Page 87 of Him
Camp is almost over. Seriously, these past five weeks have flown by. And now there’s one week left and I can’t wrap my brain around it. I guess time flies when you’re playing hockey every day and getting laid every night.
As the afternoon scrimmage winds down, the kids are in high spirits. Correction—the offensive players are in high spirits. My goalies, on the other hand, are grumpy as hell. It was a high-scoring game for both sides, and there was no stopping Wes’s forwards today.
Killfeather’s absence is definitely noticeable. He had real talent. Has, I correct myself, because it’s not like the kid dropped dead. His gay-bashing father decided that pulling his son from one of the most prestigious training facilities in the country was a smart move. You know, because Elites is crawling with perverts. Moron.
I skate over to the net, where my fifteen-year-old goalie lingers, scowling as he removes his helmet.
“I was dog shit today,” Brighton informs me.
“You had an off day,” I say with a smile. “But you weren’t dog shit. You stopped more than you let in.”
“I let in seven.”
“It happens, kid. You did everything right out there.” I’m not lying—Brighton heeded every piece of advice I gave him today. Just happened that Wes’s advice to his forwards was better.
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.
