Page 5
Caleb
If I thought facing Mason last night was hard, it’s nothing compared to knowing Leo will be at practice today fully aware I’m a pervert stalker who watches him drink water naked. I really hate myself sometimes.
The locker room is noisy and filled with nearly naked, good-looking men, and usually my eyes would avoid them, but today I’m daring myself to find them attractive enough to distract me.
No such luck.
“What’s up with you?” Griff asks, giving me side eye.
Oh nothing, currently fantasizing about going down on your dad, swallowing his load, and hoping he lets me call him Daddy. “Nothing!” My voice is too high and loud, so I clear my throat. “Why? Do I seem extra, extra today?” Maybe I can tone myself down.
“You’re more hyper than usual.” His chin nods at my leg, bouncing as if it will rocket me into space. That would be awesome. If only my nervous tick had some use.
“I mean, it’s nerve-racking having an NHL legend critique my every move.
It makes me wonder if I suck and they think I need a special coach.
” That sounds normal, and it’s even fucking true.
It would be easy to blame Mason for sending me to his dad’s apartment alone, but I’m the weirdo who watched him. Leo must be disgusted with me.
“I think they took pity on him. He can’t play, and he’s getting too old for Montreal to keep him on camera, so the Enforcers gave him a charity job.” Mason taps his stick, ready to go.
I gotta finish putting my pads on. It’s harder than I thought it would be to hold back the comment that his dad isn’t old. Yeah, he’s older than us, but he’s a fucking smokeshow, and the camera and Montreal fans love him. Thankfully, that job means he can’t be here all the time.
None of that is helping my mental state.
“You go ahead. I’ll be out in a minute.” I tug my gear on.
Mason glances around the mostly empty locker room and back at me. “No man left behind. Get your ass in gear and let’s go.”
I can’t make Mason late for practice because one, Coach will lose his shit, and two, the team will start shipping us again. The shipping is too close to home and all wrong.
Compared to the game arena, the much smaller practice facility has only a few hundred seats. Leo is already on the ice, and I almost fall flat on my face when I see him. He’s wearing a tight white Enforcers long-sleeve shirt, and his amber eyes track me. I swear the man’s part lion.
I should tell him I’m sorry, but a good apology includes saying what I did wrong. There’s no way I’ll be able to vocalize my regret for seeing him naked because I’ll stutter, unable to find the words to lie.
Today I can’t read his energy, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m freaking out or he’s got his emotions on lock down. As goalies, we train ourselves to put our feelings in a vault and focus.
Well sugar-shoot. That’s all I have to do. My personal life is officially in the vault, and I’m professional Caleb Benz today. I’ve got this. I’ll apologize after practice when no one else is around.
“We’re scrimmaging. Benz and Liska each take a goal. Coach Griffin, you’re with Benz,” Coach barks out his directions and splits the team in two.
Lucky and Drake grumble because they’re not on the same team, but it’s practice. Lars Drakenberg, or Drake, is our center and literal team enforcer. Coach can’t have the first line play against the others. It would be a massacre.
They’re a couple and never tire of living and working together. Absolute hashtag-couple-goals.
Ace skates up to my goal and sprays me with ice when he stops. “You good, man?”
Why the Hades is he asking me that? I can’t keep the scowl off my face, and I realize my emotions are not locked up. This is going to suck. “I’m fine.”
Ace gives me a smile that says I’m full of crap, but he skates away anyway.
“Get in position,” Leo demands, and even though I should stand up for myself, I go where he tells me.
He’s in my ear all game, and it’s throwing me off. I can save goals, but he’s making me second-guess every decision and I’m a disaster.
Coach calls a break, and I get some water.
“You’re hesitating,” Leo says.
No shit. “You’re too loud,” I blurt out.
Leo’s eyes narrow. “This isn’t about me; you’re indecisive.”
The whistle blows, and my face is an inferno, a five-alarm fire. Dang it. I’ve never in my life talked back. I’m the first one to agree with coaches and try to smooth out arguments.
The scrimmage restarts and honestly, if I stood immobile in the goal with my arms and legs wide, I would probably save more.
“He’s feigning right, but statistically he shoots on your left side.
I bet the puck goes high,” Leo says, but a defender pokes the puck, and it’s a scramble.
“Lucky’s going to shoot… Watch the pass…
Your defender saved your ass there. Eyes on the puck.
Watch the wings. See where everyone’s going. Take note of possible threats.”
Not only do I have my own brain running every possible scenario, I have Leo, who is not in sync with my thoughts, distracting me. It’s like trying to play two games at once.
King strikes from the outside, and it sails over my shoulder into the goal. I had plenty of time for a save, but my brain is overloaded.
My instincts have vanished. I might not dissect the plays the way Leo does, but my natural instincts guide me, and today they’re in the vault.
“What you should have done there…” Leo drones on, but I stop listening.
“Shh,” I hiss as much to myself as him.
This will get me over my crush. To see him as a fallible human, not a legend or a gorgeous naked man. That image has to be permanently scrubbed from my brain.
I compartmentalize my thoughts and tune out his voice.
My frustration fuels my focus, and by the time Coach blows the whistle to end the scrimmage, I’m back to my old self.
“See, once you started taking my direction, you played much better,” Leo hollers at my back as I skate away. “Benz.” Leo’s on the ice now. “I have some notes for you.”
Coach shoos me toward Leo, and I have no choice but to listen.
My gut churns, and it’s the same feeling I had when I got sent to the principal’s office in school.
I had a reputation as a talker and frequently got in trouble.
Once they blamed me on a day I wasn’t in school, and I got detention for not showing up at the principal’s office. My mom was furious.
I’m experiencing the same powerless shame that no matter what I do, it’s wrong.
Leo spouts off about angles and trajectories, and I swear the man is giving me a combined geometry and physics lesson. That isn’t how I play. I’ll never be that player.
If that’s what the Enforcers want, I might as well ask for a trade.
I’m confused because they seemed happy with my performance when Liska was out last season.
ESPN talked about my rookie year like I was a rock star.
Not that I should listen to the hype, good or bad, but suddenly I’m so terrible I require a personal coach to tear apart every aspect of my game.
As if Leo can reteach me how to be a goalie in between his commentary gigs.
“Benz, are you listening?” Leo snaps.
I nod, but I’m very clearly and purposefully not listening. If I let his black energy in my head, it will infect me. My game will be tainted, and I’ll be a catastrophe.
There’s no backup plan for hockey. If he fucks up my game, I don’t have enough money saved. I’ll have to go back to Vermont and live with my parents. That’s unacceptable.
“Your focus is terrible. Have you considered medication?” Leo asks.
And that does it. My last shred of self-confidence breaks. It doesn’t matter that I blocked out his voice to focus on my strengths as a pro goalie. I’m the kid who has something wrong with him. I’m the kid the teachers say is a disruption. I’m the outsider. I’m broken.
“Fuck off,” I yell so loud practice stops and everyone turns to stare.
There’s no coming back from this. My career is over. I skate toward the locker room, putting a nail in my coffin. I throw double middle fingers in the air at Leo.
Mr. Dimon can decide my fate because I’m not putting up with this treatment. Part of my brain knows I have to rein in my impulses. That I’m making the situation worse.
If I was smart, I’d find a quiet place to center myself and meditate until I calm down.
My smarts left the building and aren’t coming back.
I storm out of the practice facility in my full gear with my stick in hand. Of course, I don’t fit in the car in my gear and have to wrestle it off in the parking lot. Thankfully, it’s empty, and no one witnesses my tantrum.
I text Mason to grab my bag. If I see Leo again, I’ll crack. Probably cry, which would be worse than punching him. A punch is a manly way to deal with anger. Not tears. Although my mom would tell me it’s an appropriate release of feelings.
Gah. I hate everyone right now.
The roar in my head has dulled, and my breathing has slowed.
Holding my phone, I realize I’m being reckless. But bottom line, I’m not what Ari Dimon wants in a goalie.
The phone connects. “Hi, Wes, It’s Caleb Benz. Can I make an appointment to speak to Mr. Dimon?”
“Hi. Of course. But he’s traveling. Is this an emergency?” Wes asks.
Although it feels like an emergency, it’s not. Once my brain clears of Leo’s darkness, it will take time to negotiate things. “No. When’s his soonest?”
Wes rattles off a couple of days and times, noting that my schedule prohibits the earliest appointments. I won’t abandon my team in the meantime. After we set up a meeting, he asks, “What do you plan on discussing?”
“Ummm. Do I have to say?” That raises a red flag, so much for trying to keep this low key.
“Mr. Dimon prefers to know the topic ahead of time,” Wes replies, unaware I’m sweating enough to drown in Mason’s car.
“A trade, but not immediately. We can figure something out. Or no…tell him I’d like to know my options with my contract. No, that’s rude. Ummm, tell him I’m concerned about my role on the team. No, that sounds whiny.” I stop to take a breath.
“I’ll tell him it’s a discussion regarding personal goals for the season,” Wes offers.
“Good. Yeah. That sounds professional. Thanks, Wes.” I’m lightheaded from stress and talking too fast.
“Have a good day.” Wes hangs up and I collapse against the seat.
I’m going to have to dress for the home game tomorrow. Maybe my last as an Enforcer.
My insides turn against me. Knives shred my gut, and I heave, opening the door to let the sick out. I inhale, summoning all the toxins in my system from the day as it hurls out of my mouth onto the pavement.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5 (Reading here)
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46