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“Oops,” she says, laughing awkwardly. I can’t tell if I’m turned on or fucking intimidated by the glittery purple dick in her bathroom. I may be big, but fuck.
She walks around me and goes to the other cabinet, pulling out a new bottle of soap. “Wrong side,” she says. I grab her arm, pulling her into me. “You should know better than to snoop in a girl’s room,” she whispers, staring into my chest.
“Too late,” I snicker, and her cheeks turn that beautiful shade of pink again as she looks up to meet my eyes.
“I’ve never actually used it before…” she trails. “It was a drunken purchase—” I put my finger over her mouth, and she closes her lips. She pokes her tongue out, swiping my finger. I pull it back.
“You’re crazy,” I say, wiping my hand on my pants.
“You like that,” she says with an innocent smile. “Now get out. I’m disgusting and want to shower.”
“You look fine to me…”
“Out!” she says, pushing me out of the bathroom.
“You sure you don’t want company—” She slams the door in my face, and I laugh.
* * *
I meet Braylon and Levi early in the clubhouse, and we change into our gear.
“We miss you,” Braylon says.
“Shit, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Braylon express an emotion other than anger,” Levi says, eyeing him up and down.
“Shut up,” he says, jabbing Levi with his stick right in the gut. Levi hunches over, the wind knocked out of him.
“For fuck’s sake,” Levi sputters. I grab Braylon’s stick and swirl it in my hands.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” I say. Braylon gives a sheepish smile.
“It’s not the same. Sure, Logan’s a good center, but he’s not first-line tier. It’s obvious!” Right as he says that, Logan walks by, his eyebrow cocked.
“Yeah, fuck you, Braylon,” Logan spits, and Braylon shrugs like a devious child accustomed to getting into trouble.
“Love you, buddy,” he croons as Logan walks to his locker. “But seriously, do you have a plan for getting back with us? We’re miserable.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Levi adds, rubbing his stomach. “Logan’s plenty good; we just don’t have the same chemistry.”
“Gay!” Manuel shouts, and Braylon turns around, putting him in a headlock.
“That’s insulting to the queer community, jackass,” Levi chimes in, digging his hands into Braylon’s arms to release the grip on Manuel.
“Fuck yeah, Manuel, have some class,” Braylon shouts, shoving him over with a wide grin on his face. Manuel flips us the bird with a sly smirk and scrambles to his locker next to Logan’s in the back of the room.
“Anyway…my only plan is to play my best and hopefully get back to first by the end of the season,” I say.
“Boring,” Braylon yawns. “But I believe in you. Sorta.”
“Thanks.” I clap his back as I head towards the ice with my new second-line wingers. The dudes are pretty good, but there is a lack of chemistry as Braylon says. We don’t have the same angles, the same play styles, our minds aren’t connected like mine is with Braylon and Levi. I’ll have to get over it if I want to prove to not only Coach, but the NCAA, that I’m not guilty, and that I’m worthy of the top position. I didn’t get the first center overnight, and I’m willing to work to get it back no matter what it takes.
The buzzer shrieks above. Logan, Braylon, and Levi skate out onto the ice with Manuel and the first line defense duo. The crowd is full today. The student section is proudly wearing the black and yellow colors of St. Paul University.
The ref throws up the puck, and Logan is a quarter second too slow to take possession of it, starting the game off on Vermont’s foot. I seethe at his hesitation. That’s why he’s second. Not first. Levi skates ahead and blocks their left winger, winding around him in a new maneuver I’ve never seen from him before. Maybe he’s been practicing extra since I’ve been away.
Logan steals the puck back for a split second and attempts to swing it to Braylon but gets caught in the center’s stick and face plants to the ice. I can see the rage building up in Braylon’s eyes from here. I can tell by the way he’s holding his stick that he’s enraged but keeping it together. These types of cues I simply can’t get from my new wingers.
Logan manages to get himself back up, but not before the puck hits our defense and angles its way straight towards Manuel. Manuel holds his stick down, his angular padded body crouched down low to the ice, covering most of the small goal as he waits for the flying puck. Their center must have hit it at least 90 miles per hour because I can see the uncertainty in his body language from here.
