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Anthony Lawson shows up. Grateful that I preemptively took my migraine medication, I watch him approach. According to Google, he’s 6’ tall, which puts him a solid four inches shorter than me. I try not to feel too smug about it when he stops in front of me, wide smile on his face.
“You must be Nico Mackenzie,” he says, in what might be the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard. It’s a voice meant for a speakeasy—smoky and whiskey-tinged. He holds out a hand, and I grasp it.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice. We appreciate the help.” I let go of his hand quickly, and do my best not to look him over too blatantly. I wonder if he’s color blind. The blue South Carolina Hockey tee is fine on its own, but paired with the red and yellow plaid shirt he’s thrown over the top, the effect is nauseating. There are two different colored socks peeking out the tops of his shoes. I suppose I should be grateful his cargo shorts are tan and not camouflage.Did he dress himself blindfolded?It sets my teeth on edge. I hope he at least brought athletic clothes with him in the duffel thrown over his shoulder.
“No problem, I’m happy to help.”
He’s still smiling. My cursory Google search had also informed me that Anthony Lawson was handsome and a womanizer. It had been too much to hope those photos online were edited; if anything, the opposite is true. He’s remarkably good-looking, if one overlooked his garish clothing. He’s got the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen— nearly black, though surely, they’re brown. His equally dark brown hair is longer than it was on the team website, and his face is shadowed with several days of scruff. His ugly plaid shirt is stretched tight across muscled shoulders. I don’t need to perform any mental gymnastics to imagine women throwing themselves at his feet.
Turning, I wave for him to follow me. He doesn’t fill the silence with inane conversation, and I’m glad. That voice pairedwith that face have the makings of disaster written all over them.He’s straight, and a professional athlete, and now working with you. Calm the fuck down.When we reach mine and Avery’s office, I turn carefully through the doorway, trying not to knock my right side against the frame the way I’ve done several times in the past few days.
“Have a seat.” I wave toward a chair, and slide back behind my desk. He doesn’t take a seat, but walks over to the wall, looking at the photo hanging there. I wish I had thought to take that damn picture down before he got here.
“Is this you?” Lawson points to me, standing in the back of the team photo. I nod, curtly. “Cool. My friend Saint used to play for the AHL, but he never played for the Raptors.”
Assuming he’s talking about Nigel St. James, he’s correct. St. James only spent a couple of years in the minors before he was called up, and I never had the chance to play with him. Lawson is still looking at the photo, hands casually tucked into his pockets. The back of him looks just as good as the front.
“We should probably go over a few things, before practice starts.” The words come out sharper than I had intended, but something about him sets me on edge. His looks are disarming, and I’m waiting for him to be an ass.
“Sure thing.” He finally sits down, legs sprawled out to the side like a teenager. That same loose smile is still on his face and his dark eyes are steady on mine. “I did a little research on the fly this morning, and it looks like the starting goalie from last year graduated?”
“He did.”And the backup sucks, so we won’t be starting him either.
“And I’m assuming you don’t want to play the backup,” he says, voicing my thoughts. I nod. “Cool. It’ll be fun to start from scratch. I’ve been thinking of some drills we could do. Do you already have the roster?”
Of course I have the roster, I’m the head coach.Prickles of annoyance dance up my spine; I wonder if he’s aware that he’s only here to help out during the off-season training camps, not as a permanent member of the coaching staff. His decision-making power will be nil, no matter what drills he came up with.
“Yes,” I answer, but leave it at that. He won’t recognize any of the names so there’s no reason to give it to him. I do give him a small stack of other forms though, sliding them across the desk with a pen. He leans forward and grabs them, squinting down at the papers. It takes him so long to read the top one, I take pity on him. “That first one is a simple contract outlining your capacity as a temporary staff member. Below that you’ll find another contract agreeing to follow the college’s code of ethics concerning discrimination, sexual harassment, etcetera. Below that is a contract agreeing not to sexually exploit or coerce any of the students, regardless of whether they are legally old enough to provide consent.”
Lawson looks up at me then, eyebrows crawling up his forehead. “Uhm," he says, and glances back down at the forms.
“After the incident last year, certain precautions were put in place to protect the students and staff,” I explain, using the precise words HR used when I questioned signing the same thing. I wasn’t on staff last year, obviously, but everyone with internet access heard about the scandal. SCU is desperate to avoid further embarrassment—hence the contract.
“Well, okay.” Lawson grabs the pen. Instead of leaning forward and using my desk, he lays the forms over his thigh and signs them there. The paper crinkles, and I sigh. He signs all three before handing them back, and I refrain from using the edge of my desk to iron the creases out. “I wouldn’t have hit on any of the students, though, even without that.”
Somehow, I find this hard to believe. Anthony Lawson has a reputation for two things—being one of the top netminders in the NHL, and being a ladies’ man.
“Regardless, it’s a requirement.” I push back from the desk. “Did you bring a change of clothes?”
“I did.” He pats the duffel bag. “Wasn’t sure what the dress code was, so I came prepared.”
“Good.” Carefully, I step between the desks and walk by his chair, putting him on my bad side. He gets up to follow me, knocking into my shoulder; I’d thought there was enough room for Lawson to stand as I walked by, but evidently not. This office is ridiculously small, and my proprioception has been severely impacted by my narrowed field of vision; I haven’t quite figured out how to manage it yet. I have to unclench my jaw to apologize. “Sorry.”
“My bad.” Lawson slaps a palm on my shoulder and I immediately step forward and away. I know he’s behind me as I leave the office by the sound of his footsteps on the carpeted floor.
I give him a perfunctory tour and wait while he changes into athletic clothing. By the time he emerges from the locker rooms, Avery has joined me. His face lights up when he sees Lawson, looking like a kid on Christmas morning.
“This is my assistant coach, Myles Avery,” I introduce them.
“Hey, man, nice to put a face to the text messages,” Lawson quips, and Avery laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Already, I’m annoyed with the pair of them.
“Listen, thank you so much for doing this. We really appreciate it. The boys are going to be ecstatic when they find out we’ve got an NHL player on the lineup,” Avery fawns.
“I’m happy to help. I didn’t have anything going for the off-season, so you guys are saving me from a summer of boredom.”
This, too, makes Avery laugh. Before they can get too comfortable, I start shepherding the group toward the rink. The team will be arriving soon, and I want to go over a few things with them before they do. Behind me, they continue to chat as we make our way to the ice, as friendly as if they’ve known each other for years. This is going to be a very long day.
Anthony
