The Mistake

“Morning, Sunshine,” he mumbles. “Please tell me you made some coffee.”

I point to the counter. “Go nuts.”

He pours himself a cup and plops down on one of the stools. “Did cartoon chipmunks dress you this morning?” he grumbles. “You’re scarily chipper.”

“And you’re scarily grumpy. Smile, dude. It’s our favorite day of the year, remember?”

AKA the first day of open tryouts for freshmen who weren’t recruited out of high school. The upperclassmen crash every year to scope out the prospective talent, because sadly, losing talented players is a fact of life when you play Briar hockey. Guys graduate, drop out, go pro. And since the team roster changes each year, we’re always eager to check out the incoming freshmen.

Hopefully there’ll be some gems on the ice today, because the team’s in a world of trouble. We lost three of our best forwards—Birdie and Niko, who graduated, and Connor, who signed with the Kings. Our defense lost Rogers to Chicago, and two of our senior defensemen to graduation, which means Dean and I will likely be playing longer shifts, at least until some of the younger D-men get their shit together.

But the biggest hit we took?

Losing our goalie.

Kenny Simms was…magic. Pure fucking magic in that crease. He was a freshman when Coach named him a starter, despite the fact that two senior goalies were already on the roster—the guy was that good. Now that he’s graduated, the fate of our team rests in the hands of a senior named Patrick, unless this freshmen crop somehow produces another Kenny Simms.

“We should’ve bribed Simms’ profs to fail him,” Garrett says with a sigh, and I realize I’m not the only one worrying about Simms’ departure.

“We’ll be okay,” I answer, rather unconvincingly.

“No, we won’t,” comes Dean’s voice, and then he enters the kitchen and heads for the coffeemaker. “I doubt we’ll even make it to the post-season. Not without Kenny.”

“Ye of little faith,” Tucker chides, waltzing through the doorway.

“Holy shit,” I blurt out. “You shaved the beard.” I glare at Garrett. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve thrown us a party.”

Dean snickers. “You mean thrown him a party.”

“No, he means us,” Garrett replies for me. “We’re the ones who had to stare at that ghastly thing for half a year.”

I smack Tuck’s ass as he breezes past my stool. “Welcome back, Babyface.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbles.

Yup, it’s good to be home.

An hour later, I rest my forearms on my knees, clasp my hands together, and lean forward to analyze the slap shot of a stocky freshman with curly red hair poking out the back of his helmet.

“That one’s not bad,” I remark.

“Who? Mullet Man?” Hollis calls from the end of the bleacher row we’ve congregated at. “Naah, he hasn’t impressed me yet.”

Down on the ice, Coach is running a simple skate-and-shoot drill with the freshman hopefuls, who are decked out in either black or silver practice jerseys. And yeah, I know it’s only day one, but so far, I’m not too impressed either.

Two at a time, the guys need to skate past the blue line, take a shot at net, then turn up the outer lane and skate hard through the neutral zone, where one of the ACs releases a pass that the skaters need to connect with. It’s not complicated at all, yet I’m seeing way too many dropped passes for my liking.

The goalies are decent, at least. They’re not exuding any of that Simms magic, but they stop more pucks than they let in, which is promising.

Beside me, Garrett whistles softly. “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.”

The next skater in the line takes off, and sweet mother of God, he’s fast. A dizzying streak of black against a backdrop of white as he tears toward the net. And the shot he releases—perfectly timed, perfectly executed, perfectly perfect.

“He could fluke out,” Tucker warns, but twenty minutes later, the kid is still rocking the practice like Ozzy fucking Osbourne in a packed amphitheater.

“Who is that?” Garrett demands.

Hollis peeks over from the far seat. “No clue.”

Pierre, a Canadian who joined us last season, leans in from the row behind us and taps Garrett’s shoulder. “Hunter something-or-other. He’s a rich kid from Connecticut, big star on his prep school team.”

“If he’s that good, then why wasn’t he recruited?” Tucker asks dubiously. “What’s he doing at open tryouts?”

“Half the colleges in the country tried recruiting him,” Pierre answers. “But apparently he wanted to quit hockey. Coach twisted his arm and convinced him to practice today, but even if he makes the cut, there’s a good chance he won’t wanna join the team.”

“Oh, he’s joining the team,” Dean declares. “I don’t care if I have to suck his dick to get him to agree to it.”

Laughter breaks out all around him.

“Sucking dick now, are we?” I ask pleasantly.

An evil gleam lights his eyes. “You know what? I won’t just suck it,” he says slowly. “I’ll suck him off. You know, give him an orgasm.”

The other guys exchange mystified looks, but Dean’s mocking look tells me exactly where he’s going with this. Jackass.

“I’m not sure if you all know this, but an orgasm is the point of completion in the pleasure process.” Dean gives me an innocent smile. “Men and women achieve it in different ways. For example, when a woman reaches completion, she might moan or gasp or—”