“Annual?” Mutter several of the players, apparently hearing this for the first time.
“We’re going to get started now, so Bears players I need you lined up over by Coach Plum, and dunkers, check your tickets. When your number is called, please come and stand here by me and our handsome ball boy, Brady.” A round of wolf whistles and jeers follow, and Brady, who looks like he wants to run, makes the poor choice to bend and grab a handful of balls to avoid the attention.
“Nice balls, Brades,” is screamed by at least a dozen people.
“Nice ass,” by a dozen more.
Quinn eventually restores some kind of order and the first ticket holder is called to action. “Number one, come on down!”
Number one is a bubbly blonde wearing a cropped ‘I love hockey boys’ tee that barely covers her ample breasts, while up first on the hot seat is Sam. Lucas, Jesse, Reece and Tom jostle to take his place, and I’m forced to remind them that the blonde is here to dunk them, not date them.
“Yeah well, I’d like to take the chance,” Tom says.
“Go for it, Spits.” Sam, who’s looking out into the swarm of people, moves to the side. Following his line of vision, I see why.
“She’s very pretty,” I say, helping Tom onto the tiny metal seat not made for hockey size asses, and nodding toward Cherry while Cory’s twin sister, who’s holding a ticket and nervously bouncing on her feet.
“Pretty is an insult. She’s stunning.” Runs in the family, I don’t say. “I’d really like to ask her out, but…” his voice trails off as Cory pushes through the pack to stand at his bud’s side.
“Who do you want to ask out?—”
“Okay, everyone,” Quinn calls, saving Sam from certain death. “Up first we have sexy junior, and center, Tom Swallows!”
“SPITS, SPITS, SPITS,” the team chants, much to Tom’s mortification and Quinn’s chagrin.
“Yes, thank you boys. Katie, are you ready?” Katie, the hot blonde that’s set the boys alight, takes a ball from Brady, holds it aloft then takes a very professional-looking pitcher stance. Winding up, she lets rip a fastball that smacks straight into the center of the target, sending the crowd into a frenzy, and Tom straight into the freezing water with a hilariously fading,oh fuuuccckk.
I’d presumed my station was fairly pointless, but the shocking burst of cold seems to startle Tom, and most of the boys that follow. Which means by the time Cory is up, I’m freaking exhausted, as wet as the players and understanding why Quinn had me wear such a thin white tee.
“You tits look amazing in a wet shirt, by the way.” Perched on the edge of the seat, he smirks down at me, and winks. His own tits look quite glorious, but I haven’t noticed that at all.
“Yeah, well fuck you.” Much to the disappointment of Cherry who has let countless people go before her to be able to take aim at her brother, my temper won’t wait for her ball toss. With an open palm I slam that fucker, sending Cory into the water with a manly squeal. Because he wasn’t seated properly he makes the biggest splash of the day. I am as wet as he is but that squeal and his expression of shock was totally worth it. “Sorry I slipped. Tim, can you help Malkovich from the tank? I’m on break.”
After my impromptu and apparently successful recent practice sessions with the D-Men, Coach Harris asked me to act as a temporary defensive coach. The team don’t have one at present, the last being called up to the NHL, and it’s an area where they really do need work. It’s a big deal, a sign that maybe they’re considering keeping me around once my placement is done. It’s also a bump-up in wage, something the Bears technically aren’t required to pay, and as much as I’ll deny it to anyone who asks, something I really enjoy.
It does take me away from Dylan another day per week though, but the extra money in my pocket means we can afford another support worker to join Dyl’s team. Sue, a recommendation of Manny’s, started this morning. Faith’s taken a leave day to show her the ropes and let her and Dyl get acquainted, and all seems to be going well if Faith’s increasingly vitriolic replies to my admittedly frequent texts are anything to go by.
Faith
I know you have been home with Dylan a lot over the last few months, and I know you love your routine. But James Alexander Plum, I swear to God, I will give you a free and horridly painful circumcision if you message me one more time.
Nothing gets my phone out of my hand like the threat of barbaric surgery.
In truth, today’s preoccupation with Dylan and whether or not Faith knows how to put on his AFO’s, what angle he likes his toast cut on, where she can find his misplaced fidget spinners, and how long it takes to walk to the park we’ve been to approximately three thousand times, may be a distraction.
On the disgustingly loud and jovial bus trip to Harvard, Cory is in the seat before me, blonde hair bouncing, and smelling of bubble gum, because whichever God hates me more made it the only free spot. Several times he’s turned to speak, smile, or stare at me and each time I’ve pretended to be so consumed by the scenery, I’ve not noticed. Obviously I have, his reflection looking back at me in the window both the ‘cause and cure to my distress.
The anger I felt at the coffee shop has not waned, or even dulled after the dunking. It’s intensified. I’m so bloody mad, and hurt, and embarrassed. I’ve known this man for a handful of weeks. The remorse over becoming physical, and his betrayal seems disproportionate. But then again, my attraction too and affection for him far exceed anything I’ve felt previously.
Maybe that’s why it hurts.
Of course that’s why it hurts.
Anxiously, I rub at my tight chest. “Brady, tell me again why we all have to take the bus when the arena we’re playing in is …” I pause to look at my watch, “perhaps twenty minutes away from BC?”
“Team spirit.”
“Are we talking Nirvana here, or do you expect me to believe piling a group of giant, grown men stuffed into ill-fitting suits, into an admittedly lovely bus, encourages bonding?”
