Him (Him #1)(22)

“No shit.” Wes sounds genuinely upset. “Weren’t you best man at their wedding?” He suddenly laughs. “Hey, remember that bowtie I sent you to wear for the ceremony?”

I stifle a groan. “You mean the bright red one with pink cocks all over it? Yeah, I remember. And f*ck you very much, by the way. Joe was in the room when I opened the box, and he almost had a heart attack when he thought that’s what I was wearing.”

“So you let my gift go to waste? Asshole.”

“Nope, I wore it at the bachelor party.”

We both snicker, and something hot and familiar clenches in my chest. I’ve missed this. Talking to Wes. Laughing with Wes.

“The wedding was fun,” I add. “Me and Scott and Brady were the best men, Tammy was one of Samantha’s bridesmaids, and my sister Jess got ordained and performed the ceremony. She was hilarious up there.”

Wes chuckles. “How have you not gone insane yet, dude? I don’t think I’d survive having five siblings.”

“Naah, I love it. Besides, I’m the youngest—by the time I came around, my parents just let me do whatever I wanted. They were exhausted from all that disciplining they had to do with my brothers and sisters.”

He falls silent, and I can feel the tension in the air again, as if he wants to say something but is too afraid to say it.

“Just spit it out,” I order when his silence continues to drag.

He sighs. “Are we good?”

“Yeah, Wes, we’re good.” And I mean it. It took us four years to get back to this point, but we’re here now and I’m happy.

I have my best friend back, at least for the next six weeks.





11





Wes





So this coaching thing? It’s harder than it looks.

At the start of the morning session, it feels easy. I set up some drills for the youngest offensive players and run ’em like crazy. There’s a whistle around my neck, and they have to do whatever I tell them. Easy money, right?

Not so fast.

When I take on a scrimmage for the older teens, all the wheels fall off. It’s not that the kids are no good. Their skill levels vary from awesome to virtuosic. But they don’t work in sync like a college team. They’re headstrong and irrational. They listen to what I say, and then they go do the opposite.

They’re teenagers. And after ten minutes of play I’m basically beating my head against the plexi, praying for my own death.

“Pat,” I beg. “Please tell me I wasn’t like this.”

“You weren’t,” he says with a shake of his head. “You were three times worse.” Then that traitor has the balls to exit the building, leaving me in charge of thirty sweating hormone-crazed teenage hockey punks.

I blow my whistle for the millionth time. “Offsides! Again. Seriously?” I ask Shen, an arrogant D-man who’s been torturing the goalie for my whole session. The two of them have some kind of vendetta against each other, and it isn’t helping the general chaos. “Faceoff.”

Play starts again when I drop the puck. I look up to see Canning walking down the chute to assist me with the scrimmage. Thank Christ. His calm face is like a cool drink of water.

I skate over and hop the wall to greet him. “Why didn’t you tell me this job was hard?”

He grins, and my heart melts a little in the usual way. “What’s hard? You’re not even sweating.”

I am, though. Because even as I turn my head to watch my players, Shen goes sliding backward into the goalie he’s been taunting, knocking him over. It looks intentional, and Canning must have thought so too, because we’re both scissoring over the wall to get over there.

“What the—” starts Killfeather, the goalie.

Shen smirks. “Sorry.”

“Fucking chink,” Killfeather swears.

“Faggot,” Shen returns.

My whistle is so loud that Canning claps his hands over his ears. “Two minute penalties!” I roar. “Both of you.”

“What?” Killfeather yelps. “I didn’t touch his ass.”

“For your mouth,” I snarl. “On my ice you don’t use a slur of any kind.” I point toward the sin bin. “Get.”

But Killfeather doesn’t move. “You don’t get to make new rules.” His sneer is as big as the banner advertisements lining the boards.

All the players are listening, so I can’t do this wrong. “Ladies, it is a rule. Two minute bench minor for unsportsmanlike conduct. If you’d kept your trap shut after he hit you, your team would have a power play right now. I’m doing this for your own good.”

“Sure you are.”

In spite of that parting shot, both my troublemakers finally aim their bodies toward the penalty boxes. So I issue my parting shot, and I make sure that everyone can hear. “By the way—science has proven the correlation between calling someone a faggot and having a really small penis. You do not want to advertise that. Think about it.”

Canning doesn’t say anything. But he skates off, too. I see him take a seat off to the side and then bend over as if he’s retying his skates. Whatever, right? But then I see his back shaking.

At least somebody gets my jokes.