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“But you can call me that?”
“Yes, quite easily, actually. It’s alarming.”
A reluctant smile lurks on his lips.
I point at him with a gloved hand. “Do it. Unleash the smile. I know you want to.”
“If you don’t shut up, I’m never dropping this puck,” he taunts and then drops it anyway before I’m prepared.
“Hey!” I object.
My stick barely moves before he’s speeding away. I chase after him, trapping him behind the net like I’m supposed to. Soon we’re both breathing hard as I battle him for the puck in the cramped, narrow space. This is more strenuous than any of my workouts. I’m sweating and gasping for air by the time I manage to get out from behind the boards.
“Nice footwork there,” he tells me. “Good hip work.”
“Hip work.”
“Yeah, you did this cool twisting move when you pivoted.”
“Wow. A compliment.”
“Go again?”
I nod.
Later, on our next water break, he becomes more animated than usual as we discuss ways to distract the defenders and goaltender.
“See, now the defenders have a decision to make. When to flush you out, and how to do it. Your goal is to draw them to one side of the net, try to create an opening for a backdoor play. You want them so focused on flushing you out that when it’s time for them to divert their attention to one of your teammates, it’s too late—they’ve already scored.”
“I’m so much better out in the open,” I admit.
“Who isn’t? We all prefer having the room to rely on our speed and accuracy instead of muscles and tricks.”
I grudgingly compliment him. “You’re a good coach.”
He shrugs.
“I mean it. You’d be a real asset to those boys at Hockey Kings if you coached there next summer. And yes, I’ll be sure to keep telling my father that.”
“Thanks.” His voice is gruff.
We stay for another ten minutes before calling it quits. Neither of us want to overdo it now that our season openers are coming up. A comfortable silence falls between us as we trudge down the rubber walkway toward the locker rooms.
“I’m not interested in marrying your friend,” I find myself saying.
He gives me a sidelong glance. “Didn’t think you were.”
“You made a point to tell me he’s not Mr. Monogamy. Obviously that means you were super worried about it.”
“Wasn’t worried in the slightest.”
“Jealous, then?” I mock.
His eyes narrow. “I wasn’t jealous.”
“Well, either way. I wasn’t looking to date him. I was stressed and wanted some…naked stress-busting.”
Ryder looks over again, vaguely amused.
The problem with his constant silences is, they propel me to keep babbling when I know I shouldn’t.
“I miss having regular sex. I was in a relationship for almost two years, and I got used to having a regular partner, you know? It’s so nice to have someone when you’re stressed or need to scratch an itch. You don’t have to date around, flirt, figure out if there’s an attraction, worry about STIs. You can just call them up and be like, Babe, I need to fuck your brains out, and they’re happy to oblige.”
Ryder’s pensive gaze doesn’t leave my face.
I swallow. My throat is suddenly dry. “What?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“You look like you want to say something,” I push.
Another shrug.
When he still doesn’t speak, I sigh. “Anyway. I’m starting to feel the pressure. Our first game is coming up, and I needed a way to release the stress.” I grin at him. “And he’s got an Australian accent.”
“Chicks do like it,” Ryder says dryly.
“But it was probably a good thing we got interrupted. I would’ve totally been using him. And, yeah, yeah, I’m sure he would’ve been happy to be used. But I kind of feel bad using someone for sex.” I poke him in the side. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For the girl talk. It’s obvious you’re really into this stuff, you know, sharing feelings and talking about boyfriends and girlfriends. I’m giving you what you crave. You’re welcome.”
He presses his lips together, and I suspect he’s trying not to laugh.
We duck into our respective locker rooms, then meet outside in the parking lot fifteen minutes later, where we get into our respective vehicles. I like that he always waits for me to drive away before following suit. It’s oddly gentlemanly.
Later, I eat dinner in the dining hall with Mya before Diana comes over for game night. It’s a tradition we started when the three of us lived together in the freshman dorms. One night a week, we’d pick a game, usually Scrabble, and crack open some wine. Mya and Diana would then argue the entire time because they’re like cats and dogs. Sometimes I think it was good that Diana moved out. They probably would have killed each other if subjected to three more years of cohabitation.
“So…I fucked Percival,” Diana announces as she shakes the velvet sack of letter tiles.
