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.
Wes shows off his flashy moves as he skates toward the blue line, then stops and looks right at me. The wicked gleam in his eyes makes my pulse race. I can practically hear his unspoken taunt—get ready to suck my dick, Canning.
I take a breath and tap my stick against the ice. A whistle blows, and then Wes comes barreling toward me. One lightning-fast slapshot, and a loud cheer echoes in the rink. Goal.
Shit. He’s not pulling any punches today. I brush it off and focus, defending against his next two shots and drawing my own cheers from the crowd.
Wes grins at me as he lines up the next puck. “Ready for this?”
The asshole has just repeated the same words he’d said to me last night right before he’d shoved his cock in my ass. All about the mind games, my boyfriend.
Wait, what?
The puck flies past me and I don’t even stand a chance, because my brain is still tripping over that last thought.
My boyfriend? I thought I’d resigned myself to the fact that we weren’t going to be together. And now I’m thinking of him as my boyfriend?
I shrug the cobwebs from my head and force myself to concentrate on defending the net. When my glove swallows up the last puck, I breathe in relief. I only let in two. Which means I need to score on him twice to tie, three for the win. Considering he’s nowhere near as good as me in the crease, I can already taste the victory.
But he looks way too comfortable in front of that net. His gray eyes mock me behind the mask, and when he calls out, “Show me what you’ve got,” there’s laughter in his voice.
Cocky bastard thinks he can actually stop me.
Fuck. The cocky bastard does stop me. My first shot lands in his glove.
I grit my teeth and try to deke him out with the second attempt, but his hawk-like gaze isn’t fooled. He stops this one with his pads, the next one with his stick. Shit. I need to sink the next two to tie.
The kids whoop in delight when my fourth attempt proves fruitful. It flies past Wes’s shoulder and hits the net.
“Last shot,” he says in a singsong voice. “You’re totally gonna blow it, Canning!”
I know exactly what kind of blowing he’s talking about.
Brighton gets a drum roll going by tapping his hands on the boards, and the other kids quickly follow suit. The beat matches the steady thumping of my heart. I take a breath, then skate forward. I pull my arm back, assess, and release a slapshot.
The puck hisses in the air.
I miss.
The kids go nuts as Wes leaves the net and skates up and down the boards to accept their high fives. I watch him in suspicion, wondering when he’d gotten so good at defending against the puck. Four years ago he’d been totally inept.
Shrugging the thought away, I accept my condolences from my goalies, who actually look kinda pleased I lost. I guess it made them realize even the best goaltenders suck sometimes.
As the kids file toward the locker rooms, Wes skates his way over to me and raises one eyebrow. “You’re either slacking on your shooting drills, or you let me win that.”
“Didn’t let you win,” I say through clenched teeth. Except then a thought occurs to me. That last shootout before college… had he let me win? Because the guy I saw in the net today was not the one I saw there four years ago…
I’m about to ask him point-blank when Pat interrupts us. “Canning,” he says, appearing near the bench. “A word.”
Wes claps a hand over my shoulder. “I’ll see you in the dining hall.”
We skate off in opposite directions, but Pat doesn’t speak until Wes is well out of earshot.
“I got a call from a friend in Toronto this morning.” As usual, Pat gets right to the point.
I tense up. “About the possibility of me coaching?”
He nods. “My buddy’s name is Rodney Davenport. He’s with the OHL, coaches one of the Junior A teams in the league. He’s in Ottawa, but he’s tight with the head coach of the Toronto team—Bill Braddock. He spoke to Braddock on your behalf.”
Surprise jolts through me. “He did?”
“I told Davenport all about you. Vouched for you.” Pat shrugs. “You’ve got an interview in Toronto on the twenty-eighth.”
“I do?” I’m dumbfounded. A part of me hadn’t expected Pat to actually come through for me.
“It’s an assistant coach position, defensive coordinator for a major juniors team, so you’d be working with kids ages sixteen to twenty. The interview is just a formality, though. The league was highly impressed with your level of experience.”
Well, goddamn. I guess all those years of coaching here at Elites are coming in handy.
“I…” I don’t know what to say. But then I realize there’s an important question to address. “If I’m in Toronto with…” I clear my throat. I’m not ashamed; it’s just that I’ve never had any practice talking about this. “What if there are other men like Mr. Killfeather?”
Pat yanks a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “This is the league’s anti-discrimination policy. I looked it up. Everything is, uh, covered.”
I skim the words on the page. The league has pledged not to discriminate on the basis of race, religion, creed or sexual orientation.
“That’s…helpful,” I say, and Pat grins. “July twenty-eighth, huh?” Shit. That’s next week, and three days before I report to Detroit. If I report to Detroit. The thought of showing up at training camp grows less and less appealing the closer it gets to the date.
Do I want to play in the pros?
Or do I want to help young, talented kids get to the pros?
“Braddock needs an answer by the end of the week,” Pat tells me. “They had another candidate they were considering, so if you decide not to interview for the gig, they’ll most likely give it to him.”
My mind is still reeling, indecision surging through me. I should really talk to Wes before I do anything. He made it more than clear he won’t be dating anyone when he’s in Toronto. He told me to go to Detroit.
So yeah, I need to talk to him before I make any decisions.
But I have a sinking feeling I know exactly what he’s going to say.
