Scully parks in the lot and I grudgingly follow him inside. I scan the lobby warily, but I don’t spot the ridiculously attractive blond goalie. It figures he wouldn’t show. Probably his way of saying fuck you after I shot him down.
We suit up on the bench, because we’re not allowed in the locker facilities. I scan the big room again, but there’s no sign of the kid.
And what is this weird feeling in my gut? It’s actually disappointment. Which is just strange. Hell, I don’t even know his name.
I’m just finishing lacing up my skates when movement catches my eye. Someone’s trudging along the walkway toward the bench, a hockey bag over his shoulder. Wait... is that him? It’s hard to tell because the guy has a baseball hat pulled low over his face and a hoodie pulled up over the hat.
But as soon as he reaches the bench, he throws down the bag and whips off both the head gear and the hoodie. My chest fizzes weirdly when I get a glimpse of the shape of his pecs under his compression shirt.
He is, as Scully pointed out, exactly my type. Tall. Lean body. Blue eyes.
Ignoring all our stares, he starts pulling on pads.
“Who’s this?” asks Javier, our center. “Got a name, kid?”
“It’s, um, James.” He pulls on his goalie mask—light blue with the Ice Cats logo on the side. Interesting. Kid must be a Cats fan. I’ve never been to an Ice Cats game, but I hear it’s a good time.
“Good of you to come, James,” Scully says, grinning. “Thanks for practicing with us. If it goes well, you think you can make it to the game Tuesday?”
“Yeah. Sure. It’s not here, is it?”
“Unfortunately, no. It’s at a high school rink in North Denver.”
“Oh, awesome,” he says. “Let’s kill those fuckers.” He rises off the bench, all six-foot-several inches of him.
And what follows is the most surreal practice of my life. James is easily the best goalie we’ve ever had on the ice. Not only does he stop every shot, but his chirpy feedback during the scrimmage is both weird and perfect.
“Your release is too slow,” he tells Javier after a save. “Like a sloth doing tai chi. Try moving your lower hand down the stick.”
To Randy, our defenseman: “You’re screening me worse than my roommate watching porn with the volume up. Two steps to your left and we’re golden.”
And to me, after I try to go five-hole: “That was predictable. Like ordering vanilla ice cream at Baskin Robbins. They have thirty-one flavors for a reason, Forest.”
I can’t decide if I want to strangle him or kiss him.
But the hour flies by, and when Scully blows the whistle to end our practice, I have the weirdest feeling in my chest. It’s optimism.
We might actually have a chance against the Plague.
Five
Like an Ad for Cheap Menswear
Beck
I wouldn’t say the Stickhandlers are a good team. They couldn’t score on the Ice Cats even on their best day.
But they try hard. And they have fun. Seems like a weird thing to notice, but it’s true. These guys laugh after every play. They’re taking it seriously, but only up to a point.
I’d honestly forgotten what that’s like.
It shouldn’t really come as any surprise that Forest is their best skater. He’s a defenseman, which totally fits his personality. And he plays hockey the same way he tends bar—with this quiet intensity that makes everything around him run smoother. He's not flashy, but he's always exactly where he needs to be. He uses his size to his advantage, and watching him use that big body to protect the puck, all controlled power and solid muscle, makes my stomach do things that have nothing to do with hockey.
I just want to strip him down and show my appreciation in some highly specific ways. Is that really too much to ask?
Apparently, it is.
Practice ends before I’m ready, and as soon as my ass hits the bench, I start shucking off my sweaty pads. I need to get out of this building before anyone sees me. It’s not like I know everyone in the Cougars organization, but I’ve been to goalie clinics and training camps here.
