Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Defending Frozen Four champs? Not make it to regionals? Do you need a head check?”
Okay, so maybe literally everyone in my life is more focused on hockey than I am. Mom occasionally drags me to the home games out of support for Dad, and I put up with it because the three of us go out for dinner afterward. It may not seem like it, but Coach Hogan is a family man, and it’s amazing to see that not only are he and Mom still together, but they actually like each other.
That’s what I want one day. Not so much the traditional marriage and kids, but someone who’ll be there for me the way my parents are there for each other.
Until then, there are a lot of queer men on campus I haven’t had fun with yet.
“Why are you smiling?” Katey asks.
“No reason.”
“You’d have to be the only person I know who’d be smiling over losing a bet. Do you really wanna play errand boy for a whole year?”
“Equipment manager, thank you very much.” I fail at forcing a haughty tone. “And of course I don’t. I had to give up my spot on the LGBTQ community committee for this, but I lost, so now I need to make the most of it. There’s always a silver lining.”
“Ugh. Your optimism is unnatural.”
“What’s the point of moping? It won’t change anything. Besides, it’s not like I’ll need to talk to anyone, so I’ll put in my earbuds and listen to coursework.”
“What a riot.”
“Supportive face, please.”
She bats her eyelashes, and the sweet smile she uses on our professors appears. “A few things, babe.” She counts on her fingers. “The blue line is not a euphemism for drugs, you can’t pet puck bunnies, and for the love of all that is good on this earth, when it comes to hockey players, remember Momma’s rules: look with your eyes, not with your hands.”
“Don’t worry, they play hockey. That’s an instant boner-killer right there.” Between my teammates when I was younger and Dad, it’s become clear to me that the only thing hockey players are interested in is hockey. Guys with zero personality instantly lose ten hotness points.
“See you tomorrow, ball boy,” Katey sings.
“Even I know hockey doesn’t have balls.”
“Yeah, but it sounds better than puck boy. Laters.”
I heft my bag higher as I push my way through the doors. Thankfully there are no jocks around yet, seeing as there’s still a good hour until practice, but Dad wanted me to get here early to meet some of the assistant coaches.
I walk down a hall filled with trophy cabinets and slow in front of the huge photo of the Frozen Four winning team from a season ago. Even though hockey and I will never get along, it makes me happy to remember Dad’s excitement that night.
Last season was a different story. They were a mess to begin with, somehow pulled it together to make it to regionals, and then food poisoning and injuries plagued them. It’s actually kind of unfair that they lost because it wasn’t that they played horrible—they were four players down. It’s a shame it didn’t happen a few games earlier, though, because then I wouldn’t be here now.
I wish I had the same passion for hockey that Dad does, but being on the ice felt like a chore, and seeing how different Dad would treat me when I played made me resent it.
At home, he’s always been warm and calm. On the ice, he treated me like any of his other players. It’s not like I wanted special treatment, but Dad in coach mode is intense and intimidating and someone I didn’t like very much. It made me resent playing, but Dad could never understand that.
Note to parents everywhere: don’t judge your kid based on what you like.
I make it to Dad’s office and push inside without knocking. There are two others there already, and Dad introduces Assistant Coach Dalton and Beck, who I recognize as one of Dad’s players from last season.
“This is my boy, Kole,” Dad says. “He didn’t think we’d make it to regionals last year, and because of that bad call, he’s our equipment manager this season. Anything you need, just let him know.”
“I’m happy to serve.”
Dad sees right through my sarcasm and levels me with a look. “You will take it seriously. This might not be your scene, but I expect things will run smoothly.”
“You’ve hired a hockey-phobe, not an idiot. I’ve got this.”
“See that you do.”
“No offense …” Beck says, sounding exactly like he’s about to be offensive. “But do you even know a thing about hockey?”
“I know enough.”
“He played for seven years,” Dad says, and there’s that twinge of disappointment, clear as day. You’d think six years later, he’d be over it. “We’ve been through what I expect. He’ll be fine.”