Brady pops his second ear bud out, and gives me a dimpled grin. “You’re extra salty today. Get out of the wrong side of the bed?”
“Since my shitty bed in our even shittier basement is jammed against a wall, I’m going to say no. Saltiness is just a delightful personality trait.”
“Yeah, but it’s normally like … chicken salt. Flavorsome and kind of sweet, not just dry your mouth out straight up salt from the ocean. Or that fancy pink stuff. Hey, you’re Aussie. Do you remember chicken salt? Shit I miss it.”
As Brady continues to ramble about Australian condiments, I zone out. Thankfully, we’ve been traveling for seventeen minutes, so the rant lasts only three more and we’re pulling into the exalted grounds of Harvard.
“You speak all fancy like, Doc Plum. Is this where you went to school?” Sam, who I’ve also been ignoring, asks. I can’t pretend I don’t hear him now, as Brady is staring at me, waiting for my response too. I don’t need to look, to know Cory is also.
“No.”
“Oh. Well, where did you go?”
I really don’t want to tell them it was BU. They’ll tear me apart limb from limb, and I really need them to be a physio.
“School. Hey, look.” I point out the window. “Cheerleaders.” I’m not even lying. Beside the bus parking zone, a gaggle of pompom touting girls barely dressed in hot pants and tight, cropped jerseys, are shaking their wares for all to see. Every head on the bus bar three, mine, Brady’s and Cory’s turn, so it’s almost a perfect distraction.
“You’re into girls? Why aren’t you looking?” I ask Brady.
“What’s the point? None of them can pull off short-shorts like Quinny … or Troye. ” He blushes at the last bit, then leans forward. “Don’t tell Troye I said that. I mean it’s true, but don’t tell him.”
My narrowed eyes accidentally dart to Cory. “Don’t worry,Brady.Ican keep a secret.” It’s petty and pathetic, but man, it feels good too. As I stand, I see him and Brady exchange glances. No doubt the latter will know everything that happened before I step outside.
Halfway through the second period,I’m seriously wondering why any human would subject themselves to a career in coaching. I’m fairly certain the jam and cheese sandwich Dylan and Faith made for me is capable of carrying out my instructions better than this defensive unit is.
“Do they deliberately do the exact opposite of what you tell them, or is that just a happy coincidence?”
Coach Harris and White share a patronizing laugh, then slap me on the back in unison. “Bit of both. Welcome to coaching,” Harris says, the maniacal smile receding as Nurse knocks the puck back into play rather than gloving it. Fortunately Cory is there to clear the puck from the zone, but it’s called as icing. That means a face-off and we’ve lost more than we’ve won. The ref tosses Sam after he must blink too aggressively, and I watch, teeth biting into the flesh around my nails, as Cory takes his place.
Face to face, the size difference between he and his opponent, Parker, is almost identical to that between us. Why that, and his stern face of determination has me breaking into a light sweat is better left unexamined.
As too is my exuberant reaction when he wins, and taps the puck back to Lucas, the growing friendship and connection that saw Cubby blurt our secret evident. They can read each other. Trust each other and a twinge of jealousy that has nothing to do with sex, sparks inside me.
Other than Ryan, I have no friends. Cory was someone I felt like I could bemearound. Grumpiness didn’t deter him. If anything he seemed to like it. He’s a dork like me, read my fic, and instead of giving me shit for writing such absolute trash, he used it to up his game in the bedroom.
The way that turned me on is yet another thing I’ll be leaving well alone. Then there’s those slutty little glasses. Why do they have to be so … slutty? I snort a laugh as I picture him, sans specs, reading the upside down menu at O’Reilly’s, then rub my chest to ease the pang that memory creates.
Christ. It’s only been a week, and I miss him. Or maybe, it’s the wasted potential, the loss of what we never really had, that stings.
Either way I have to get over it. I’m too bitter and jaded to let the trust Cory is building with his team be rebuilt between us.
Turning my attention back to the game, I feign the deserved enthusiasm. Ignore Coach Harris’ chewing and do my job. We end up winning the game, but only because Harvard’s latest recruit, Trent, gave us two power plays, then kindly earned an assist on the match winner. Old habits die hard I guess, as Cory fooled the twit into passing the puck to him in front of an open net. With a flick of the wrist he snuck it above the goalie’s right glove. It was a beautiful goal. Cheeky, but beautiful. Quite like the man who scored it.
“See what Trent did?” I say to my huddled up D-men in the locker room. “Don’t do that.”
Bailey, who is an absolute smartass, wipes the non-existent tears from his eyes. “Truly inspirational, Coach Plummy.”
“That’s why I get paid the big bucks.” After ensuring my boys did play well, and the potential of forming a brick wall defense is there, I send them off to the showers, and sulk back out to the ice.
The Zamboni is already doing its thing, scraping, refreezing, resurfacing. My skin itches with the need to get out there. Fucking up a fresh surface was always one of my favorite things.
“You did good today, Plummy.” I roll my eyes but can’t stop my lips from twitching into a smile.
“You’ve got the boys saying that now, Basse. Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome.” He slaps me on the shoulder then mirrors my pose, gripping and leaning against the boards, knuckles almost white. “How did you enjoy your first time? Was it everything you dreamed?”
“It was. Thank you for being so gentle.”
