Melting the Ice

Two.

>Sebastian

The whistle rang out, signaling the anticipated end of a shitty practice. Seguin skated over, slapping my shoulder. “Don’t let it get in your head. We’ll pull it together before next week,” he said, his mouth guard hanging from his teeth.

“Yea,” I grunted. I didn’t need his stupid fucking optimism. I needed to get on my game. We all did.

Coach shouted at us as we headed for the tunnel. I needed a massage. And food. I hated the preseason diet plan the team nutritionist had me on. Apparently, being old was just as much of a problem for my game as a slice of cake. I ignored the chastising words, knowing it wouldn’t change anything about the last two hours.

I slumped down on the bench in front of my cage in the locker room. Helmet and stick discarded, I started unlacing my skates. My teammates chattered around me as I stripped out of my practice gear. I should have been engaging them, joking, and asking about their plans for the afternoon. But I just couldn’t.

I blamed my agent. He just had to call me about that stupid disclosure again this morning. Why would I let some airheaded virgin write about my dick? My sister read those books. Twelve inches? Yea right. Romance was killed a long time ago, and those books were about as helpful as porn was to a teenager learning how to actually please a woman. And suddenly, hockey players were these shiny objects every woman fantasized about.

Stripping off the last of my gear, I grabbed a towel and went for the showers. Even the pelt of steaming water couldn’t pierce my bad mood. If Coach insisted on entertaining this bullshit, the team wouldn’t even make it to the first round for the cup. We need to hit the ice hard right out of the gate this season to prove we were contenders. We didn’t need some girl whose claim to fame was creative synonyms for ‘cock’ and ‘pussy’ running around distracting everyone.

When I stomped out of the showers, there was a different kind of buzz going through the locker room. I went straight to my cage, pulling on my briefs and then jeans. I needed out of the arena. I needed air. And food.

“Can I get everyone’s attention?” Coach called, much calmer than he had been when we left the ice. I ignored him and continued getting dressed.

“Kingsley,” he barked. I exhaled sharply. I was the Captain. I had to be the example. Slowly, I turned but didn’t disguise the uninterested look on my face.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now, a lot of you have some idea about this. I know some contracts have been sent out. I’d like to introduce you all to Linny Scott.”

“Lynlee,” a tall, leggy brunette corrected him. Her suit jacket barely contained her ample chest. I looked at Johnston, whose eyes were glued to it predictably. Brunettes in business attire were his type. “Lynlee Scott, New York Times Best Selling Author.” The woman beamed proudly at everyone before looking next to her.

“That’s me,” the woman beside her said. Pink hair was pulled into a high ponytail, with a braid going from where her bangs met her hair all the way back into the ponytail. Her baby pink sweater was two sizes too big, skimming the end of her skirt. Freckles painted her flushed cheeks as she gave a nervous smile and wave.

“Right, Lynlee. Sorry about that,” Coach said, scratching his neck. “Anyway, Lynlee is going to conduct some research. Management has agreed to allow Miss Scott to shadow us. She’s going to be talking to various team staff as well as all of you. You’ll be seeing a lot of her until she gets what she needs. All of you will schedule a time to talk with her one-on-one around practices, games, and any other contracted commitments. Let’s be courteous hosts and make Miss Scott feel welcome.”

Clapping and talking erupted around the room. The pink-haired one blushed and nodded. Immature comments of ‘I’ll make her feel real welcome’ and ‘she can have all the one-on-one she wants’ could be heard through the noise. A few of the guys bravely, stupidly, moved forward to introduce themselves. She wasn’t bad to look at, but she wasn’t here to make our lives easier. She was here to fetishize us.

Rolling my eyes, I turned back and grabbed my shirt to finish dressing. “Seb, a word?” Coach called through the commotion.

I yanked my shirt down, grabbed my wallet, keys, and phone, shoved them in my pocket, and pretended not to hear him. I needed to get out of here. Fuck the diet plan. Fuck Lynlee Scott, New York Times Best Selling Author. It was time for a cheeseburger.

“Kingsley!” Coach snapped, closer now. With a controlled exhale, I turned to find him, Lynlee, and the brunette on the other side of the bench. The vein in Coach’s neck pulsed, clearly irritated with my less-than-warm reception of this PR stunt. Who even thought of this? Probably Sylvia.

“Yes, Coach?” I asked in as even of a tone as I could.

“As captain, I know you’ll set the example for the rest of the team and help Miss Scott in any way you can,” he said pointedly.

“My schedule is pretty full, Coach. With the season starting next week and my captain duties, I just don’t know how much time I’ll have,” I said coldly. I had no intention of pandering to a woman whose idea of literature was explicit descriptions of finger fucking. I put my fingers in plenty of pussies and never felt the need to write down the experience.

“I’m flexible,” Lynlee smiled at me. Her face was sweet, but I doubted it was genuine. Women like her knew how to get what they wanted, and she clearly knew her talents leaned toward the innocent look. “I’m curious to learn about the sport from the player’s side of things. I’d like to do this project justice.” She’d like a nice payday.

“Lynlee makes magic come out of paper,” the brunette said.

“I’m sure she does,” I said. “Excuse me. I have a commitment.” To my stomach.

I stepped around them and strode quickly out of the locker room. The arena was usually a safe place. The ice, the team. A stick in my hand and puck gliding along in front of me. Now, that pink puff of cotton was going to be haunting my sanctum like an immature nightmare.

“Where’s the fire?” Beddard called as I hit the parking lot. My goalie stood near the end of the sidewalk, holding his phone to his ear.

“Waiting for a ride?” I grunted.

He nodded. “Natalie’s car needed to go in for work. We’re having to share until it’s finished,” he explained. “She’s late.” His wife managed his two crotch goblins and everything else so he could focus on his career.

“No rental available?” I questioned.

“It was supposed to be two days,” he said in his usual flat voice. “Running from the book lady?” I had one of the best goalies in the league. He was a master at reading the ice. And the players.

“No,” I denied. “Hungry.”

“You’re playing like shit,” he noted.

“So you better keep the net clear,” I ground out. Ending the conversation, I headed to my car. I’d be less angry once I had an unhealthy amount of grease and cheese in my stomach.