right, Cubs? I could feel that shoulder crack over here.” Sam’s watching, eyes assessing.
“Yep. I’m good.”
I’m not good. No part of this is good. I should most definitely get it looked at, but the thing is, it will be James’ hands checking me over. James’ hands oiling me up and rubbing me down, potentially while Coach White watches on. While my inner slut insists he is the best thing that’s ever happened, there’s an annoying voice of reason, the anti-slut, that’s drowning him out.
Sam, Lucas, Brady and Troye. They’re all on to me. Coach White can’t be next.
I genuinely thought I could flirt my way back into James’ bed without anyone noticing.
I was wrong.
It won’t stop me of course. I’m no quitter. It just means I have to play my legs a little close to my chest, instead of laying them on his table, and spreading them wide.
Cards, I mean. Cards. Not legs.
As though summoned by my pain, James approaches, the stiff cotton of his pants fighting to contain those thick thighs as he ducks in front of me. “You okay?”
“Better now you’re here?” I wink. My cockiness lasts about two seconds, because I try taking off my jersey again, and almost puke.
“You’re hurt.” It’s a statement. Not a question and so gruffly announced I can’t help but laugh.
“You seem personally offended by that.”
“Not at all. I’m just curious as to why you wouldn’t tell someone. Even if you’re not comfortable coming to me, you need–”
“Why wouldn’t I be comfortable coming to you?”
Slowly, like speaking to me is pure agony, he groans and runs a hand over his face. “Because of our … history,” he says, voice low. Sexy. “You’re not comfortable with me working on you.”
“Is that so?” I try again to tug my jersey off, but pain spears along the top of my shoulder, and collar bone then up into my neck. “Hockey players are infamously hesitant to declare themselves injured. Maybe I’m just a dumb jock who doesn’t want to miss any ice time?”
