Theo O'Keefe
The early meeting with Ace before practice is a colossal waste of time. We’re in a film room with last night’s game on the big screen and he asks me to walk through my thought process. It’s not my fault my teammates are slow and clumsy. In every instance, I show him, plain as day on the tape, where someone made a mistake, and I was there to gain possession of the puck.
At the end, he asks me to play my zone and let the coaches point out other player’s mistakes so I don’t accidentally hurt them when I’m going for the puck.
What-fucking-ever.
King enters the locker room ahead of me, smiling at his phone. The bastard is so smug and acts like I’m the issue, but he’s worse than I am. It’s not a secret I can be a dick, and I own it. I don’t walk around pretending I’m a pacifist and an ally like King does.
The fire in his eyes shows his true nature. I heard what he said about me to Brant during the last game. The fucker should know voices carry on the ice. He pretends he’s mild mannered but there’s a beast in him.
A little push and he’ll go over the edge, revealing his dark side. I can’t fucking wait, but I need to be patient.
Our locker room smells gross but it’s home. Being in here means I get to play the sport I love. Without hockey, my life would be meaningless. Here, there are rules and expectations. The rest of the world is a cesspool of chaos. The thought of having to find another job makes my hands tremble as I put on my gear.
A hand clutches my shoulder and I jump, dropping my pads.
“Sorry, man. You need a partner for the weight room?” Ace asks.
“Sure.” I’m his pet project, but it saves me the hassle of finding a teammate who won’t talk my ear off.
We do a circuit and work up a sweat. When we take a water break, Ace asks King to switch with him.
King trudges over, and I’m not any happier than he is. “It’s blind date day with your bro,” I deadpan.
“Hilarious.” King takes his position behind the bench to spot me.
I do a rep then ask, “What’s your deal with Brant?”
“There’s no deal.” His aqua eyes meet mine, and he twists his braids around his index finger.
“You know he’s jonesing for your dick. Right?” I wait for him to lose his hypocritical homophobic mind.
He tips his head back and laughs. It’s throaty and hits me right in the gut. I swear his eyes sparkle like goddamn gems or some shit. The fact that I can’t look away pisses me off.
“Concentrate on your reps so we don’t fall behind.” King moves closer, and I inhale his sweat and shea butter scent.
I breathe it in deeper and have to cover my mistake by pretending I’m struggling with the weight. He inches closer, arms outstretched as if he’s afraid I might drop the weight on myself.
I’m acutely aware of the vulnerable position I’m in. King could press the bar into my neck, cutting off my airway, or into my chest to break my ribs. He wouldn’t get away with it with the team around, but he might try. Hell, half the guys would probably high-five him.
“Back up,” I growl. “Don’t hover.” What I really don’t need is to keep breathing him in like some psycho. I can’t pinpoint his smell beyond the shea butter, and even the thought of death isn’t enough to stop me.
“Are you this rude to everyone, or am I your favorite?” he snarls back.
“Are you going to keep giving the other team tips on how to beat us?” I push the bar up forcefully.
“I don’t help our opponents.” His face settles into a sneer.
“You were spoon-feeding the farm team. I couldn’t pass to you because you’d let them have the puck and score like Mav tried.” I set the bar on the rack and sit up.
“They aren’t our competition. We’ll never play against them, but some of them might get moved up to our team.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “They’re my bros. I want them to succeed.”
“Your bros? How convenient.” I stand to switch places with him. He treats me like I’m shit, but losers in the AHL are his bros? Fuck that. “Did you learn your concept of family from your fancy European boarding school?”
He bumps his shoulder into mine in a dick move before he positions himself on the bench. “Now you’re a comedian.”
“It’s not comedy when it’s true,” I quip. Either he’s a great actor, or he’s genuinely confused, as if he didn’t spend years overseas at an overpriced school, only coming back to a prep school in the States to make it easier for himself in the draft.
