Him (Him #1)(44)

“Spit’ll only get you so far,” he’s saying, oblivious to my turbulent thoughts. “So it took a while for him to…yeah.”

I force a casual tone. “But then it got good?”

He pauses again. Then nods, his chin bumping my shoulder. “Yeah, it got good.”

A hot rush travels up my spine. I’m stunned to realize it’s jealousy.

“And at the end?” I prompt, in the hopes that hearing how the sex got sucky again will ease the tightness in my chest.

Wes sighs. “He wasn’t anyone I need to see again. He got off on making it degrading for me. Kind of soured me on the whole experience.”

I stroke the top of his head. I can tell he feels awkward talking about it, but I appreciate that he told me. It’s rare for Wes to shed his f*ck-the-world attitude and let himself be vulnerable.

“So that was it? You didn’t let anyone else…uh…stick their flag in there after that?”

He chokes out a laugh. “Nope. I decided I’d leave the flag-sticking to me.”

I chuckle, stroking his hair again. It’s silky-soft beneath my palm, a contrast to the stubble scraping my shoulder.

“I…” He clears his throat. “I’d let you do it, though.”

My hand freezes in his hair. “You would?”

Wes nods. “I’d let you do anything to me, Canning.”

When his voice cracks, something inside of me does, too. I have no clue what’s going on here or what we are to each other.

Friends. We’re friends. Except that doesn’t feel like the right label.

Friends with benefits? Doesn’t feel right, either.

I must have stayed silent for way too long, because Wes suddenly sits up, the warmth of his body abandoning me. “Come on,” he says gruffly. “We should get going.”





22





Wes





Our coaching schedule picks right back up again the next morning, and I hit the ice ready to coach the hell out of these kids. I had a rough start last week, letting their hot-headedness and inability to follow my instructions get to me, but I’m determined to take a page out of Jamie’s book and exercise some patience.

Don’t get me wrong, I know how to be patient—when I’m playing. But watching other guys play? Seeing the mistakes they’re making and then watching them make them all over again instead of correcting them based on my advice? It’s maddening.

The kids are listening better today, though. I’m running some basic passing drills with my forwards, switching up the lines every so often to let them get a feel for their teammates’ style and technique. For the most part, it’s going okay, but one kid—Davies—hogs the puck no matter what line he’s playing on.

I blow my whistle, tempted to rip my hair out by the roots. Davies has just ignored my instructions again, snapping a weak wrist shot at Killfeather instead of passing back to Shen like he was supposed to.

I call him over, and he skates up to me, red-faced and surly.

From the corner of my eye, I see Jamie watching us carefully, as if he’s assessing my coaching prowess. Pat’s watching too, from the bench, and I’m gratified to see he’s finally quit scowling at me. Last night Canning and I had shown up too late at the dining hall to catch the live performance, but luckily, Georgie filmed it on his iPhone. And trust me, I’m never going to forget the sight of Pat and his four coaches shuffling around and singing the most off-key rendition of “Oops, I Did It Again.”

I don’t think Pat will forget it, either. Or stop hating me for choosing the stakes of that soccer game.

Focusing on Davies, I cross my arms over the front of my Northern Mass hoodie and ask, “What kind of drill are we running?”

“Um…?”

“Passing,” I clarify.

He nods. “Right.”

“Which means you need to pass the puck, kid.”

“But last practice you gave us that whole speech about not hesitating. You said if you have a shot, you take it.” His chin juts out defensively. “I had a shot.”

I mock gasp. “Wait—the puck made it past Killfeather? I must’ve missed that goal.”

His expression goes sheepish now. “Well, naw, I missed, but…”

“But you wanted to score. I get it.” I offer a gentle smile. “Look, I’m with you, kid. There’s no sweeter feeling in the world than watching that lamp light up. But lemme ask you something—how many forwards are usually on the ice?”

“Three…”

“Three,” I confirm. “You’re not playing alone out there. You’ve got your teammates with you, and it’s not so they can skate there and look pretty.”

He cracks a smile.

“Shen had a shot. If you’d passed to him, he would’ve one-timed that baby right in, top left corner. And you would’ve gotten the assist. Instead, you got nothing.”

Davies nods slowly, and a burst of pride goes off inside me. Holy f*ck, I’m reaching him. I can see him absorbing the words—my words—and suddenly I understand why Canning has such a hard-on for this coaching thing. It’s…rewarding.

“You need to trust your teammates,” I tell Davies.