“And Cherry, I presume after her performance at the rink?”
“Yes. Cherry too. Oh, and maybe Brady … but that’s it. I swear.” The zero dollar balance on my bank account the day I started this job flashes before my eyes. “I know you’re angry but you don’t need to worry. They’re my friends. I trust them. You can, too.”
Before I can stop myself, I swoop in and grasp Cory by the throat, pinning him against the wall. “Like I trusted you?”
“I’m sorry.” He coughs, eyes wide. Begging. “Please, I don’t have friends. I was just excited and got carried away. Please. I need you to be my friend, too. Please, don’t be angry with me, Jamie.” He thinks I’m angry, and I am. I’m furious. Just not at him.
I release my grip, stumble back and grasp my head in both hands. The dull thud of an impending migraine forcing my eyes closed. “We’re not friends. We’re not anything.”
As I walk away, unable to look at him, I speak over my shoulder, not slowing my pace. “Coach White will take care of your treatment from now on. Please just stay away from me.”
Why I must continuously shootmyself in the foot, I don’t know.
I successfully avoided Cory at Green Line yesterday, by bravely faking a stomach ailment and making Faith go alone. She came home early though, and busted me elbow deep in salsa, guac, and chips. That meant when Brady called this morning asking if I could help out at the dunk tank Coach and Quinn have set up, Faith stole my phone from my hand and replied with a hearty YES, on my behalf. I would rather staple my face to the wall than be here, but Brady is just so damn lovely, and was so excited to raise funds for Dylan’s Green Line program, I couldn’t say no.
That and Faith made me.
Now I find myself in a life guard outfit, face to face with Cory who, like the rest of his teammates, is wearing nothing more than a rubber ducky clad Speedo and a smile. Not to be outdone, Quinn is wearing some sparkly maroon booty shorts and a cropped tee.
“Coach is sticking to the sex sells side of charity work, I see.”
“It’s a bit much, isn’t it.” Brady blushes as Sam bends over in front of him to retrieve a quarter stuck in the grass. “Can’t blame Coach for this one, though. The budgie smugglers were Quinny’s idea.”
“And it was a brilliant one, too. Look at the line.” Smugly, she nods to the admittedly impressive queue. “Gals, gays and theys know what they want, and predictably, what they want is some drenched, hot hockey boys.”
This is a fact I cannot dispute since I am one of the aforementioned gays. Anger towards Cory rages deep in my soul, but apparently not hot enough to burn off my desire. He looks unfairly beautiful. Blue eyes glistening in the sun. Those pretty nipples peaked from the chill of the morning. Tan lines lingering from his Montreal summer, peeking out from the baby blue material barely covering his ample cheeks.
Fuck I hate my life.
“Okay James, since you’re the tallest who’s not my boyfriend that I want next to me, you’ll be stationed at the tank. Your job is to fish anyone out should they need help, and cheat by hitting the knobby, target thing when people miss. Remember what we’re here for. We want wet hockey boys, people. No person shall leave this place dry.”
I do not need to ask why she chose to say, person and not player. We all know what she meant to imply. Brady knows it so bad his cheeks are redder than my Baywatch inspired shorts. The thought of being so close to Cory as he perches that ass on the tiny seat is nauseating. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do? Maybe I can be the ticket seller?”
“Nope. You’re the pool boy and that’s final.” There’s no bother protesting. Brady has spoken of Quinn enough for me to know she always gets her way.
Resigned to my fate, I head in the direction of the tank. We’re positioned on the grassy knoll outside Conte Arena, and while wet hockey players may be the main draw, there’s also a few dodgy-looking concession stands and a Ferris Wheel that looks one loose screw away from toppling. Shoddy workmanship has failed to stem the flow of attendees. The still mild Fall weather has ensured a bevy of scantily-clad bodies are everywhere, to the point that it feels as though eighty percent of students living on campus are here. Of course the one person I want to avoid is all I see, hands swinging idly at his side as he waits for me at my post.
“Can I help you with something?” With little tolerance for any Speedo related shenanigans, the … well, rudeness of my tone is reflected on Cory’s face. He looks wounded. And so he should.
“Oh, umm. I was just wondering if you’re feeling better? Faith said you had the squirts. I wasn’t sure what that was at first, and kind of wish I still didn’t.”
Fucking Faith.
“I’m fine, thank you. Nothing contagious you need to worry about.” I attempt to move away but Cory grabs my elbow and pulls me to a stop. In all honesty I could probably drag him along the grass behind me if I wanted too, but something tells me he’d get off on it. He does let go when I stare so intensely at his fingers, so intensely they may ignite.
“Wait, Jamie. I was hoping we might be able to talk,” he says, forcing his pout into a weak smile. “I need to apologize.”
“Nothing to apologize for. You’ve said what you needed to say … to apparently everyone you’ve ever met in your life, and I’ve said all I needed to say to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some dunking to do.”
Instead of leaving as I’d hope, he lingers. “Maybe I could help?”
“You are helping. You’re in a tiny pair of togs. You’re going to get wet. That’s it. That’s all you have to do.”
“What are togs?”
I’m not sure who gave her a whistle, but I’m grateful Quinn’s incessant tooting steals Cory’s attention, and redirects my gaze from the patch of grass I was staring at rather than him.
“Hello, everyone,” she yells unnecessarily into a megaphone, deafening those unfortunate enough to be within five meters. “Welcome to the first annual Wet Bear Parade!”
