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“Plaid is against the dress code,” I say by way of greeting, when he stops in front of me. His black eyes crinkle in amusement as he looks down to remind himself which garish monstrosity he put on today.
“Plaid is the uniform of the Midwest. It’s in my blood.”
He looks good, with the morning sun peeking through his hair and highlighting the different shades of brown. I hadn’t noticed yesterday, but there’s a curl to it; if I reached out and tugged on a ringlet, I imagine it would bounce right back into place. I wish I didn’t find that thought as appealing as I do.
“I brought coffee.” Anthony’s voice scatters the fantasy of running my fingers through his hair. He’s holding out a ridiculously large to-go cup with NICO written in block letters on the side, and a heart scrawled beneath. He sees me eyeing it and grins, cheekily. “Labeled it myself.”
I take the cup from him, scowling. For some reason, this seems to make him smile wider. I wave him forward and start walking toward the rink; his shoulder keeps bumping mine, like he’s purposely walking too close to me.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I say, after a moment. I’m not sure why everyone seems to think I can’t get my own coffee, but it seems churlish to complain.
“No problem,” he replies, cheerfully. Stepping behind me, he reaches around to grab the door for me. His arm brushes mine, and this time I know it’s because he did it on purpose.
Apparently, we aren’t the first to arrive. The unmistakable sound of ice skates reaches us, even by the front door. Surprisingly, it’s Carter Morgan we find when we round the corner. Immediately, I wonder if he skipped and I try to remember if he has any classes on Tuesday mornings. I’ll have to check when I get back to the office. The summer semesters are policed a little differently with limited staff and students on site, and I don’t want to lose my most promising netminder to a low GPA before the season has even started. Beside me, Anthony is leaned against the side of the rink watching Morgan do solo skating drills with a small smile on his face.
“Let’s go back to my office,” I say, drawing his attention to me. “If he sees us watching, he’ll stop.”
Surprisingly, Anthony nods and follows me without complaint. Once we’re out of sight of the rink, he steps back up beside me, shoulder pressed firmly against mine in the narrow hallway. I want to shove him away.
“What’s the plan for today?” He asks me, taking a sip from his cup.
“We have to split the time today, which is why the day is a little longer. Half will be on the ice, while the other half will be in the gym doing strength and conditioning. SCU hires a special trainer for the football team, and I convinced them to let us borrow him as well.”
“Cool.”
We’ve made it to the office, where Avery is already seated behind his desk. Anthony bestows the final coffee cup on him, before sitting down in the chair he used yesterday. He slides it across the floor, scootching it closer to my desk. Firing up my desktop, I angle the screen further away from him, not wantinghim to see how large I have the font settings. For good measure, I dim the screen.
“You guys see Trust Fund on your way in?” Avery asks.
The nickname puts my back up, and I frown over at him. I’ve heard some of the team call Morgan that, but it’s not exactly a good look for one of his coaches to do so. The boys weren’t complimenting him when they gave him that name.
“Probably best that the coaching staff doesn’t use team nicknames,” I reprimand, gently, hyperaware of Anthony’s presence in the room. There is no way I can get the team to stop, and asking them to do so will only add fuel to the flames. But Icanmake sure Avery doesn’t repeat it.
“Sure. Sorry.” He holds his hands up in surrender, but grins over at Anthony like I’m being a hard-ass and they could commiserate. I look Anthony’s way as well, pleased to find him absent of his usually jaunty smile.
“Do you want me to work one-on-one with the goalies today?” He asks me, leaning forward and resting his arms on the edge of my desk.
The sleeves of his plaid shirt are cuffed, leaving his muscled forearms bare. The desire to run my fingertips over the dark hair covering them is so strong, it takes me by surprise.What the fuck is with you and touching his hair? Be professional.
“Actually, I was thinking it might be more beneficial to have you continue working with some of my defensive pairings. The lines aren’t set in stone, obviously, and I’d like your opinion. We’ll split them up, half in the morning skate and half in the afternoon.”
Anthony brightens at the mention of me wanting his opinion, smile sliding back into place. Maybe he wouldn’t mind if Ididrun my fingers over his arm. I turn toward mycomputer, printing off a roster of returning defensemen, and a few incoming hopefuls.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have the full team here with us over the summer, so additional changes might be required once the regular season starts. But the least we can do is create a baseline.” I hand the printout over to him, along with a clipboard and pen. He looks delighted with this development.
“Do I get a whistle, too?”
“Definitely not.” I give him a hard look and he shrugs, sitting back in his chair and surveying the roster I gave him. He mutters something under his breath, too quiet to hear, and squints at the page. It’s a relief that he is, at least, taking this seriously.
???
Practice goes more smoothly than it did yesterday. By the time we send the boys back to their dorms I’m pleased to not have a headache, for once.
“Do you need anything else from me, today?” Avery asks in a way that conveys what he’s hoping the answer to be. I look around. The ice is strewn with cones and stray pucks; one of the goals has come loose and is being put back into place by Anthony. There are things to discuss and video from last season that still needs to be analyzed.
“You can go,” I tell him. Avery, for reasons unknown even to myself, gets on my nerves.
“Thanks, Coach. See you tomorrow. Bye, Lawson!” He’s already skating toward the bench, eager to be on his way. Too late, I realize that without him here it will only be Anthony and I.But isn’t that what you want?a sly, internal voice points out.
