by RJ Scott
I plodded down the chute, listening to the sounds of the Eagles locker room growing louder and louder as I neared it. Shouts and laughter, “Panic! At the Disco” playing on the old boom box. A roll of tape escaped the room. I stooped to pick it up and whipped it to one of the D-men in the corner after he went long. It was like coming home in a way. A small, pink envelope—another advertisement for Showers & Specialties probably—peeked out of one of my spare skates. Okay, that had not been there before. I threw a look around the locker room, trying to ferret out who the asshole was. Had to have been Ryker. Who else had access to my mail?
Stupid shit. Did he think I cared if people saw that I got sale ads from a bath shop? He needed his ass kicked. I yanked the envelope free from my skate, glowered at it, then ripped it open, hoping to find a damn web address where I could unsubscribe from junk mail and unwanted emails. Not that I didn’t love their line for men but—
I STILL LOVE U BEN * SUMMER GONE BUT NOT ME * I BE HERE SEE U WATCH U LOVE U.
The flowery paper was soft white, the letters written with bold red marker. My heart leaped into my throat. Was this a joke? My sight flew around the room, but no one was laughing or pointing at me. Still, it had to be someone yanking my chain. Ryker. Had to be. He’d seen the advertisement and…
What? Decided to pretend he was some sort of psycho stalker fan?
“What the hell?” I muttered, balling the stupid prank up and shoving it into my personal bag. Dumb ass. I threw some tape at the back of Ryker’s head. It bounced off his curls, and I got a seriously dark look. A dirty hockey sock was his retaliation. I stalked into the showers, not amused in the least, my pulse tripping over itself. Stupid ass. Probably he and Scott dreamed that up. Got Hayne to write that shit down in some stupid attempt at childish handwriting.
The showers were packed, guys talking about classes and women, cars, food, and the upcoming season. I dumped my shampoo, conditioner, and body wash out of the mesh bag I carried it in and soaped up, working the lather into my skin with a rough shower sponge. As much as I disliked shampooing more than once or twice a week, as it destroyed my already dry hair, after hockey practice, I had to. The rich golden shampoo was followed by a thick conditioner heavily applied to the top, which was a few inches longer than the buzzed sides. After that was rinsed off, I was out of the shower, wet feet squeaking in my green Crocs, clean towel around my waist, and my sopping wet bag full of shower gear in hand.
I heard Ryker shout my name as I stepped out of the shower area into the dressing room. As I turned to reply with my middle finger, my mouth snapped shut when my gaze and Mr. Blue-Eyed Ethan’s met across the rowdy room. His eyes dropped to where my towel was knotted right under my navel and then flew back to my face, his head inclining just a fraction of an inch. A wildfire broke out inside me as Ethan continued to talk to our defensive coach as if they were old buddies.
I swallowed. He smiled and I suddenly had a massive need to see him with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, fedora seated jauntily on his head, as he beckoned me to kneel before him and take him into my mouth.
I groaned inwardly at the loss of my poor, easily beguiled scruples.
Four
Ethan
“Are you ever gonna get rid of that thing on your face? Because you look like shit.”
I turned away from the temptation of the twenty-two-year-old goalie and faced one of my oldest friends in the world, the one who’d gotten me to volunteer at Owatonna U. in the first place. Isaac Upton, or Downer as he’d been called in his NHL days, was a friend from way back. Right back to pond hockey in his mom’s backyard at the age of six, long cold days where hockey was all we had to think about. We’d both been drafted, me to Boston, him to Calgary, but a puck that had slipped up and inside his helmet left him with a vision issue that had cut his time in a professional net far too short. He was married, with kids, all settled in Owatonna, goalie coach to the university team and freakishly happy with his life. Despite the ten years playing professional hockey I had on him, I envied his life more than a little.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Sorry, what?”
“This”—he tugged forcefully at my full beard what—“what look were you going for with this? Early caveman?”
“Oh, that.”
After crashing out in the third round of the Stanley Cup, during which guys traditionally grew lucky beards, I’d had major burnout. It was the moment where I should have realized I was already harboring thoughts of hanging up my skates. It was obvious when all my teammates had shaved, ready for vacations and summer training, and there was me letting my beard grow. I was pretty sure it was my subconscious telling me that I didn’t need to shave because I was considering being done with professional hockey, and I could hide behind my beard. Add breaking my leg, and I genuinely considered it true that fate wanted me to face new life choices. I wasn’t the most superstitious of sports people out there, but I did have a strong belief in destiny. After all, I could have broken my leg anywhere, but the fact I did it in my home town was one hell of a statement. Still, the concept of not playing, of giving up on a career that had been my whole life was possibly the most frightening thing I’d ever considered.
Could it be time to put family first? Settle down? Do something more with my life?
Isaac was still tugging at my beard, and I brushed his hand away. “Fuck you, Downer. I’m rocking Chris Evans in Infinity War.”
He looked at me blankly; he clearly had no idea what I was talking about. I decided there and then to organize film nights in the future where I shared the Avengers goodness with my friend. Of course, once he saw the bearded Evans, he would see my beard was long past tidy.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. But right now, you look like a… what’s that thing called in that film you like? The one with that big hairy ape thing.”
“Which film?”
He snapped his fingers. “I got it, Star something, and you look like a big ass hairy Wookie.” He seemed so happy with himself at the lame chirp I almost didn’t call him on it. But then, I wouldn’t have been a hockey player if I didn’t chirp back.
“Says Yoda on a bad day,” I quipped. Of course the reference was lost on him, and I rolled my eyes and added Star Wars to the movie list. I’d already thought about going somewhere and getting the damn beard fixed; maybe to a place with hot towels and soothing music because the thought of wading through the jungle on my face alone in my bathroom was daunting.
“Whatever, dude. Wookie is all I’m saying.” He turned to face the rowdy room full of seniors and cleared his throat. “Okay, guys, settle down.” The volume was still high, so he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. Finally everyone was quiet and looking our way. I think most of them hadn’t seen me standing there in the corner, and I noticed a couple of them do a double take when they saw me. Particularly Ryker Madsen, whose mouth dropped open, but then, he’d met me outside of hockey through his complicated link to Brady Rowe.
“I want you all to meet our newest volunteer coach—”
“That’s Ethan fucking Girard,” someone faux-whispered, and for a second I felt like a respected hockey player and not someone who’d lost his shine.
“—Ethan Girard,” Downer continued, ignoring the whispers and open mouths. “D-man for Boston, holder of two Stanley Cup rings, two times winner of the Norris Trophy. He’s volunteering to look after our D-corp for a few months while his leg heals. This means I’ll have more time with the existing goalies and the new guys coming up. Questions?”
Everyone started talking at once, but it was Ryker who talked the loudest, and it was him as captain the others deferred to. I’d actually nursed a small hope that one tall Canadian goalie would be the one who took point on all the questions, but he was slumped back in his stall, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at his feet. Seems as if he wasn’t so happy an NHL professional was in the room with the team, or maybe it was the whole comment f
rom Downer about the up-and-coming goalies who would be taking his place? Who the hell knew.
“You’re really staying here with us?” Ryker asked the question I knew everyone would want an answer to. “What about Boston?”
“It’s been fourteen seasons. I’m healing and considering my options—maybe it’s time for me to get out of the way and give the young forwards on other teams the chance to actually get goals against Boston.” I winked to underscore the comedy of that statement, and a couple of the guys snorted laughs.
“Hell, you can’t give up on Boston,” a tall skinny guy moaned loudly. “Just when I start thinking Bean Town has a chance again, we’re fucked now.” He sounded miserable, but I couldn’t exactly give him positive news just because he was a fan of the team I’d played for. The R-word loomed over me, but every player has to retire eventually.
“I think they’ll do okay without me for a while,” I deadpanned, but tall, skinny kid wasn’t happy. He muttered a soft curse and added something about Boston fucking it all up.
“Chill, Laffs,” Ryker said and patted him on the head. “Boston will be fodder for the Railers anyway.”
Laffs brushed his hand away. “Fuck you, baby-Mads.”
Everyone laughed, easy camaraderie was evident in this room, the team a happy one. All except Benoit, who hadn’t looked up from his feet. That could’ve been a goalie thing, I guessed. I’d seen some weird ass goalies in my time, steamrolled into a few of them on occasion when playing.
“Okay, so now Advisor Girard is going to say a few words,” Downer said and nudged me in the side.
“I am?” Shit, really? “Oh, well, seems I am.” I paused for a moment, checking out the room. “So, yeah, I haven’t seen much in the way of game tape for the Eagles, but you ended third in the Big Ten last year and only narrowly missed out on the Frozen Four semis. I know we can manage the turnover in seniors leaving on graduation and get some solid points this year, with the aim of winning. I’ll be talking to you all individually, even the forwards and the net-minders, to get a feel for what our D-corp is up to. Questions?”
Everyone had questions it seemed, ranging from what it was like winning the Stanley Cup, the best day of my life and hard work, to what I was going to do while I couldn’t play, work with you guys, for now.
Tall, skinny guy’s hand shot up. “Lafferty, second line D.”
“Let’s make this the last question,” Downer warned. “Some of us have work to do.”
I moved forward a little and shook Lafferty’s hand as I had every other person who’d asked me a question. “Nice to meet you, Lafferty.”
“So my question is.” He side-eyed Ryker. “When you played the Railers, February two years back, what did it feel like to stop that last breakaway from Tennant Rowe, meaning we beat the Railers into the ground?”
Someone snickered, and Ryker jumped Lafferty, and the two of them began rolling around on the floor in a fake fight. I left them to it, following Downer to the small office that was going to be my home. Sue me if I stole one last glance at Benoit, just to see if he was looking up yet.
He was. Right at me, with narrowed eyes and a mutinous expression. I don’t know who’d pissed in his Wheaties, but just to fuck with him, I winked. Never let it be said that I played safe with a guy I was attracted to.
And yeah, I’m thirty-two; he’s twenty-two. I have ten years on him, not to mention I’m a volunteer coach for his team. I’d just give anything to see him smile at me.
Week one went as well as expected. The D-men were in flux since losing Jacob Benson, and it was obvious from the scrimmages that they were hurting with not having him there. Ryker was his usual scrappy self, but one forward does not a team make. I’d spent all of last night searching the stats for the beginning of their previous year versus the end, and one thing was also glaringly obvious. They had lost a forward midseason, a strong member of the team, and it had hit them badly. We talked about my impressions in the coaches meeting.
“You lost Scott Caldwell to steroid abuse. It impacted your lines.”
Rick Gardner, forwards-coach and an all-around nice guy nodded. I’d been pleased to find out he wanted to work with me as opposed to against me. I loved that about the Eagles: not one person was territorial. If a D-man wasn’t getting in the right place or a forward wasn’t crisp in his passes, the whole team, plus coaches, gathered around them and worked it out. This was the kind of growth and grit you’d see in a Frozen Four championship team, and it was a good start to the work we needed to do.
“Big-time. He was on Ryker’s line; it threw the entire team.”
“You think he’ll come back after his suspension?”
“I don’t know. The door is always open. He’s feisty and was good on Madsen’s line.” Gardner shrugged. “Damn shame what happened to him. Lost his brother, lost his way, but he’s working with the little kids here, keeping his nose clean, and maybe we’ll see him back. Who knows?”
After the meeting, I left the rink the back way, heading into town, hobbling at a slow pace off campus and following my map app to the nearest barber. It wasn’t a big shop, but it held a stylist, a couple of empty chairs, and one man in a reclining chair with a towel over his face. The receptionist looked up from his keyboard, his eyes widening, and with a horrified expression.
“I know,” was all I said.
He stood, dramatically gesturing to the nearest chair. “Sit down! Silvie! We have an emergency!”
The short, round, loud woman called Silvie didn’t miss a moment to tell me how much better I’d feel as soon as I had my beard gone and any remaining stubble shaved off. She even talked me into having my shaggy mane of haircut. I can’t actually recall the last time I’d had smooth skin or properly styled hair. In all likelihood, it had been for the team photos before last season. Even then, I’d been rocking designer stubble and hair I’d had to tuck behind my ears.
“There you go.” I’d watched my face appear from under the hair, and the person who stared back at me was different from the one I remembered. That person had been a whole lifetime ago, secure and safe playing team hockey, and this new me was stateless and a little scared. I tipped generously and then didn’t know what the hell to do next.
Until that was, I saw Benoit.
I’m a coach. Not his coach and I volunteer, but I’m a coach. I’m ten years older than him. But look at him. He’s a man. He’s so damn sexy. I wanted to stare into his gorgeous eyes and maybe act out on the attraction I’d sensed between us at our first meeting
“Benoit, hey,” I said from across the street, watching him turn. At least he was looking at me this time.
“Hey, Coach Girard,” he called.
I crutched over the road and stopped next to him. “Ethan. Outside the rink, call me Ethan.”
He smiled at me, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he took a step back. I swear there had been a flare of attraction in his velvet brown eyes. But it vanished quickly, and he straightened his back.
“You…” He indicated my face by running his hand over his own smooth skin.
“Yeah.”
This was one great conversation. Not.
“Anyway, this is me,” Benoit said after a moment, then turned on his heel before heading toward a combination book shop and café called Gamble & James.
“Coffee,” I blurted, having somehow lost all my faculties in the face of the strong, sexy goalie. “Would you like to have a coffee with me?”
Ten years dude. Coach. Player. Ten freaking years.
He glanced back over his shoulder. “I really need to collect the book I ordered.”
Fuck my life. All these years I’ve played it cool, and I meet Benoit on no more than a handful of occasions, and I am smitten.
“Yeah? What book?” What book? Why did I ask that?
He stopped walking and turned to face me, checking a piece of paper in his hand and frowned. “The Trauma-Sensitive Classroom: Building Resilience with Compassionate Teaching,
the second edition,” he read, and that pretty much ended the conversation. This was insanely stupid. What would someone just starting out in life see in someone who’d done their time in sports and was now adrift and unsure about what he was doing next? I should’ve just walked away and left him be, but no, my mouth was running off before my brain connected.
“Teaching? That’s your area of study?”
He smiled then, confidently, and my brain stopped working completely. I’d never felt a connection like this before, and I was the one to take a step back then because this could very easily get out of control. You’re attracted to him; just own it. See if he’s interested.
“Yeah, my ex-boyfriend’s brother’s friend was a teacher, and I’d listen to his stories, and I realized that was what I wanted to do.”
“Boyfriend?”
He bristled then. “Yes. Why?”
I forced my hands into my pockets and exhaled noisily. “I’m relieved, but also… seriously, would you like to get a coffee? Or something more maybe. A drink? Dinner?”
His eyes widened, and I knew the moment I’d finished asking that I’d stepped over an imaginary line in the sand. Was it because I was a coach? I mean, I wasn’t being paid. It was volunteering. I wasn’t faculty. It wasn’t against the rules. He liked dudes, I liked dudes, and okay, the age gap was there, but it was only ten years, and we were both adults.
“You mean like a date?”
“Just like a date,” I said, and confidence flooded me in an instant. I took comfort in the fact he wasn’t running in the opposite direction and that there was a softness in his expression. He half smiled, and I saw a hundred possibilities in that smile. I desperately wanted to kiss him, to taste him, and see if the heat that flared inside me was matched in him.
Abruptly the interested expression changed into serious focus.