Him

by Sarina Bowen

  I blow my whistle to signal my other goalie, who looks equally glum as he skates over to us.

  “I played like—”

  “Let me guess, dog shit?” I cut in, grinning at Bradowski. “Yeah, Brighton and I just went over that. But you guys played hard today, and you played well. I don’t want you going back to the dorm and sulking all night, okay?”

  “Okay,” they say in unison, but it doesn’t sound too convincing.

  I sigh. “Look at it this way. Brighton, you let in seven out of—” I call out to Georgie as he skates by us. “How many shots did Wes’s boys take on net?”

  “Thirty-five,” Georgie calls back without stopping.

  “Seven out of thirty-five,” I tell Brighton. I do some quick math. “That’s twenty percent. And Bradowski, you had eight get by you, but stopped about as many as Brighton. It’s not a terrible statistic.” I chuckle. “Coach Wesley and I used to challenge each other to shootouts all the time when we were training here. There were days when he’d slap five shots at me and every single one would hit its mark.”

  Wes’s ears must be burning, because he suddenly appears beside me. “Everything okay here?”

  “Yep. Just telling the boys about how you used to smoke my ass in shootouts.”

  When his brows shoot up, I realize he’s thinking about the last time we faced off. Awesome. Now I’m thinking about it too, and I hope to God the kids don’t see the blush on my cheeks.

  “Yeah, Canning didn’t stand a chance against me,” Wes says, recovering quickly. “On either side of the goal, actually. Didn’t matter if I was holding the stick or wearing the goalie pads—he lost every time.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Bullsh—uh, bullcrap. Are you forgetting who won the last one?”

  I have to give Wes credit—he doesn’t even blink this time, even though we both know he’s remembering the outcome of that last shootout.

  The boys snicker. “Rematch,” Brighton blurts out.

  Bradowski’s eyes light up. “Shit! Yes!”

  Wes and I exchange a look. We should really be hustling the kids into the showers so they’re not late for dinner, but the boys aren’t having it. Bradowski and Brighton are already whizzing away, calling out to the teenagers who haven’t made it to the tunnel yet.

  “Coach Canning and Coach Wesley are having a shootout!”

  Well, then. I guess it’s time for a shootout.

  Wes winks at me and says, “Same stakes?”

  “Damn straight.”

  We both grin at my choice of words.

  Ten minutes later, we’re suited up and getting in position. Our audience has grown—even the coaches are gathered around the boards, Pat included. I’m wearing full pads, because no way am I leaving myself unprotected while Toronto’s new forward fires bullets at me.

  Wes shows off his flashy moves as he skates toward the blue line, then stops and looks right at me. The wicked gleam in his eyes makes my pulse race. I can practically hear his unspoken taunt—get ready to suck my dick, Canning.

  I take a breath and tap my stick against the ice. A whistle blows, and then Wes comes barreling toward me. One lightning-fast slapshot, and a loud cheer echoes in the rink. Goal.

  Shit. He’s not pulling any punches today. I brush it off and focus, defending against his next two shots and drawing my own cheers from the crowd.

  Wes grins at me as he lines up the next puck. “Ready for this?”

  The asshole has just repeated the same words he’d said to me last night right before he’d shoved his cock in my ass. All about the mind games, my boyfriend.

  Wait, what?

  The puck flies past me and I don’t even stand a chance, because my brain is still tripping over that last thought.

  My boyfriend? I thought I’d resigned myself to the fact that we weren’t going to be together. And now I’m thinking of him as my boyfriend?

  I shrug the cobwebs from my head and force myself to concentrate on defending the net. When my glove swallows up the last puck, I breathe in relief. I only let in two. Which means I need to score on him twice to tie, three for the win. Considering he’s nowhere near as good as me in the crease, I can already taste the victory.

  But he looks way too comfortable in front of that net. His gray eyes mock me behind the mask, and when he calls out, “Show me what you’ve got,” there’s laughter in his voice.

  Cocky bastard thinks he can actually stop me.

  Fuck. The cocky bastard does stop me. My first shot lands in his glove.

  I grit my teeth and try to deke him out with the second attempt, but his hawk-like gaze isn’t fooled. He stops this one with his pads, the next one with his stick. Shit. I need to sink the next two to tie.

  The kids whoop in delight when my fourth attempt proves fruitful. It flies past Wes’s shoulder and hits the net.

  “Last shot,” he says in a singsong voice. “You’re totally gonna blow it, Canning!”

  I know exactly what kind of blowing he’s talking about.

  Brighton gets a drum roll going by tapping his hands on the boards, and the other kids quickly follow suit. The beat matches the steady thumping of my heart. I take a breath, then skate forward. I pull my arm back, assess, and release a slapshot.

  The puck hisses in the air.

  I miss.

  The kids go nuts as Wes leaves the net and skates up and down the boards to accept their high fives. I watch him in suspicion, wondering when he’d gotten so good at defending against the puck. Four years ago he’d been totally inept.

  Shrugging the thought away, I accept my condolences from my goalies, who actually look kinda pleased I lost. I guess it made them realize even the best goaltenders suck sometimes.

  As the kids file toward the locker rooms, Wes skates his way over to me and raises one eyebrow. “You’re either slacking on your shooting drills, or you let me win that.”

  “Didn’t let you win,” I say through clenched teeth. Except then a thought occurs to me. That last shootout before college… had he let me win? Because the guy I saw in the net today was not the one I saw there four years ago…

  I’m about to ask him point-blank when Pat interrupts us. “Canning,” he says, appearing near the bench. “A word.”

  Wes claps a hand over my shoulder. “I’ll see you in the dining hall.”

  We skate off in opposite directions, but Pat doesn’t speak until Wes is well out of earshot.

  “I got a call from a friend in Toronto this morning.” As usual, Pat gets right to the point.

  I tense up. “About the possibility of me coaching?”

  He nods. “My buddy’s name is Rodney Davenport. He’s with the OHL, coaches one of the Junior A teams in the league. He’s in Ottawa, but he’s tight with the head coach of the Toronto team—Bill Braddock. He spoke to Braddock on your behalf.”

  Surprise jolts through me. “He did?”

  “I told Davenport all about you. Vouched for you.” Pat shrugs. “You’ve got an interview in Toronto on the twenty-eighth.”

  “I do?” I’m dumbfounded. A part of me hadn’t expected Pat to actually come through for me.

  “It’s an assistant coach position, defensive coordinator for a major juniors team, so you’d be working with kids ages sixteen to twenty. The interview is just a formality, though. The league was highly impressed with your level of experience.”

  Well, goddamn. I guess all those years of coaching here at Elites are coming in handy.

  “I…” I don’t know what to say. But then I realize there’s an important question to address. “If I’m in Toronto with…” I clear my throat. I’m not ashamed; it’s just that I’ve never had any practice talking about this. “What if there are other men like Mr. Killfeather?”

  Pat yanks a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “This is the league’s anti-discrimination policy. I looked it up. Everything is, uh, covered.”

  I skim the words on the page. The league has pledged not to discriminate on the basis of race, religi
on, creed or sexual orientation.

  “That’s…helpful,” I say, and Pat grins. “July twenty-eighth, huh?” Shit. That’s next week, and three days before I report to Detroit. If I report to Detroit. The thought of showing up at training camp grows less and less appealing the closer it gets to the date.

  Do I want to play in the pros?

  Or do I want to help young, talented kids get to the pros?

  “Braddock needs an answer by the end of the week,” Pat tells me. “They had another candidate they were considering, so if you decide not to interview for the gig, they’ll most likely give it to him.”

  My mind is still reeling, indecision surging through me. I should really talk to Wes before I do anything. He made it more than clear he won’t be dating anyone when he’s in Toronto. He told me to go to Detroit.

  So yeah, I need to talk to him before I make any decisions.

  But I have a sinking feeling I know exactly what he’s going to say.

  33

  Wes

  Canning is acting weird. He barely said a word during dinner, and then he vetoed my suggestion about catching a movie in town, saying he just wanted to go back to the room.

  As we climb the dormitory steps in silence, I wish I knew what was going on in that sexy head of his. He doesn’t seem angry, or even upset. More like worried, which is so unlike Jamie it worries me.

  “So what did Pat want to talk to you about earlier?” I’m trying to make conversation, but my question has the opposite effect.

  “Just some coaching stuff,” he answers. And then he clams up again.

  I smother a sigh and follow him up to the second floor, admiring the way his faded jeans hug his ass. We’ve been in shorts and flip-flops all summer, but it’s surprisingly cool out tonight, so now I get to experience Jamie in jeans. He looks fucking spectacular.

  “Wanna watch something on your laptop?” I ask as I enter our room. “Cassel sent me this hilarious video of—”

  His lips are on mine before I can finish that sentence.

  Jamie pushes me up against the door and jams his tongue in my mouth, and I instinctively kiss him back despite the WTF bells going off in my head. He grips my waist and grinds his lower body against mine, groaning roughly.

  Jesus Christ. I’m not sure where this sudden onslaught of passion came from, but my dick sure appreciates it. After a minute or two, I’m an iron spike behind my zipper. Jamie notices, and his hands are almost frantic as he fumbles for the button of my jeans.

  “Owe you a blowjob,” he mumbles.

  Right. The shootout. I’d forgotten about the prize. Not that it matters, seeing as we blow each other regularly without needing a shootout to justify it.

  He tugs my pants and boxers down my hips, sinking to his knees with damn near desperation. The alarms in my head blare louder.

  “Hey.” I thread my fingers through his hair to still his frenzied movements. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing yet.” He licks the head of my cock, and I see stars. “But I’m hoping this will get into me pretty soon.”

  Then he takes my entire length in his mouth, proving without a doubt he’s picked up a few new tricks this summer. He can deep-throat like a champ now, and normally I’m all over that.

  Tonight, something feels off.

  His urgency thickens the air. I lean back against our door and try to give myself over to him, but in spite of his magic mouth, I can’t quite focus. Slipping a hand under his chin, I urge him upward. “Come here.”

  Jamie gives one more good suck, which I feel down to my toes. When he stands, I turn us around so his back is to the door. Cupping his chin in both hands, I examine his gorgeous face. His cheeks are flushed, and his big brown eyes are full of some emotion I can’t quite read.

  I’m going to find out what’s up, but first I kiss him. Once. Twice. “Canning,” I whisper. “We don’t fuck until you tell me what’s on your mind.”

  His eyes drop. “I might coach next year,” he says, his voice hoarse.

  “Really?” That’s an idea I didn’t know he’d considered. Depending on the job, it might be an interesting solution to his goalie woes. Though a part of me still thinks he’d be nuts to throw away a professional hockey career. “Where?”

  “There’s a defensive coordinator job for a major junior team…” He swallows. “In Toronto.”

  In Toronto. The words ricochet through my mind. For the briefest of seconds, my heart takes off like a rocket. I might have gotten around to giving a whoop of inappropriate glee, except I’m still staring into Jamie’s wary eyes. He’s always been the smarter of the two of us.

  But I’m a quick study. So it’s only a half-second later when my chest tightens, and my hands slip from his face. He actually flinches when they fall away.

  I can’t be with Jamie in Toronto. Because if we’re found out, there won’t be any reason for me to be in that city at all. I’m a fucking rookie, hoping to be lucky enough to make myself valuable to the team.

  Another few seconds go by before I can bring myself to point this out to him. Because it’s Jamie Canning we’re talking about here. The odds of me ever loving anyone else like I love him are about as good as being attacked by a shark.

  In Toronto.

  But Jamie’s odds of moving on are exponentially better. We’ve had a lot of fun this summer, but it can’t possibly mean to him what it means to me. This beautiful man is probably more straight than not. And even if I’m wrong about that, there are now twice as many available partners for him on the planet than there were six weeks ago.

  He can have anyone. And I won’t ask him to wait around for me.

  “Say something,” he mutters.

  I don’t want to. There’s heat behind my eyes, and my throat might crack. But I won’t pussy out. He deserves my honesty for once.

  “We can’t be together in Toronto,” I say.

  Just six little words. But they make his eyes turn red.

  “I’m sorry,” I add. Sorry doesn’t even begin to describe it.

  He sidesteps me, moving away from the door. I take a moment to tuck myself back into my jeans. By the time I’ve done up my zipper, Jamie has made a frantic change into a pair of running shorts. He stuffs his feet into his shoes, not even taking the time to lace them.

  “Going for a run,” he grunts.

  When he moves for the door, I move out of the way. It’s precisely the opposite maneuver than I want to perform, and my heart is screaming at me to call him back.

  But the door opens and shuts again with a snap, and he’s gone.

  Panicking now, I hurry over to our window. A minute later he bursts off the front porch and goes running down the street, shoelaces still trailing behind him.

  Even after he’s out of view, I need a minute of calm breathing to compose myself. I can’t believe I just did that. It’s not what I want. My thoughts zip around like a pinball while I search my brain for a solution to the problem.

  But there isn’t one. I’ve just spent a decade of my life trying to get this job in Toronto. I have a college degree in communications, like every other fucking jock on the planet. And a father who will have me tarred and feathered if I fuck up in Toronto.

  Jamie Canning was my first crush and my first love. But he was never mine to have.

  There’s one silver lining here. Just one. I know Jamie’s pissed right now because he’s feeling rejected. That’s never fun. But I know in my gut he’ll move on. The Hollys of the world are waiting to take him back. Some cute girl will catch his eye before the week is through, and a few months from now, today’s disaster will be just a bad memory.

  As will I.

  I swallow that thought down, then look on the closet floor for my suitcase.

  34

  Jamie

  It’s Sunday dinner at my parents’ house in San Rafael, California. This time I’m not seeing it on Skype—I’m prepping the pasta course myself. I’ve minced a mountain of garlic, diced several onions and
chopped a mountain of olives. We’ll be ten for dinner tonight—the eight of us plus Tammy’s husband and Jess’s new boyfriend. Mom has had me in the kitchen for an hour and a half, and we’re nowhere near ready.

  As it happens, cooking is very therapeutic. I’ve got something to do with my hands, and I don’t have to look anyone in the eye.

  I’ve been home for forty-eight hours, and Mom is circling like a shark. She knows something is seriously wrong with me. All I’ve told her is that I’m having a career crisis. She knows about the interview scheduled three days from now, which conflicts with the fact that I’m supposed to be in Detroit six days from now.

  Everything I’ve told her is true. But it’s not all the truth. Choosing between two career paths is big stuff, but it’s not nearly as painful as what Wes has done to me.

  After that awful scene in our room, I went out to run. Three miles later, Wes was gone. I don’t mean gone out for a drink—he was gone from camp. All his clothing had disappeared from our closet. His toiletries were gone.

  His skates were gone.

  I knew without asking that he wasn’t coming back. When I went down to breakfast the next morning, Pat’s face was full of sympathy. And when I asked Pat if he was sure he had enough coaches on hand the following week for me to take off for Cali, he said yes without even an argument.

  I’ve spent the last two days trying not to mope around my room. Coincidentally, my parents’ garden is well weeded. I’ve lost to my father at chess four times. And I finally finished that book I’d brought to camp.

  But I just ache from the loss of my best friend / boyfriend / whatever. We never did get around to putting a label on it. And now we never will.

  “Fuck!” I curse as the paring knife slices the top of my finger. The knife slips from my hand when I pinch the cut closed.

  “James.” My mother’s voice is gentle. “Maybe you need a break.” She doesn’t even complain about the F-bomb I just dropped. So I must be acting like a real head case. “Let me find you a bandage,” she says instead.