I don’t get jealous
“WHERE THE HELL IS SHE?”
Colson’s face is thunderous as he watches me descend the staircase. You can tell “pissed off” is not a natural state for him. He gives off a real Boy Scout vibe. Mr. Good Guy who’s always smiling and taking everything in stride. Right now, though, his jaw is tighter than a drum. He blustered up the driveway a few minutes after I sent Carma on her way. With his lackey in tow, of course. When they burst inside, Trager’s red face and clenched fists begged Case to unleash him on the world, but Colson kept his friend in check.
Now it appears both men are ready to explode.
“I told you I was going to get her,” I answer indifferently.
I nod over my shoulder. Gigi’s hurrying down the steps after me.
Relief floods Colson’s eyes when he sees her. Then he notices Beckett behind her.
“What the hell? You were upstairs with him?” he snarls.
“I was using the bathroom,” Gigi says.
The lie leaves her mouth smoothly, but we both know that’s not what she was doing up there.
I can’t explain the jolt of…something…that surges through me at the memory of finding her and Beckett up against the wall.
Fuck.
I think that something might be jealousy.
This girl is starting to get under my skin. I don’t like it.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Case is oozing disapproval. “Why are you hanging out with these guys?”
“We got invited to a party,” she answers with a shrug. Unruffled by his visible displeasure.
“Who’s we?”
“Mya and me. What are you doing here?”
“We were driving back from Malone’s, and I saw your car on the street. At first, I was like, No, there’s no fucking way Gigi would be here.” Bitterness hardens his voice. “And yet here you fucking are.”
Trager pipes up obnoxiously. “These assholes sprained Coffey’s wrist, G,” he reminds her.
“Hey, that was all you,” Shane tells Trager, rolling his eyes. “You threw your man into a table. Don’t put that on us.”
“Your boy Hawley started it!”
I’ve already tuned them out. Colson has too. He’s too busy frowning at Gigi.
“Go get Mya,” he orders. “We’re leaving.”
She appears like she wants to argue. Then she releases an annoyed breath and surrenders. “One second.”
She charges toward the kitchen. The music starts up again, blessedly drowning out whatever’s yapping from Trager’s mouth. Guy is such a douchebag.
While we wait for Gigi, Colson’s attention remains firmly fixed on me. A hard glare like I’m the one responsible for this.
But as always, Beckett’s dick gets us in trouble. The only surprising part of that is that Gigi Graham fell for it. She doesn’t seem like the type to go for one-night stands with fuckboys.
My mood grows darker, and it was already pretty dark before Colson decided to storm into my house. Started around the time Carma also decided to show up unannounced, claiming she forgot her necklace when she was here. For all I know she had the thing stashed in her pocket when she came tonight. I know I’m a suspicious asshole, but I tend to err on the side of cynicism. Expect the worst, then be pleasantly surprised to be proven wrong. Which rarely happens.
Maybe that’s not the healthiest way to live your life, but it’s how I’ve lived mine since I was six years old. Saved me a lot of disappointment over the years.
Gigi returns a minute later. “Mya’s staying,” she says tersely. “Her friend Kate will drive her home.”
“Let’s go.” Case’s tone invites no argument. Harsh and unyielding.
She glances over her shoulder at Beckett and mouths, Sorry, when Case has his back turned.
Beckett just shrugs and grins.
Still on guard, I march to the front door and stand there, watching them trudge down the path toward the sidewalk. Trager is typing on his phone. Colson speaks in a low voice to Gigi, who looks irritated with him. They stop in front of her SUV.
I get a petty sense of satisfaction when Colson tries to open the passenger door, and she whips up her hand and evidently tells him not to get in.
Within seconds, she starts the engine and drives off. Taillights blinking.
Colson remains at the curb. As if sensing my presence, his shoulders harden, and he turns to scowl at me. I roll my eyes. He spins on his heel and stalks down the street. Home, I assume.
Just another friendly neighborly visit from my cocaptain.
“That was fun,” Beckett remarks, stepping onto the porch beside me.
I shake my head at him. “Antagonizing them on purpose now? Come on, bro. Of all the chicks to get tangled up with.”
“You’re giving her private lessons, mate. You can’t lecture me about entanglements.”
My irritation only grows. “All I’m saying is, be more careful next time. What if he’d run upstairs? You were five seconds from screwing her in the hallway if I hadn’t interrupted.”
Beckett blinks. Then he starts to laugh.
“Oh. I see.”
“What?” I mutter.
“When you said you weren’t interested…it was opposite day. Got it.”
I’m feeling too tense and volatile to respond. So I just grimace.
Beckett claps me on the shoulder, still chuckling. “All good, mate. I’ll back off.”
I want to tell him there’s no need, that he can do whatever—and whoever—he wants. But those words, the go-ahead to keep pursuing Gigi, can’t seem to leave my mouth.
At the end of the weekend, we get a team-wide email saying we’re required to stay an extra hour after practice on Monday morning.
PR guru Christie Delmont strikes again.
The details are vague, but then again, Jensen cosigned the email, and he has a vendetta against words, so…
Shane and I step out of our respective shower stalls, towels wrapped around our waists. The Briar facilities are a massive upgrade from Eastwood. First and foremost, the smell. As in, it’s almost nonexistent thanks to Briar’s unrivaled air filtration system. At Eastwood, it was like stepping into an old sock factory every time you walked into the locker room. The benches left wood splinters in your ass, and the showers were mildewy. If you forgot your shower shoes, you’d have a lot more than athlete’s foot to worry about. You’d risk getting your feet amputated from some flesh-eating disease.
“I’m just saying,” Shane says as we head back to the main room to change. “I’m so tired of chicks asking for pictures of my dick.” He heaves a sigh of exhaustion. “It’s a lot of effort to take all those photos.”
“Radical idea, but maybe just do it once and keep sending the same one?” Beckett suggests.
“Ha. Lazy Lance over here. That’s taking the easy way out.” Shane flops on the bench to roll on his socks. “Women need to feel special. If she requests a dick pic, she gets her own personal one, tailored just for her.”
“Tailored just for her?” Nick Lattimore echoes. “Bro, like what are you even doing? Crafting a special scene to match each chick’s personality? If she likes wildflowers, do you pose in a meadow?”
Rand keels over with laughter, slapping his knee. “Did you put a teeny pink tutu on it for Lynsey’s photo?”
Shane’s ex was a ballerina, and everyone busts out laughing as we visualize what Nick and Rand described. I even notice a few of the Briar guys fighting laughter. At least before their valiant leader Colson narrows his eyes at them.
The rational part of my brain recognizes how unhealthy this is for a team, these dividing lines that don’t seem to be dissolving.
But the part that hates having this leadership role thrust upon me can’t be bothered to try to fix it.
Once I have my shoes on, I grab my phone from my stall to check for any missed messages. My shoulders tense when I find one from Gigi.
GISELE:
Can you do a session tomorrow night?
I know what she means, but I can’t help the way my dick twitches. He’s fickle and has been around long enough to know that session could refer to so many other things. Dirty things.
I discreetly tap out a response. Colson’s two feet away at his own stall. After the way he dragged Gigi out of my house Friday night, I’d rather not poke the bear.
ME:
Yes. Same time and place?
GISELE:
Yup. I’ll meet you there.
It’s probably not a great idea to agree to this. But our deal is never far from my mind, the hope that she might be able to help me snag that coaching slot. I’d face Colson’s wrath any day of the week for the opportunity to work under Garrett Graham and Jake Connelly.
Although if I’m being honest with myself, Case Colson isn’t the reason I’m hesitant to see Gigi again.
It’s getting harder and harder to convince myself that I don’t want to fuck her brains out.
My stomach sinks when I enter the auditorium to find two dozen chairs arranged in a circle on the stage. Coach Jensen stands up there flanked by a man and woman in their midforties who look like the nauseating parents from a Disney Channel show. They vaguely resemble each other, though, so I think they might be siblings. They’re both in khakis and matching pastel shirts, hers green, his pink, although I suspect he’d call it salmon.
“Fuck me,” Shane mutters under his breath. “This looks like…”
“Team-building,” I finish, and an honest-to-God shudder runs through me.
Every now and then, a coach gets a bug in his ass. That bug then crawls its way up to his brain and lays an egg that hatches into the big bright idea that his team could benefit from some goddamn bonding experiences.
We suffered through this last season at Eastwood when a new defense coordinator came on board and convinced Coach Evans it would be a fabulous idea to strengthen our team bonds. For three days we were forced to play stupid games and contort our bodies in ungodly human knot exercises.
It was my worst nightmare.
“Everyone have a seat,” barks Jensen.
I can tell as each guy climbs the stage and sits down that they know precisely what this is. And nobody’s happy.
Once we’re all seated, Coach Jensen confirms our fears.
“Miss Delmont from the public relations department has signed us up for a team-building course that will run every Monday for the next six weeks.”
Our goalie, Joe Kurth, looks like he’s going to throw up. He leans forward in his chair and drops his face in his hands.
“Public relations is a scourge on society,” Shane mumbles beside me.
“Now, there is nothing I hate more in this world than team-building activities,” Jensen continues. “With that said, I have great news—I was informed that I personally don’t have to participate, so…”
For once in his life, Jensen is positively beaming.
“I’d like to introduce you to Sheldon and Nance Laredo. Do everything they ask, or you’re off the team. I’ll leave you to it.”
I half expect him to put some flowers in his hair and skip off the stage like a giddy schoolgirl. He chuckles all the way to the exit.
Nance Laredo steps forward with a sunny smile, waving vigorously. “We’re so excited to meet y’all!”
Everyone stares back at her, stone-faced.
“Sheldon and I were told that a bunch of silly someones are having a problem with team unity.” She uses that singsong tone reserved for puppies and kindergarteners.
I can already tell I’m going to hate her.
“And boy, that sure is an obstacle,” Sheldon chimes in.
Yeah. I’m going to hate him too.
All my teammates continue to stare at the grinning, pastel-clad robots. Trying to make sense of them in our minds.
“Someone. Please. Please kill me now,” Rand Hawley mumbles. “I’ll pay you.”
Several chuckles ring out. And not just from the Eastwood guys.
Patrick Armstrong shoots his hand up to get the robots’ attention. “Did you see that? We don’t need team unity!” He points at Rand, then Trager. “He laughed at his joke, and they hate each other. See, we’re all done here. Let’s go, everyone.”
When asses start to rise from chairs, the Disney siblings transform into drill sergeants. They both blow the whistles hanging around their necks.
I wince at the shrill noises that pierce through the auditorium and bounce off the walls.
“Like Nance said,” Sheldon says when our eardrums have recovered. “We were brought here by the university because there are real concerns about the behavior of this team.”
“Real concerns,” Nance echoes.
“Someone was injured because of the hostility bubbling all around you,” Sheldon chastises. “We cannot let the hostility continue to bubble.”
“That is a death sentence,” Nance agrees.
“I mean, that’s a bit dramatic,” Shane says, and they both ignore him.
“The best way to break through this tension and animosity is to stop treating each other as enemies and start viewing each other as fellow human beings.”
“Human beings,” Nance repeats, nodding. She takes over for Sheldon. “For the next hour, we’re going to do just that. Is everyone ready?”
Everyone is not. We all look at her sullenly.
“Our first activity is called Name and Thing. Grab the beanbag, Shel!”
“Why is there always a beanbag?” sighs Beckett.
Sheldon darts over to a large plastic tub containing horrors I hope never to have to see. He scoops out a pink beanbag and returns to the circle, tossing the bag back and forth between his own hands. He looks so excited I expect urine stains to appear at the front of his khakis at some point.
“I don’t want to play hockey anymore,” Nazzy says solemnly, looking around. “I quit the team.”
Nance laughs. “Sheldon! Looks like we found the joker in the group.”
“We sure did.” Sheldon sweeps his happy robot gaze over us. “This game is so easy, it barely requires explanation. But here’s how it goes. When the bag is in your hands, you say your name and a thing that you like. When you’re done, you toss the bag to somebody else, until everyone on the team has said their name and their thing.”
“And it can be anything you like,” exclaims Nance. “It can be pasta. It can be daydreaming. Anything at all, so long as you like it. Any questions?”
Someone raises his hand. A senior named Tristan.
“Why are you guys so cheerful? What kind of drugs do you take, and do they show up in drug tests?”
A wave of laughter travels through the circle.
Nance addresses the question earnestly. “I can’t speak for Sheldon, but I’m cheerful because I feel cheer. And I feel cheer because I love uniting people. In fact, toss me the beanbag, Sheldon.”
He throws it into her open palms.
“My name is Nance. And I like uniting people. That’s my name. And that’s my thing.”
She throws it back to Sheldon who beams at us. “My name is Sheldon,” he says. “And I like cheesecake.”
“See how easy that was?” Nance is smiling so hard, it looks like her jaw’s about to snap in two. “Okey dokey, let’s start.”
The first toss goes to a Briar guy. Boone Woodrow.
The normally quiet sophomore clears his throat. “Uh. My name’s Boone but everyone calls me Woody.”
“Oh, this is more fun than I thought,” Sheldon interrupts, nodding at Nance. “Share your nicknames if you have them, boys. Go on, Woody. What’s your thing?”
“I, uh…” Woodrow thinks it over. “I like hockey.”
Before he can lob the bag to someone else in the circle, Nance wags her finger.
“Oh, no, we can do better than that, Woody. I think it’s safe to assume everyone likes hockey because you’re all in this room and you’re all on the hockey team.”
“Yeah, Captain Obvious,” Tim Coffey cracks.
Woodrow rolls his eyes. “Fine. I also like baseball. I pitch for Briar in the spring.” He glances at the pastel robots for confirmation that he passed their test.
“Excellent,” Sheldon says. “To the rest of you—that will be the only sports answer allowed.”
“Oh, fuck you, Woody,” Trager mutters. “Way to hog the one sports answer.”
“Let’s try to expand our horizons,” Sheldon advises. “Dig a little deeper.”
“All right, Woody,” Nance chirps. “Bean that bag.”
She should be arrested for that phrase.
Woodrow throws the beanbag to Austin Pope.
“I’m Austin.” The freshman mulls for a second. “I like video games, I guess.” He pitches it to Patrick Armstrong.
“Yeah. I’m Patrick, a.k.a. the Kansas Kid. I like dogs.” He tosses the bag to Shane.
“Shane Lindley. I like golf, and I don’t care that you said we can’t pick sports. Because I like to play golf.” He throws it to Beckett.
“Beckett Dunne. I like sex.”
There’s a wave of muffled laughter.
For some reason, his answer has the opposite effect on me. Suddenly I’m hit with the memory of Beckett’s tongue in Gigi’s mouth, and it brings a tight clench to my chest.
I’m not jealous, damn it.
I don’t get jealous. Jealousy implies I care about something enough to covet it for myself, and caring is not in my wheelhouse.
“We are going to assume that as red-blooded American hockey players, you all enjoy sex,” Sheldon says graciously. “Pick something else.”
Beckett purses his lips. “All right. I’m into time travel.”
Nance claps her hands. “Well, that’s interesting! I’d love to hear more. Wouldn’t everyone love to hear more?”
Will Larsen glances at Beckett, curious. “Like, talking about it? Theorizing?”
“Everything. Discussing it, digging into the theories, watching movies. Both fiction and documentary—”
“There are no documentaries about time travel because it’s not real,” Shane grumbles in exasperation. “How many times do we have to go over this?”
“Anyway,” Beckett says, ignoring Shane. “That’s what I like. Time travel.”
He sends the beanbag sailing toward Will.
“Will Larsen. I would say time travel because I’m also into it. But maybe, like, sci-fi movies?” He throws the bag to Case.
“Case Colson,” our cocaptain says. “I like camping.”
I already know the beanbag is coming to me next. Colson even puts a little force behind it, so that it smacks into my palm.
“Luke Ryder,” I mutter. “I like history documentaries. Like, about World War Two and shit.”
“Psycho,” Trager says.
I roll my eyes at him.
And on and on it goes, the torture, until everyone has stated their name and some stupid nonsense they like. Then Nance claps her hands and declares, “That was fantastic!”
Sheldon nods in fervent agreement. “Our next exercise is called…”
“Somebody kill me now,” Trager finishes, and that gets a few laughs.
But a few laughs ain’t going to cut it. I honestly don’t know if this team is ever going to gel. How can it when one of its cocaptains is showing up at the other captain’s house and dragging his ex-girlfriend out for daring to socialize with us? We’re still the enemy to Colson, and I suspect we always will be.
So I probably shouldn’t mention that I’m seeing his ex again tomorrow night.
HOCKEY KINGS TRANSCRIPT
ORIGINAL AIR DATE: 09/23
© THE SPORTS BROADCAST NETWORK
GARRETT GRAHAM: MOVING AWAY FROM THE PROS. OUR producer, Zara, compiled some really cool facts about this upcoming college men’s season. Turns out there are ten rosters this year that feature eight or more freshman players. The honor of having the largest freshman class goes to St. Anthony’s, but Minnesota State is a close second. It should be interesting, watching all those rookies hit the ice when the season officially starts.
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