The Mistake

“That one’s not bad,” I remark.

“Who? Mullet Man?” Hollis calls from the end of the bleacher row we’ve congregated at. “Naah, he hasn’t impressed me yet.”

Down on the ice, Coach is running a simple skate-and-shoot drill with the freshman hopefuls, who are decked out in either black or silver practice jerseys. And yeah, I know it’s only day one, but so far, I’m not too impressed either.

Two at a time, the guys need to skate past the blue line, take a shot at net, then turn up the outer lane and skate hard through the neutral zone, where one of the ACs releases a pass that the skaters need to connect with. It’s not complicated at all, yet I’m seeing way too many dropped passes for my liking.

The goalies are decent, at least. They’re not exuding any of that Simms magic, but they stop more pucks than they let in, which is promising.

Beside me, Garrett whistles softly. “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.”

The next skater in the line takes off, and sweet mother of God, he’s fast. A dizzying streak of black against a backdrop of white as he tears toward the net. And the shot he releases—perfectly timed, perfectly executed, perfectly perfect.

“He could fluke out,” Tucker warns, but twenty minutes later, the kid is still rocking the practice like Ozzy fucking Osbourne in a packed amphitheater.

“Who is that?” Garrett demands.

Hollis peeks over from the far seat. “No clue.”

Pierre, a Canadian who joined us last season, leans in from the row behind us and taps Garrett’s shoulder. “Hunter something-or-other. He’s a rich kid from Connecticut, big star on his prep school team.”

“If he’s that good, then why wasn’t he recruited?” Tucker asks dubiously. “What’s he doing at open tryouts?”

“Half the colleges in the country tried recruiting him,” Pierre answers. “But apparently he wanted to quit hockey. Coach twisted his arm and convinced him to practice today, but even if he makes the cut, there’s a good chance he won’t wanna join the team.”

“Oh, he’s joining the team,” Dean declares. “I don’t care if I have to suck his dick to get him to agree to it.”

Laughter breaks out all around him.

“Sucking dick now, are we?” I ask pleasantly.

An evil gleam lights his eyes. “You know what? I won’t just suck it,” he says slowly. “I’ll suck him off. You know, give him an orgasm.”

The other guys exchange mystified looks, but Dean’s mocking look tells me exactly where he’s going with this. Jackass.

“I’m not sure if you all know this, but an orgasm is the point of completion in the pleasure process.” Dean gives me an innocent smile. “Men and women achieve it in different ways. For example, when a woman reaches completion, she might moan or gasp or—”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Garrett interrupts.

Mr. Innocent bats his baby-greens. “I thought you guys might need a refresher course in orgasms.”

“I think we’re good,” Tuck says with a snort.

“You sure? Nobody has any questions?” He’s grinning at me as he voices the question, and when the guys turn their attention back to the ice, I jab him in the ribs. Hard.

“Jeez, John, I’m trying to be helpful. You could learn a lot from me. No woman has ever been able to resist my natural charm.”

“You know who else had natural charm?” I retort. “Ted Bundy.”

Dean dons a blank look. “Who?”

“The serial killer.” Oh Jesus, I’ve jumped on the Bundy bandwagon. I’m turning into Grace.

Great. And now I’m thinking about Grace. I’ve been forcing myself not to since she shot me down last week, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get her out of my head.

Is it an ego thing? I keep asking myself whether it is, because I honestly can’t remember the last time I obsessed this hard over a chick. Am I only interested in her because she’s not interested in me? I like to think I’m not that arrogant, but I can’t deny the rejection stings.

I want another chance. I want to show her I’m not some heartless asshole who was just using her for a little B&B, but I have no idea how to change her mind. Flowers maybe? A big public groveling?

“Hey, ass-hats!”

We bolt to our feet when Coach Jensen’s commanding voice snaps toward the bleachers. Our fearless leader—the only Briar faculty member who can get away with calling students “ass-hats”—glares at us from the ice.

“Is there a reason your lazy asses are up in those seats when you should all be in the weight room?” he booms. “Quit stalking my practice!” Then he turns to scowl at the trio of freshmen who are snickering behind their gloves. “What’re you ladies laughing at? Hustle!”

The players speed forward as if the ice behind them is cracking to pieces.

Up in the stands, the guys and I hustle just as fast.





20




Grace