Page 28 of Him
“Fucking chink,” Killfeather swears.
“Faggot,” Shen returns.
My whistle is so loud that Canning claps his hands over his ears. “Two minute penalties!” I roar. “Both of you.”
“What?” Killfeather yelps. “I didn’t touch his ass.”
“For your mouth,” I snarl. “On my ice you don’t use a slur of any kind.” I point toward the sin bin. “Get.”
But Killfeather doesn’t move. “You don’t get to make new rules.” His sneer is as big as the banner advertisements lining the boards.
All the players are listening, so I can’t do this wrong. “Ladies, it is a rule. Two minute bench minor for unsportsmanlike conduct. If you’d kept your trap shut after he hit you, your team would have a power play right now. I’m doing this for your own good.”
“Sure you are.”
In spite of that parting shot, both my troublemakers finally aim their bodies toward the penalty boxes. So I issue my parting shot, and I make sure that everyone can hear. “By the way—science has proven the correlation between calling someone a faggot and having a really small penis. You do not want to advertise that. Think about it.”
Canning doesn’t say anything. But he skates off, too. I see him take a seat off to the side and then bend over as if he’s retying his skates. Whatever, right? But then I see his back shaking.
At least somebody gets my jokes.
The rest of the scrimmage lasts about a decade. When we finally break for lunch, Jamie catches up to me on the way to the locker rooms. “Science has proven?” He chuckles.
“I do science on the side.”
“Uh-huh. I’m thinking of skipping the dining hall today and grabbing a burger at the pub in town. You down?”
“Fuck yeah,” I answer. Then I wince and glance around to make sure none of the kids are lurking around. I don’t know if I’m cut out to be an authority figure. I’ve spent four years surrounded by Northern Mass hockey players who drop F-bombs in every sentence, and I keep forgetting I need to censor myself while I’m at Elites. The teenagers here swear like sailors—at least when Pat and the other coaches aren’t around—but I refuse to corrupt the younger ones with my filthy mouth.
“Fudge yeah,” I correct.
Canning gestures at the emptiness around us. “We’re the only ones here. You can say fuck, dumbass. You can say anything, really.” With a grin, he unleashes a string of expletives. “Fuck, shit, cock, pussy—”
“For the love of Christ!” a loud voice booms from behind us. “Do I need to wash your mouth out with soap, Canning?”
I choke down my laughter as Pat appears. He shakes his head in disbelief as he stares at Jamie, then narrows his eyes and turns to me. “Actually, what am I saying? Canning wouldn’t even know those words if it weren’t for you, Wesley. Shame on you.”
I flash Pat an innocent smile. “I’m pure as the driven snow, Coach. Canning was the one who corrupted me.”
They both snort. Pat claps me on the shoulder and stalks past us. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that, kid,” he says over his shoulder. “And both of you, watch your mouths around the campers or I’ll kick your motherfucking asses.”
Jamie and I are still laughing as we duck into the locker room to ditch our skates and change into our sneakers. When we exit the building a few minutes later, I feel like I’ve just left an icy pool and stepped into a sauna. The humidity in the air is stifling, causing sweat to roll down my back. My T-shirt sticks to my chest like plastic wrap.
Shrugging, I yank it over my head and tuck the fabric in the waistband of my gym shorts. The atmosphere in Lake Placid is as casual as it gets—nobody’s gonna care if I walk through town rocking a bare chest.
Canning keeps his shirt on. I think I might prefer it that way, because his shirt is paper-thin and doing the same clinging thing mine had done, which gives me a decadent view of every hard ripple on his broad chest. Fuck, I’m yet again jealous of his shirt. I want to be the one plastered to his chest, and the ache I feel for him brings a spark of guilt.
We’re good now. We’re friends again. So why can’t my traitorous body just be cool with it? Why can’t I look at him without imagining all the dirty, dirty things I want to do to him?
“So what’s the deal with you and that girl?” I hear myself ask. I don’t particularly want to hear the answer, but I need the wake-up call it’ll bring, the reminder that lusting over this guy is a disaster waiting to happen.
“Holly?” He shrugs. “Nothing, really. We just hook up. Or rather, we used to hook up. I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of her now that we’ve graduated.”
I arch a brow. “Just a hook-up? Since when are you into a friends-with-bennies arrangement?”
Another shrug. “It was convenient. Fun. I don’t know. I’m just not looking to settle down with anyone right now. Holly understood that.” His voice takes on a note of challenge. “What, you disapprove?”
“Nah, I’m all about fuck buddies.”
