to say Henry but he’s not proven himself capable of playing yet, but he does have the personality to handle the responsibility well.”
“Agreed. Let’s see how he does this season.” A few fans filed in behind the glass. Male and female, all with wildly colored hair and holding signs with COLORADO surrounded by pink hearts. “Wouldn’t the Penn Gang love to see him get a letter?”
“Mm, yes, I’m sure, but thankfully goalies can’t leave the crease so he’s stuck there. I’m not sure I’d give him the chance. His temper is like a match-head. One brush and he’s on fire.” She nodded. We all liked our starting goalie but he was always in trouble. A free spirit our Colorado was. “If I put out my defense partner Eli, would that look as if I were playing favorites?”
“Not at all. Myers has been in the league for several years, is sound and solid, not prone to throwing water bottles at the linesmen.”
The men began to file onto the ice. Henry skated over, beamed at us, and cleared the pyramid of pucks to the ice. Eli skated up to me, gave me a poke with a gloved finger, and then raced off with a puck on his stick. That was his not-so-subtle way of informing me it was time to play hockey. Coach Anderson tucked her tablet under her arm.
“Go warm up. We’ll work on this later. We still have a week before the finalized roster has to be turned into the league.”
I bobbed my head, kicked a puck to my stick, and went for a few laps, shuttling a puck to Eli or taking a soft shot at Colorado in the home crease. The backup tender, Andre, was at the other end of the ice in a white sweater; my half of the team wore brown. Tate Collins exploded into the lazy play of warmups. He streaked past me, a blur of brown, stole my puck, and flew up ice to slam a shot past Andre. All of this took place before I could make the blue line. He circled the net on one skate, left leg up, the celly making him look like a chorus line dancer.
“Pretty boy superstar,” Eli muttered at my side, as a whistle blew.
We gathered at center ice, circling our petite associate coach. I slid in beside Tate, my shoulder bumping his. He threw a sharp glare my way.
“Try to remember that we’re on the same team now. Keep the flash and showing off in check.” His lips flattened. I moved away to stand with my defensive partner, my gaze and Tate’s locked through whatever it was Coach Anderson was telling us. I saw the grit and rebellion in that chocolate-brown gaze of his.
With a smile, we began the scrimmage, white vs brown, and even though I had seen Tate on film, and even played against him once or twice, watching him close-up left me awed, winded, and more than a little aroused. Keeping up with him and Madsen pushed me to my limits. Those ten or so years of age on the young guns showed. They were so fast, so slick, so quick, that it felt as if I no sooner gained the offensive zone to defend when Madsen and Collins would break free. I’d haul my big ass down the ice, then Garcia and Greenaway would steal the puck and race back to my end.
By the end of the practice game my legs were wobbly and it felt like I was skating through tar. I’d be able to soak the aches away in a hot shower and the knowledge that I had managed to pin Alex Garcia to the boards several times despite my advanced age. Water beating down on the back of my neck, eyes closed, I savored the feel of thousands of fingers working my tired muscles.
“Nice play.” I knew the voice.
“Thank you,” I replied to Tate somewhere to my left. “You also played well.”
“You guys have a good solid foundation. Give it another year or two and you’ll be contenders.”
I flung a look his way, ready to bicker over that year or two comment, and way too late realized how stupid I’d been. The stinging comeback withered when my sight latched onto a wet, naked Tate Collins. He had a body that Adonis would’ve envied. Thick thighs, a sweet bubble ass, lean waist, wide shoulders. Arms up to douse his armpits, his hair sodden, his ink-worked skin slick, I sucked in