Page 8 of What We Knew Then
I can’t stop thinking about the way her eyes bulged when she looked at my dick. The piercings always catches women off guard—some so much so that some panic and leave before anything fun can happen.
Not Lee. She stayed. And came. And came again. A perfect Friday night, if you ask me. Something I desperately needed to get through this Saturday morning.
My stomach pulls on itself with each step I take closer to the field house. Some colleges may have one to accommodate multiple sports, but at Great Lakes U, it’s for anything and everything hockey. If they had any trouble recruiting, this would be a check in the pro column.
I enter my five digit code at the door, the one which gets me into the training facilities whenever I want. Or when I’m being forced—like today. I walk the hall, its walls covered in Great Lakes U moments of success. Won’t find one for last season—that picture hangs in my old locker room back in Ohio.
A blip of sadness hits me; a miss of the familiar, the things I was forced to leave behind. Even if it wasn’t my fault. Fuck, maybe it was? Doesn’t matter. Especially not now.
Someone says my name and my spine goes razor straight at the sound. Coach Banks stands ahead of me, one of my teammates beside him, and it’s like my mouth is full of sand. I wipe my hands on my pants, not wanting to let on that I’m nervous.
He offers a hand and I grip it, strong and firm, just like Coach Knight taught me. “Coach Banks, thanks for having me.”
He’s what you hope you end up looking like after a long hockey career. You can tell he’s been through some shit but he can smile and it still reaches his eyes. I don’t see any scars, nothing like the one on my upper lip.
Coach nods. “This is Troy. Our senior captain.”
The introduction is unnecessary. I’ve played against Troy for most of my college career, and even a little before then. He’s someone you’d expect to be a captain—never breaks the rules or gets his gloves dirty. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him in the penalty box. At least he can back it up and is a fucking terror on the ice. One of the positives for this season is that I get to play with Troy instead of against him, but I’d never tell him that.
“I’ll see you in my office tomorrow morning. Eight. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply as Coach keeps his eyes on me, walking into the room where I’m guessing our meeting is.
Troy stands still, hands on his hips, and his eyes almost roll to find mine. “Coach loves to take chances on players. Even when they don’t deserve it.”
“I’m a charity case. Got it.” I turn for the meeting room.
Troy grabs my arm. “That’s not what I said. I want you to help us win this year, so maybe try and keep your shit together. Keep the self-implosions to a minimum.” He claps me on the back as he steps in front of me. “There’s no one else to save you if you fuck this one up.”
I hate that he’s right. He doesn’t even know how right he is.
He doesn’t know anything about what happened. Only one other person knows the truth. And that’s how it’s going to stay.
“We’re counting on you. Us losing last year was a fluke. We know how to win here,” Troy boasts, walking into the meeting room.
Following close behind, I tip my head down, looking at the floor while I try to get my shit together. I knew this would be weird, being on a team I’ve been programmed to hate most of my life, but I can do this. I’ve definitely been through worse.
Inside, Troy walks to his seat, and whispers begin floating around when everyone sees me.
“Only one transfer this season. I think you’re all familiar with Lane Maxwell.” Coach’s voice booms as he gestures to me, and the entire room falls silent. “He’s wearing number twenty-seven this year.”
I make eye contact with every player in the room. When I get to the end of the roster, someone half-lifts a hand and points to an empty seat beside him.
I’m heading to take a seat when Coach continues, “Lane’s a helluva player. I’m sure you remember. He’s going to be a great asset to the team and I expect you to treat him that way.” He looks down his nose, eyes hitting every player as I sit.
Letting my back hit the chair, I let out a slow breath. The air is seemingly made of glass—one wrong move and everything could collapse on itself.
This is brutal.
The player next to me turns and says, “I’m Leo. And I’m fucking glad I’m playing with you instead of against you.”
After hearing his name, I immediately know who he is. Leo Dempsey. He’s a junior this year and one of the only other players besides Troy who required specific defensive strategies. But unlike Troy, he’s a fighting enthusiast. He’s the type of guy who will take his gloves off, break open his knuckles, and grin ear to ear. He and his family are hockey players through and through. Like, we play at Dempsey Arena, which I learned isn’t a coincidence—his family donated the funds for the new facility.
“Me too,” I reply. And I mean it.
Leo nudges the guy next to him until he finally lifts his hand and offers, “I’m Noah.” Leo keeps staring like that’s not enough, so Noah adds, “Welcome to the team?” It lands like a question. Leo just shakes his head, and Noah shrugs.
We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore. Or Ohio.
