Page 9 of Resist

Because that was always Tank’s answer when it came to female concerns. Apparently in his world, one tumble between the sheets was all he needed with a woman before he was good to move on to the next.

Coulton wasn’t wired that way. He was the king of long relationships. Likeloooooongones. So long, he’d reached the ripe old age of thirty-two and had only seriously dated two women. Sure, there’d been the occasional hookups because…he had needs. But those one- or two- or few-night stands were few and far between.

Jocelyn had been his high school girlfriend, and when he said high school, he meant all of it, the whole shebang, ninth to twelfth grade. After graduation, it ended because he bounced around the junior league for a while, moving from city to city until he was signed to play professionally with Vancouver.

He met Evelyn, his last girlfriend, while living in Canada, and he’d dated her for five years. If he hadn’t been traded to the Stingrays, Coulton didn’t doubt they’d still be together. Instead, the relationship ended fairly soon after his move to the other side of the continent.

Since moving to Baltimore two years earlier, Coulton had gone out on at least a dozen dates, but none of those had advanced to a second…or even to the bedroom. Which meant he’d been living like a goddamn monk for twenty-four months, his acts of intimacy limited to shower time spent with Rosey Palmer and her five sisters. His masturbation game was strong.

So perhaps his keen interest in Ainsley was purely physical. There was no denying the instant sexual attraction he’d felt for her. Maybe his body was doing the thinking and he’d be right to adopt Tank’s philosophy this time around.

“You’ve got something on your mind,” Tank pressed. “I can tell.”

Coulton shrugged, because the truth was he didn’t have time for one of Tank’s lectures on how it was bad for a man’s health to go so long without sex. When he’d admitted to his teammate a few months ago about his painfully long dry spell, Tank’s eyes had nearly bugged out of his head, and he’d said—with unshakable conviction—that if Coulton didn’t start having sex soon, his dick was going to wither and fall off due to lack of use.

One time on the receiving end of that conversation had been enough.

Sure, Tank was a lot to take, but during Coulton’s time in Baltimore, the man had become a good friend—along with his teammates Blake, Victor, and Preston. So good, it wasn’t unusual for them to spend as much time together off the ice as they did on it, gathering at each other’s apartments for movie or game nights or blowing off steam over a pitcher of Natty Boh at Pat’s Pub.

“I swear I’m okay,” Coulton said, offering his friend a smaller piece of what was bothering him. “Just pissed that I let those three goals in.”

Tank slapped him on the shoulder as the two of them walked out of the showers, towels wrapped around their waists. “As always, Eeyore, you’re focusing on the negative. You also had at least a dozen wicked saves. So give yourself a break.”

Coulton appreciated Tank’s pep talk. “Thanks, bro.”

“I’m heading to Pat’s Pub with Preston and Lucas. Wanna join us?” Tank asked.

Coulton shook his head. “Can’t. Gotta get Slade home.”

Coulton had brought his Little Brother, Slade, to the afternoon game, tucking the kid in the team box with McKenna Bailey. McKenna worked in the Stingrays’ administrative offices as the team’s director of social media marketing. She was young and new to the position, but Coulton really liked her vision for the team and the way she was branding the Stingrays players.

She was moving the media coverage away from them looking like a bunch of stereotypical cocky jocks and portraying he and his teammates as a tight-knit group, a family. Rather than focusing exclusively on their time on the ice, she’d begun humanizing them by sharing personal small peeks into their real lives, giving fans fun posts that included favorite recipes, current reads, and other interesting facts.

When McKenna learned Coulton participated in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program, she asked if she could meet Slade and take some pictures for promotional purposes. Coulton had been resistant to the idea, because he was protective of his time spent with Slade, and he hadn’t joined the program as a way to show off. To him, that time was sacred and private.

However, when he ran McKenna’s request by Slade and his aunt Barbara, they were both excited by the premise and anxious to participate. Slade’s aunt was a huge advocate of the Big Brothers Big Sisters program, and she was hopeful McKenna’s promotion would encourage others to volunteer their time.

Slade, however, was less enticed by the altruistic component, drawn in by the opportunity to be in the limelight. Not that Coulton couldn’t fault him for that. The kid was part of a large family, so Coulton suspected it was sometimes hard to feel seen in the crowd. Plus, Slade had a huge personality and loved to be the center of attention, always talking the loudest, laughing the longest. Which wasn’t a problem for Coulton, because the kid was funny as shit.

It had been McKenna’s idea to bring Slade to a Stingrays game, and because Barbara worked long hours and couldn’t afford to take time off, McKenna said she’d be happy to hang out with Slade while Coulton was on the ice.

Following the game, she’d brought Slade down to meet some of the players in the weight room, while they did their postgame workouts. The kid had gotten a slew of autographs from his teammates, and McKenna had taken a ton of pictures.

“It was good to finally meet the infamous Slade,” Tank joked. “Nice kid.”

Coulton grinned, aware he tended to talk about Slade a lot, but that was just because he was so fond of the boy and proud of how much he’d grown in the past year, since they’d been paired together.

Barbara had signed up Slade for the Big Brothers Big Sisters program because he’d started getting into trouble at school, running with a rough crowd and failing tests. Coulton had encouraged the boy to get into sports, hoping Slade would join a junior hockey league. No such luck. Instead, he’d signed up to participate in little league baseball.

Because…of course, he did.

Coulton had put on a happy face as he’d sat through countless baseball games last summer, but it was tough. There wasn’t enough action in the damn sport in Coulton’s opinion, but that didn’t bother Slade, who was a natural shortstop and a hell of a hitter.

So far this school year, the kid had all A’s, probably because Coulton wasn’t above buying good grades. They’d come up with a payment plan—one they kept on the down-low—with Slade earning twenty bucks for every A on his report card, ten for every B, and a five for C’s. Coulton had learned early on that money was a huge motivator for Slade, which made sense, considering the kid had spent too many of his early years with a drug-addicted mother who often forgot to feed him.

For Slade, having some money in his pocket gave him peace of mind, even now, when he lived in a safe home with plenty of food.

The locker room was quiet, since the rest of the team had already taken off, either to head home or to Pat’s Pub to celebrate their win.

---