Brooks zooms in on the guy’s behind. And okay, I’m not going to lie—his butt cheeks do resemble two bubbles. The rest of his body is lean and ripped, so those tight globes really do attract the eye.
“It’s the first thing I notice when I look at him,” Coby admits. “My eyes go right to the ass.”
“Mine too,” I say. “That’s weird, right?”
“Is this me?” Brooks demands. “Because if it is, I’m pissed. Look at it. It’s completely disproportional to the rest of his body.”
“Dude, we just told you, we don’t pay attention to your butt,” I say irritably. “We can’t compare.”
“Fine, here.”
He turns around and drops trou.
At the same time Coach Pedersen enters the room.
Coach stumbles to a stop. His gaze travels from the naked man on the screen to Weston’s bare ass. Then he scowls at the rest of us. “What the hell is wrong with you idiots?”
“It’s not what it looks like,” Brooks tries to reassure him.
“Really? Because it looks like you’re trying to compare your ass to the one up there, and the answer to that is, yes, they’re identical. Now zip up your goddamn pants, turn that garbage off, and take a seat, Weston.”
My teammate appears genuinely devastated as he pulls up his pants. “I have a bubble butt, you guys. I feel like my whole life has been a lie.”
Our goalie Johansson snickers. “Plastic surgery’s always an option.”
“Enough,” Coach snaps. “We don’t have time for this shit. We’re facing off against Jensen and his crew in five days. It’ll be televised on all the New England stations, and I’m hearing rumors about HockeyNet, too. So tell me, do you want to make fools of yourselves or do you want to win?”
“We want to win,” everyone mumbles.
“Do you want to jerk off to Weston’s ass or do you want to win?”
We raise our voices. “We want to win!”
“Good. Then shut the hell up and pay attention.”
After the meeting, Pedersen stops me before I can follow the rest of my teammates out the door. “Connelly, stay behind.”
I shove my hands in my pockets as I walk over. “What’s up, Coach?”
“Have a seat.” Based on his harsh expression, I’m obviously not in store for a pep talk. Once I’m seated, he stands in front of me, arms crossed over his bulky chest. “What’s going on with you, Jake?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s going on with you? You were off at morning skate today. Two seconds slower than usual. Granted, that’s still faster than an average player, but it’s slow for you.”
“I was distracted,” I admit.
“And this afternoon? Normally when you show up early, I walk in and you’re already leading the meeting, going over tape. Instead I walk in and Weston is shaking his ass in front of everyone and you’re watching gay porn.”
“We weren’t watching gay porn,” I assure him. “We were just…” I trail off.
Because he’s right. I’m always deeply focused on the game. It’s a single-minded dedication that’s been with me since I was old enough to skate. I lead team meetings. I show up early, offer extra help to guys who need it. I sacrifice my own time, my own sleep, and my own schoolwork to ensure that every weapon on our team is locked, loaded, and in working order.
For the past five days, my head hasn’t been in it. And maybe five days doesn’t sound like a long time in the grand scheme of things, but it is when you only have five more to prepare for arguably the most important game of the season. Not the second most important, because that’s operating on the assumption that the Frozen Four is a given, and it isn’t. We need to beat Briar in order to move forward; therefore, this is the most important game, and the only thing that should matter at the moment.
“You’re right,” I tell him. “I haven’t been as focused as I should be.”
“What’s going on? School? Do we need to set you up with a tutor?”
“No, I’m good with all that. A couple final papers left to write, but I’m not having any trouble. They’re not due till May, anyway.”
“So what is it? Shit at home?”
“No.” I readjust myself in my chair. Uncharacteristic embarrassment heats the back of my neck. “I feel like a moron saying this, but it’s a girl.”
Coach rumbles in displeasure. “You want my advice?”
“Please.”
“Forget her.”
A laugh pops out. Well. That’s not helpful. “That’s one solution,” I say carefully, because Coach Pedersen doesn’t appreciate being challenged.
“Trust me, kid, it’s the only solution. Women are goddamn headaches. Even the nice ones,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s like they all take a master class in manipulation, learning how to play with your emotions. They either turn us into slaves, or fools.”
His volatile reaction catches me off-guard. I hear a lot of bitterness in his tone, and I wonder who broke his heart. As far as I know, Pedersen’s never been married. He doesn’t have kids, and if he has a girlfriend then he never talks about her. A few of the guys have posited the theory that he might be gay, but I don’t think he is. There was a team event at a Boston hotel last year, and I saw Coach leave the party with a hot redhead in a skintight dress. That doesn’t mean he isn’t gay, but, hell, who knows?
From the sound of it, though, he has absolutely no interest in relationships.
“At the end of the day, these women want something from you, kid. They always want something. They take and take and take, and they don’t give anything back. Nobody gives a shit about anybody else, so you might as well look out for yourself, right?”
That’s what I usually do. It’s what I’ve done my whole life. I’m not sure why the approach isn’t working for me lately. My stomach’s been twisted up in knots ever since Brenna ended things.
“You know what I like most about you, Jake?”
“What’s that?” I ask warily.
“You’re selfish.”
I find myself bristling. He’s presenting it as a compliment, and it’s not even a new revelation for me—I know I’m selfish. Yet for some reason, being called selfish by my coach raises my hackles.
“You don’t let anything come in the way of your goals,” he continues. “Your own needs come first, and that’s how it should be. That’s the reason you’re destined to be a superstar.” Coach shakes his head again. “This girl that’s causing you all this grief? Forget about her. Focus on winning, focus on this sweet new job you’ll have come August. One misstep on the ice can end a career. Loss of focus leads to dangerous outcomes, and not only the risk of injury. A bad game reflects poorly on you, and you’d better believe that your new bosses are watching every single game and studying your film afterward.”
He’s right.
“So get your head in the game. Forget this girl. There’ll be others. When you’re up in Edmonton I guarantee you’ll find a lot of cute bunnies to keep you warm.” He leans forward and claps a hand over my shoulder. “We good?”
I nod slowly. “We’re good. Don’t worry. I’ll get my head on straight.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
And yet the first thing I do when I step out the main doors of the Bright-Landry Hockey Center is contact Brenna again.
Coach’s speech got to me, but not in the way I’m sure he’d hoped. I don’t want to be the man who gets hurt by one woman and goes on to despise the entire sex. I don’t want to be bitter and angry.
I can’t force Brenna to go out with me again, but at least I can let her know that she’s still on my mind.
ME: Hey, Hottie. Me again. Feel free to keep avoiding me, but just know that I’m here if you change your mind.
24
Brenna
It’s Tuesday morning and a skinny blonde is giving me the stink eye.
My friend Audrey is supposed to be meeting me at the Coffee Hut, but she’s five minutes late. Maybe the skinny blonde at the counter is pissed that I’m taking up a two-person table for myself? But that’s bullshit. She’s alone, too. Why should she get the two-person table? This is America. First-come first-served, girlfriend.
Still, I send an SOS to Audrey, because the coffee shop is packed, and I can’t nurse the same cup of coffee for much longer without the barista coming by to tell me they need the table.
ME: Where are you? Peeps are trying to steal our table.
* * *
AUDREY: Still waiting to talk to the prof.
Ugh, really? She’s still at the lecture hall? The journalism building is a ten-minute walk from the Coffee Hut. Her next message confirms my fears.
AUDREY: I’ll be at least 15. Do you mind waiting or should we meet this afternoon?
* * *
ME: I won’t have time this afternoon :( Class starts at 1, ends around 5. We can do dinner maybe?
* * *
AUDREY: Can’t :(
Grrr. Despite sharing a major, Audrey and I haven’t hung out in a while. We don’t interact much during classes, since most of the time we’re assigned a story on the spot and then ordered to go forth and write it. I’ve barely seen my friend Elisa this month, either. I guess it’s that time of year. Final papers and exams, the hockey season at its peak, and before we know it, it’ll be May and the semester will be over.
ME: OK, I’ll wait. I miss your face.
* * *
AUDREY: Aw love you, boo. See you soon.