by Sara H Ney
Bored, I half listen and begin texting a few of my buddies while the sports broadcaster does commentary on a major league baseball team I couldn’t give two shits about. Here’s the thing about playing for a professional sports team: most of us do not live in the cities that we play for. In the off season, we’re spread around the United States - in the towns, often times, where we grew up and got our start.
I am no exception.
I work in Los Angeles, but live in Wisconsin.
So, even though I’m texting my teammates late on a Saturday night, I know most of them probably won’t respond because of the time difference. Plus, a handful of them are married, and quite a few of them have kids. One thing is for sure: probably not a single one of them is sitting alone in a dark apartment eating dry, leftover Chinese take-out on their couch.
Depressing, isn’t it?
I inhale another forkful, choke a little because it almost goes down the wrong pipe, and wallow in self-pity.
Can you fucking believe Cecelia wouldn’t kiss me?
I mean, what’s up with that? Not to sound like an arrogant prick, but most chicks would give their left nut to kiss these lips.
And since I’m on the subject, and irritated, I grab my phone and send her a quick message. Miss me yet?
I grin at her snarky reply: Not even close.
Chuckling I type out: I know that’s not true. I saw the look you were giving me right before Molly opened your door. ;)
Cecelia: Have you had your eyes checked lately? That was scorn, not lust. Huge difference.
Me: Come on. I did you a favor tonight.
Cecelia: You. Are. Delusional.
Me: Nope. Just honest.
Cecelia: Ok. FINE. I’ll bite: How were you doing me a favor tonight??????????????
Me: Whoa, cool it with the question marks. The thing with Neve would never have lasted. He’s way too nice for you.
Cecelia: Oh my god. You are such a dick!
Me: LOL. It’s true. You need someone who’s gonna tell you how it is. You know, spank you on the ass every once in a while.
**Cecelia**
I stare at Matthews last text, slack jawed. Of all the boorish, ill-mannered things to say!
Rude!
“That conceited asshole!” I mutter.
“What was that?” Molly asks, passing by and stopping to stick her head in my room. She has a towel wrapped around her hair, blow dryer dangling from her hand. “What are you bitching about in here?”
“Um. Nothing.”
She snorts. “Please. You can’t even look me in the eye.” Walking over, she snatches the phone out of my hand before I can yank it out of her reach. “Surprise, surprise, surprise. Look who we have here.” Her hawk-like gaze misses nothing, and her thumb moves across my phone screen, catching up on all my texts with her brother. Laughing, she hands me my phone back saying, “Spank your ass once in a while? What a pig!”
“Er, yeah...”
“Okay. So text him back ‘spanking is nice, but I’d rather be tied up.”
“What?! NO!”
“Just freaking do it! Trust me - he’ll piss himself.”
Grumbling, I type out the message with Molly looking over my shoulder. “Make sure you type all that verbatim.”
“I got it, you skank.”
“Hey now, no need to get nasty...”
Me to Matthew: Spanking is nice, but I’d rather be tied up.
I hit SEND.
Molly, unable to contain herself, throws herself on top of my bed, shrieking with laughter. “Holy shit, I cannot believe you actually did it! He is going to shit himself. He comes off as such a pervert, but he is soooo vanilla.”
“What?! Oh my god Molly, I hate you so much right now!” I spit out and launch myself on top of her, fake beating her with a throw pillow. Afterwards, we both lay there staring up at the ceiling, choking on our laughter until we’re out of breath.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, my phone pings.
**Matthew**
Holy fuck buckets.
I stare at Cecelia’s message, her words scorching my brain: Tied up. Tied up. Tied up.
Seriously. Could any two words in the English language have a more powerful impact on my dick?
Here’s my dilemma: if I respond with the first thing that comes to mind, she’s going to think I’m a complete and absolute pervert. If I ignore her comment, and change the subject... well. She might think I’m not interested in tying her up.
Which I am. One hundred percent. On second thought, better make that one hundred thousand percent - just in case there’s any mistaking my interest...
I mean, normally I’m not into kinky shit, but if she’s offering, who am I to deny her? Am I right? Right?
I reach down and grab my hardening package through my jeans as another message from her comes through, and I groan. Shit, I waited too long to reply.
Cecelia: Cat got your tongue?
Me: Um... kind of. I’m shocked at you.
Cecelia: I wish I could have seen the look on your face. LOL
Me: It was pretty damn priceless, I’m sure.
Me: Um. Just curious. Do you really like being tied up?
Cecelia: No!!! I don’t know. LOL. But since you brought up spanking, it seemed like an appropriate response.
Me: I’d slap your ass any ol’ day of the week.
Cecelia: OMG
Me: What?! It’s a great ass.
Cecelia: I’m not going there with you. I read a Cosmo article once that said sexual banter too soon is a bad idea.
Me: Hmmm. Sounds like a TERRIBLE article. Burn that magazine.
Cecelia: Actually, I think I framed that page and have it hanging on my wall...
Me: I don’t doubt that.
Me: I should hit the sack. The Lightening play tomorrow and I fly solo as coach.
Cecelia: Oh that’s right! Good luck!
Me: 9:30. Ithaca Arena. All pretty fans are encouraged to attend...
Chapter Sixteen
Cecelia
“If you bring me coffee without me having to ask, then I just might love you.” - Everyone
What the hell am I doing up at this hour?
Wait: what the hell am I doing here? It’s the question I’ve asked myself over and over (and over) since leaving the house this morning at eight o’clock.
On a Sunday morning, for heaven’s sake.
And I’m not even headed to church...
When Molly caught me trying to sneak out (holding my shoes so I wouldn’t make any noise) at first I thought she was going to throw a hissy fit. Instead, she surprised the crap out of me by digging in her purse and pulling out a Starbucks gift card. She handed it to me and said “Here. He likes a Grande, nonfat, half-calf, mocha latte.” Then she winked and went back to casually eating her Cinnamon Toast Crunch while reading US Weekly, ignoring me completely as I stood there slack jawed, then glancing up at me once more before shooing me out the door.
“Cece, would you go? Sheesh. The game starts in forty five minutes and it’s going to take you thirty just to get there.” Then she tossed me a pair of mittens. “Here. You’re gonna need these.”
I. Cannot. Believe. I’m. Doing. This.
Now let me tell you; deciding what to wear today is what really threw me off my game this morning. I mean - what do you wear to a kids hockey game in an ice filled hockey arena that looks cute but effortless? With an average temperature of sixty-three degrees in an arena, it’s not exactly a tank top kind of day.
A few parents are wearing winter coats (which, honestly, I wish I had right now because I have a feeling I might end up freezing my butt off). So - what am I wearing, you’re asking yourself.
I can’t look like I tried too hard... After several long internal debates, I finally decided on a light, oversized gray sweater over a long white thermal tank top, dark denim skinny jeans, and gray Frye boots. Wrapped around my neck, a light gray scarf. To complete my carefully constructed outfit, la
rge silver hoop earrings, and my hair piled artfully on top of my head in a messy bun.
Oh yeah - and let’s not forget the mittens.
So here I stand, at the top of the Ithaca Arena stairs, clutching two cups of Starbucks - one Americano for me, and one Grande, nonfat, half-calf, mocha latte in the other, for... um, not me.
The significance of my gesture is not lost on me, and I seriously hope it’s not lost on Matthew either. The simple fact that I’m even here speaks volumes - I mean. I’m really putting myself out there for him considering sometimes he acts like a major caveman on most occasions.
But really. What guy isn’t?
Never mind... don’t answer that.
Curiously, there isn’t much of a crowd. Considering there are about twenty players on each team there aren’t many parents. Probably only about eight or nine moms and dads sitting around, total, waiting for the countdown clock to run out and signal the start of the game.
Most of them are ignoring each other, on their Smartphones or iPads instead of looking at the ice. I gather from what Molly has told me, it’s a scholarship sponsored team, and most of the boys have everything paid for by donors. Kind like an afterschool, Boys Club program.
So I guess it makes sense that there aren’t many people in the stands: if the parents have no money invested, why bother coming?
Kind of sad, really.
I scan the small crowd, biting my lip. The boys are all out on the ice, and Matthew is standing with his back to the crowd, clip board in hand on the side lines - firm ass clad in dark denim jeans.
A girl could definitely get used to the view.
Nice.
Slowly, I take the steps one at a time towards the players bench, glancing at each one as I step down: it won’t do to trip and fall flat on my ass, small uninterested audience or not.
**Matthew**
Eight minutes ‘til game time.
I glance down at my clip board, then back up to the ice just in time to see Darnell Pruett take a successful practice slap shot at our goalie. I nod approvingly from my perch.
Good form. Great kid.
There isn’t a lot of noise, because there aren’t a lot of people here, but the sound from the continuously blowing air ducts in the ceiling make it hard to tell if the boys are talking to each other out on the ice, which is something we’ve been working on in practice.
They kind of suck at it.
As I reach for the whistle hanging around my neck and place it between my lips (it’s easier blowing a whistle than shouting to bring the boys in before a game) a quiet coughing sound catches my attention - it’s muffled and not very loud, but still... causes me to turn.
“Hi.” Cecelia greets me with a bashful smile, standing behind the half wall by the players benches, two steaming cups of Starbucks in her hand. I look at her face, then down at the coffee, then back at her face and grin at her like a fucking lame ass.
Say something, Wakefield. I mean - Holy shit, I can’t believe she showed up. Didn’t think she’d have the lady balls, although obviously I can’t say that to her. But let’s be honest: if she were a dude I probably would.
Dumbly, and with the whistle still clenched between my teeth, I continue grinning. “Hi.”
Her face lights up with relief and her cheeks, framed adorably by a light gray scarf, get pink as she extends an all too familiar white Grande Starbucks cup. “Non-fat, half-calf, mocha latte.”
I spit the whistle out of my mouth, and as if it’s possible, my grin gets wider. “Why, are you stalking me, Cecelia Carter? Cause that would be awesome.”
“Shut up and take it,” she laughs, a twinkly little laugh that reaches in and pulls at my heart a little.
Oh god, what am I saying? Pulls at my heart a little...? Ugh.
My large hand envelops hers as I grip the cup, our eyes briefly connecting before she looks away, embarrassed. I gesture towards the seating behind me. “Do you, um... want to come sit in here on the bench?”
“Oh gosh! No, that’s okay.”
“No really, it’s cool. Here.” I take a few steps towards her, leaning over and unlatching the door that separates the stadium seating from the players, and take her hand to help her down the small wooden step down.
Behind me the buzzer sounds, and moments later, the box is filled with the fourteen (out of twenty) kids that showed up to play today. Immediately, Mitchell Decker squints at Cecelia through his protective eye gear and asks, “Who’s she?”
“Is that your girlfriend?” This from Adam Ruttiger.
“No. She’s not my girlfriend. Guys, get your heads in the game.”
“Why not? She’s hot.”
What the hell? “Shut it, Stewart. Seriously.”
“It’s a legitimate question Coach. Coach McGrath has a girlfriend, how come you don’t?” Mitchell shoves his eye gear further up on his nose with his gloved hand, and continues squinting at Cecelia.
“He’s probably gay,” another voice behind me interjects.
“I am not gay.”
Charlie Davis, our goalie, shrugs and adjusts his face mask. “Being gay is nothing to be ashamed of, Coach.”
“Closets are for clothes,” intones another prepubescent voice.
“My sister is a lesbian,” Andy Boskowitcz helpfully points out, aimlessly tapping his hockey stick on the cement floor.
“I am not gay!” I nearly shout through gritted teeth. Several parents turn and look our way. Running a hand down my face, I groan and take a deep, steadying breath. “Oh my god, why am I arguing with all of you? You’re not even twelve.”
I chance a glance at Cecelia, who is on the bench barely - just barely - containing her laughter. Her shoulders are shaking and she’s got her mouth buried so far in her scarf she’s practically chewing on it. No denying it: the girl is entertained but trying to hide it. If anything is giving her away, it’s the damn tears of amusement forming in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks.
Great. She thinks this is fucking hilarious.
The traitor.
“You can jump in at any time here,” I point out to her, gesturing to the boys, exasperated, before throwing my arms up.
“Why would I do that? You’re doing so well on your own, Coach.”
She takes out her Smartphone and snaps a picture of me before wiping her eyes and blinking at me innocently. “What?”
“I swear, if you put that on Instagram, I will kill you.”
The buzzer sounds again, and I shake my head at her.
Game time.
**Cecelia**
In a shocking twist, the Lightening won.
The little shits actually won.
Now. There isn’t much about hockey that I’m an expert on, but judging from what Matthew told me during the game (as he tried to help me understand what was going on), he had some serious doubts about their winning. Not to mention, to say the boys went into the game incredibly unfocused... well. That is an understatement.
I chuckle at the memory.
Leaning up against the yellow cinder block wall outside of the locker room, I can hear the echo of showers running, lots of shouting, and Matthew occasionally yelling “Guys, settle down! No running on the wet floors. Nelson, are you trying to crack your skull open?”
Actually, he’s scolded them about nine times now (I counted) in the twenty five minutes he’s been in the locker room, sounding more exasperated each time.
How cute is that?
I stand here, where Matthew asked me to wait, for another fifteen minutes before he emerges from the locker room door, looking more than a little frazzled. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes, hefting a duffle onto his broad shoulders and running his free hand through his hair. It sticks up in front haphazardly. “Thanks for waiting.”
“It’s okay. The acoustics in there must be pretty good, because I was able to listen to the entire show and was pretty entertained.”
“Uh, yeah...” He scratches his head, grinning. “Sometimes they act like
a pack of wild animals. Or at least the boys from Lord of the Flies.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit of an exaggeration? The kids in Lord of the Flies tried killing each other.”
“Hell no it’s not an exaggeration. They climb all over the benches like monkeys and pick fights with each other. I’d say that’s pretty animalistic. No manners what-so-ever.”
“You weren’t like that when you were eleven?”
“Me? No way. I took this shit seriously even at their age.” We get to the double glass exit doors and Matthew pushes one open, waiting for me to walk through it first. “Plus, if my parents found out I was acting like a little asshole, they wouldn’t have let me play. These kids don’t really have a lot of mentors modeling good behavior...”
He lets his thoughts and voice trail off as we walk silently to his Tahoe in the parking lot, my navy blue Envoy parked several isles away. Matthew sets the duffle down by his truck before walking me to my car.
“So... “ I begin, kicking a stone along the pavement with the toe of my boot.
“Hey Coach! You’re not about to try and kiss her, are you?” The kid from the team with glasses is loudly shouting from across the parking lot, heading our way and dragging his equipment bag behind him.
“Oh my god,” Matthew groans. “Shoot me now.”
The kid continues yelling in a loud, booming voice from several yards away. “Cause that’s what it looks like you were about to do Coach.”
“Mind your own business, Mitchell.” Matthew yells back.
“I can’t Coach.”
“Mitchell, where are your parents?”
“I’m getting a ride home with Stewart, Coach.”
Matthew runs his palm down his face. “Please. Please stop calling me Coach. I seriously can’t take it anymore.”
Mitchell finally joins us, out of breath from lugging his giant hockey bag behind him, and proceeds to prop his arm up on my car, leaning into it. A scrawny little guy with thin arms and freckles all over his entire face and arms, Mitchell stares up at me from bottle thick, horned rimmed glasses.
Oh my gawd, so utterly adorable. I could eat him up!
“So. What’s your name?” he asks.
“Cecelia.”
