A middle-aged woman is standing in front of me, lips pursed, her perfectly manicured bloodred fingernails tapping impatiently on the counter. She’s obviously a tourist, judging by her designer bag and high-heeled shoes. She looks like she’s never cooked a day in her life, but far be it from me to turn down a sale. Maybe it’s a gift for someone.
“It’s right over here.” I step out from behind the register. “Let me show you. I’m sure I can help you find what you’re looking for.”
I lead her to an endcap on the other side of the store. While she debates betweenThe Vermont Farm Table CookbookandSeasons in a Vermont Vineyard: The Shelburne Vineyard Cookbook, I take a deep, steadying breath and give myself a mental smack upside the head. I need this job. I can’t afford to get distracted by dirty daydreams about Moo U’s newest hockey sensation.
Even if they are the dirtiest dreams I’ve had in months.
3
Adam
“Serrano, see me before you go.”
Coach Keller’s words send my stomach into freefall. I cannot, cannot,cannotfuck this up. The Barons were pretty understanding when my dad and I sat down with them and explained what happened with my last team. I doubt they’ll be as forgiving if I blow another opportunity. And the chances of me being drafted by another franchise at that point would be less than zero.
That thought scares the shit out of me. Hockey’s been practically my whole life since I was seven. I love the feeling of flying across the ice with the puck on my stick and lighting the lamp. It’s the only thing I’ve ever really been good at. Without it, I don’t know what I’d do.
I swear under my breath and shove my pads into my cubby. My heart’s racing like I just chugged three Red Bulls. I can’t imagine what Coach wants to see me about. I thought today’s practice went well. Coach moved me to the first line with Lex and Cal, and the three of us really gelled. It felt like we’d been playing together for years instead of days.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m totally overreacting, and Coach wants to pat me on the back, not ream me a new asshole. It wouldn’t be the first time I jumped to the wrong conclusion. Just one of the many pitfalls of being a glass-half-empty kind of guy.
Another thought sneaks up on me. What if Coach found out I’m bi? One of the reasons I picked Moo U out of all the schools I could have transferred to—in addition to the fact that their hockey team is a consistent contender for the Frozen Four—was because of its reputation as progressive, especially when it comes to LGBTQ issues. The team has had at least one out player in the past, although no one on our current roster. But what if things have changed? What if this place is no different from the hellhole I escaped from?
I take the towel from around my neck and twist it into a knot that matches the one in my gut. See what I mean about the pitfalls of being a pessimist?
“Hey, Serrano. Wanna meet us at the Biscuit?” Lex asks.
The Biscuit is short for The Biscuit In The Basket, one of Moo U’s most popular hangouts. It’s also the team’s go-to place for wings and beer after practice. And games, I’m told, although we haven’t played one of those yet. Our season doesn’t officially start for a couple of weeks.
“After Coach finishes tearing you apart, that is,” Slaggert, a first-year defenseman, adds. I think his first name is Jordan, but I’m not sure since everyone calls him Slaggert. Or Slags.
“Shut up, dickhead.”
Lex flings a towel at him. Slags deflects it with a quick, fluid motion, knocking it to the ground. I wish I could let his jab roll off me as easily. It has all my doubts bubbling back to the surface. They must show on my face—note to self: don’t play poker with these guys—because Lex hangs up his jersey and crosses to me, slapping me on the back.
“Don’t worry, man. I’m sure it’s nothing like that. Our line was on fire today. Coach probably wants to make the switch permanent.”
“Yeah, that must be it,” I say with less conviction than Lex, tossing my towel into the laundry bin in the center of the room.
I agree to meet him and the other guys at the Biscuit when I’m done with Coach—or he’s done with me—then leave the locker area, passing through the player lounge and by the weight room on my way to Coach’s office. The door is closed—which of course I take as a bad sign—and it takes me a second to work up the nerve to knock.
“Enter.”
It’s hard to read much into one curt word, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and push the door open. Coach is behind his desk, watching what I assume is game film on his computer. He pauses it when he sees me and gestures to one of the guest chairs.
“Serrano. Have a seat.”
My stomach does another nosedive. If he wants me to sit, that means this is more than a quick “atta boy.”
I drop into the closest guest chair and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Is there a problem, Coach?”
“Not on the ice,” he assures me. Or tries to. All it does is convince me that this is about my preference for dudes. I can’t think of anything else off-ice that might be an issue.
“You worked well with Lex and Cal,” Coach continues. “I’m moving you to the first line. Keep playing like you did today, and you’ll stay there.”
I let out the breath I was holding. Lex was right about the permanent switch. But I can’t help thinking there’s another reason for this little get-together. “Thanks. I won’t let you down.”
I can’t, not if I want to keep my NHL dream alive.
