Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,78

his feet.

“Get up!” Peck shouts from where he’s watching. “Get your ass up off the ice!”

Coach Peck has, honestly, been much more a frightening pain in the ass than we feared him becoming.

But it suits him.

If, for some reason, he doesn’t make it to the pros, I could see his calling being coaching.

I extend my hand to help hoist Springfield back onto his feet. He offers me a head toss of gratitude before resuming his skating.

Out of my peripheral I can see Stratton along the curve and cock a crooked grin. The instant he’s near enough, I thrust backwards, smashing him into the glass. He doesn’t fall to the ground like our other teammate, but he does release an audible, “Fuck!” that makes me happily chuckle.

One by one, I make sure to knock my teammates into the board with the force of a freight train. Each hit releases some of the pent-up tension I had been holding onto – not having my boyfriend sleep over, missing breakfast, putting the final pieces together of my living journal project with Leif – and allows the stress I keep silent to scream in a more appropriate fashion. Padding prevents serious injuries from occurring, yet it doesn’t stop me from unleashing the same amount of hell I would if they were an actual opposing player after the puck.

Or, my team.

Peck calls practice over shortly after I’ve checked Gillette for the third time, and from the way we all groan, it’s clear we’re grateful. However, unfortunately for me and my crew, our fearless leader stops us from joining the others in the locker room to engage in a post session pow wow none of us are in the condition for.

“Come on, Peck,” Rutledge grumps. “I’m not in the mood to do this shit right now. I just wanna get home and get some fucking sleep in my bed instead of the fucking couch I was banished to last night.”

Stratton leans on his stick as he releases a hiss, “Ooo, doghouse?”

“The dogs slept better than I did.”

We collectively cringe at the statement.

“They got to sleep peacefully next to my girlfriend while I, somehow, kept rolling over on fucking chew toys.”

Let’s add that to the reasons I don’t think a dog is for me.

The disorganization of a pet and that amount of hair would drive me up the wall.

I will admit, I do enjoy having food discussions about less traditional, more nutritional options for Poppy’s favorite creatures. It’s also entertaining for me to watch her face scrunch when I translate what some of the ingredients on her dogfood labels actually are or do.

“So,” Rutledge grunts more of his irritation, “whatever bullshit you wanna bitch about, can it wait until I’ve had an adequate amount of time to enjoy a state of suspended consciousness?”

“Can’t you just fucking say sleep?” Gillette grumps while rubbing his arm.

“I could. And, I could tie Scottsdale’s limbs to the separate ends of the goal to give us better protection when I’m not out on the ice, yet I don’t.”

The graphic visual of our backup goalie has us all wincing, again.

He’s nowhere near as good as Rutledge.

He’s also nowhere near as good as we need him to be.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Peck unexpectedly states. “For showing up to every practice this summer. For trusting me in Stiles’ place. For giving this shit everything you’ve got every time. For…proving that being on this team is the best fucking thing about being on this campus.”

There’s an urge to inquire details about the last sentence, but we’re denied the opportunity to.

“With try outs on Tuesday, I just wanted youse guys to know where I stand in case…,” his voice trails off in an alarming fashion, “in case, I’m not your captain again next year. You’re all the best fucking teammates a guy could ask for, and I consider myself lucky to lead you.”

“Consider yourself lucky we don’t beat your ass like a piñata for making us stick around to hear this shit,” Rutledge grumbles though there’s obvious mirth in his tone.

“You need to watch some classic shit like Mighty Ducks or Remember the Titans and work on your fucking monologuing,” Gillette joins the teasing. “Your little bitch speech was far from moving.”

“Makes me wanna move my ass to the locker room and pretend I didn’t hear it,” Stratton snickers.

“Where the fuck was the bravado and grandiosity?” Rutledge pokes.

“Where the fuck were the hand movements and passion?” Gillette mocks next.

“Where the fuck was the inspirational