Page 24 of No Pucks

“So you’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?” She’s practicallygiddy.

“What?” I ask, not sure I want to know.

“Fucking him.”

“You said I already did!” A technicality, but it’s nice to win one exchange with her.

“You know what I mean.”

“What do you mean?” Now I’m just playing dumb to stall.

“Bury yourself inside him.”

I rub a hand over my face. “Maybe I’ve been thinking about it a little.” In actuality, I’ve been thinking about it since that night. I haven’t been able tostopthinking about it.

“Does this change your boundaries?” Is she encouraging this?

“I can’t.”

She lifts her brows but doesn’t say anything.

“I need to go to films with the team.” I drop my feet and shove away from my desk.

I’ve watchedLogan for the last few weeks, and he’s good, but he could be so much better. Maybe that’s my plight in life moving forward: to watch endless amounts of talent wasted in what could have been, squandered when I’d give anything for another year in the NHL. Maybe my coach would have the same thing to say about my blind spots, but it feels a little like hell as we approach our first game. I miss playing more than I thought I would. I thought I’d mourned all I had to mourn, but smelling the ice every morning while my fucking leg aches, keeping me from skating with the guys, chisels a new hole in my chest.

Maybe I’m not cut out for coaching. I know how to play, but getting these guys to do what I want seems impossible. How did my coaches inspire me? The returning guys play well together, but Rex was a legend. He knew how to form a team. How do I get the new guys to fit into that mesh, or how do I unravel what he created to reforge it better?

And my biggest problem is Logan. I don’t know how to get through to him. He took direction so damn well that night, but on the ice, he’s like his fucking father.

“Stop hogging the puck, Cox,” I yell as Logan skates by. “Pass it up.”

“Yes, Sir.” He passes the puck, turns to skate backwards, and salutes, all while dodging the defense and out skating half the team.

Every comment I make to Logan, he seems to turn it into something more, like he relishes them, even when I’m harsh. He’s got a smile on his face and he’s going to tease me. I just know it.

I roll my eyes but keep the comment to myself. I need to find a way to get his ego in check, to humble him so he stops showboating without beating it into him. He’d listen to me if I had him naked on the ice. He’d learn real fucking fast.

My handprints would look spectacular on his ass.

I lock my jaw and grind my teeth, knowing exactly what he’d say if I threatened to beat it into him. Logan would be on his knees in a second, mouth open, telling me to have my way with him.

And now, I’m half fucking hard in practice. Great coaching. And even better at staying away from him. I need to get my head straight and stop before this goes any further.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to think of anything to make me soft again before someone notices.

But when I close my eyes, all I see is Logan’s lips wrapped around my cock.

Fuck.

I flip through the index of turnoffs every guy keeps on hand: grandma, phobia, that one video with a cup we’ve all regretted looking up when the internet was spry. But nothing is working, not with Logan skating back and forth past me, being his self-assured little ray of sunshine, making his mouth unforgettable.

I finally land on the mental picture of my ex-wife and the guy she left me for, and that does the trick. I blow out my cheeks.

“Cox!” I yell again as they work through a man-up drill.

“How do you want me, Coach?” There’s slight allure to his tone.

“I want you to get down the ice.”

---