“Bet Trent’s teammates aren’t being too gentle with him. I can’t believe he fell for Cubby’s tricks.”
Feeling a sudden headache coming on, I release my grip on the boards, and pinch the bridge of my nose. “He can be quite persuasive.”
“So I’ve heard.”
I am not touching that with a ten foot pole. Instead I knock Brady’s foot with my own. “Hey, it was your first game too. How are you holding up?”
Skewing his lips to the side, he takes a second before answering. “Not as bad as I thought it was going to be. I missed it, but seeing how far Nurse has come in preseason was kind of satisfying.” His face then transforms into a blushed smile brighter than the arena lights above us. “That helped, too.” He points to the approaching Troye and Quinn, the latter holding a sign in front of her stomach.
Goalie coaches do it better.
“Did her father see that?”
“Nah,” he laughs, blush intensifying. “She only held it up once he hit the rooms. She’s a risk-taker, but she’s not stupid.”
Quinn breaks into a sprint then jumps into Brady’s arms, while Troye looks like he’s fighting hard not to do the same. “You did so well, baby.” She swoons. “Didn’t he Troye?”
“He did.” He nods, biting his lip. “You stood still, barked orders, then paced up and down like a perfect little soldier boy. Maybe when we get home you can blow my?—”
“Troye!” Groaning, Brady buries his face into his hands. “Not here.”
“What? I was going to say, bugle. Get your mind out of the gutter, Basse.” His head then swivels, smirk intensifying as an unimpressed Coach Harris appears. “Good win, Dad.”
Coach mutters something about punks under his breath, then turns to me. “Ah. I was wondering where half of my coaching staff went to. Should have guessed. Quinny, you are to hockey players what flames are to moths.” I’m not quite sure if he’s joking and don’t particularly feel like hanging around to find out.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Coach. Did you need something?”
“Yes, Malkovich is complaining about his shoulder. Can you have a look for me?”
“Coach White is treating him now, Sir.”
“Coach White has his hands full with Nurse and his groin.”
“I bet he has,” snorts Troye, who is again ignored.
“Besides, you’ve done a great job on his treatment. No point switching now.” He then pops a piece of gum in his mouth and motions down the race. “Off you trot, Plummy.”
The urge to argue is so strong I almost choke on the words, but without saying. “I can’t touch him because I’m angry that he told people he blew me. Or even better, please don’t make me, ‘cause I want to fuck him,” there is no way to justify my refusal.
Instead I nod, turn and sulk away to my certain doom.
Iscored the winning goal. Duped Trent into handing it to me, and, for my first full game back, the shoulder has held up really well, and could honestly do with a little ice and rest.
So yes, there is sweet fuck all wrong with me. I require no treatment. No taping.
What Iamsorely in need of is Doc Plum anywhere in my vicinity, but preferably looming over me with his hands anywhere on my body.
Or inside me. I’m not fussy.
All week he’s looked through me like I’m a sheet of glass, and I can’t take it a second longer.
He has to forgive me. I have to make him see that I’m sorry.
Jamie is good at his job. Great even. Which means he’s going to take one look at me and know nothing is wrong. I have to work quickly. Since he’s a writer, I figured the written word might have more luck in winning him over.
I look down at the note I scribbled on a take out napkin I found in my bag, and wince.
James. It’s only been a week, and I’ve seen you almost every day, but I miss you. If I could go back in time and not say anything about us I would, but I can’t. I understand why you’re mad. And how much you have to risk, and if you give me a second chance at friendship, I swear I won’t let you down.
