Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

HANSLEY

I have no idea what this man is yelling about. Stealing his ideas?! Seriously. We’re not twelve. It’s clear he’s so incessantly mad that he’s not hearing anything I say, nor does it matter what I say. However, I keep defending myself just in case my words are actually penetrating his anger and he’ll remember them later.

Regardless, all my bases are covered. I went through the proper channels, gaining permissions along the way. My players have not only been coming up with ideas but also sourcing people to do the design and print and all kinds of things. Damari is local, so he has a ton of connections in town of places willing to ‘sponsor a date,’ so there’s zero cost to my players for the date auction.

The tournament has been equally successful. I’ve had players from all the sports teams signing up. I receive half a dozen emails daily from someone saying ‘so and so asked for a sponsor for this event and I’d like to provide…’ fill in the blank. It’s been incredible.

There’s also been movement with the corporate sponsors and some teacher sponsors. Honestly, I’m amazed and humbled that we’ve received so much support from every side. I’ve been in touch with almost every coach via email, though I’ve met none of them yet, and they’re excited to join in on some of my efforts to raise money.

It’s gone smoothly with everyone except Coach Lemon Frost. Who is mad at me for… what, exactly? He can’t honestly think I stole his fundraising ideas, can he? That’s just… does he hear the words coming out of his mouth?

And then his mouth is on mine, and I’m so stunned that I just turn to stone. My brain feels like it’s run into a wall, dazed, and trying to make sense of what’s happening. He’s yelling in one breath and then the next, his mouth is on mine.

Just as I think I catch up, Lemon moves away from me. We stare at each other and then my hands move all their own and I grip his upper arms to bring him back. If we’re going to kiss, we’re going to do it right.

His mouth is already slightly open from the shock of the entire thing, so I feel like maybe that’s enough invitation to truly taste him. With a name like Lemon, my mind thinks he should taste like citrus at the very least. But he tastes like cherries. Sweet. Luxurious.

He’s small. I swear, he’s half my size. Thin but firm. Delicate and soft. I grip him tighter, pulling him awkwardly against my body as best I can since I’m sitting on the edge of my desk and he’s standing.

A door shutting down the hall makes him jerk from my grip. He takes several steps back and stares at me. Eyes wide. Then he turns and runs out my door.

For a minute, I stare after him. That didn’t really happen, right? Absently, I bring my fingers to my lips. They’re tingling. What the hell was that?! What the hell is the heat spreading through my body like this? He’s a hateful man and…

Shaking my head, I turn back to my desk and try to get back to what I was doing. I can’t focus. Hell, not even my eyes will focus.

After half an hour of being useless as I try to construct the game Lemon’s playing here, I twist my chair and kick off my shoes. Reaching for my skates, I lace them on. I stand as I pull a hoodie over my head and then grab my stick. Maybe some time on the ice will help.

Not for the first time, I’m grateful for this opportunity. The idea of never getting on the ice again after I retired was haunting. Seriously, I dreamt about it. I suppose that must be normal after spending more than three decades skating every available minute. To give up something you’ve literally spent your life doing is terrifying.

I appreciate the cool air against my skin as I skate in a figure eight around the rink for a bit before grabbing a puck from the wall. For a while, I do some skill work. Dribbling the puck and shooting it, imagining defensemen and a goalie in the net.

I’m not surprised when Seth shows up. Just as Denis said, he’s almost always here when he’s not in class. He smiles at me and I nod in greeting. For some time, we do our own thing. He stretches and skates around. Also planks on the top of the net with his arms and legs spread eagle. I’m surprised by how long he can hold it. Gear is heavy. Goalie gear is more so.

Then we played shootout for a bit. He blocks about half. This man is far better when there’s more than one person on the ice coming at him. I make a mental note that we need to work on that. Shootouts in overtime happen frequently.

Hockey allows me to not think about Lemon kissing me. In fact, I nearly forget it happened entirely. That is, until practice is over and I’m heading back to my office. As soon as I step inside, I swear I smell his perfume.

It’s definitely perfume as opposed to cologne. There’s something soft and floral about it. Pulling my skates off, I set them in their spot and grab my bag and helmet. I need to get out of this office for a while. That’ll put this event into perspective. Which should be that it was inappropriate.

Hell, I’m married. I have a wife. I’m not even gay or bi or questioning.

Frowning, I shut my office door behind me and walk down the wide hall with the blue, pink, and white stripes. This is a little earlier than I usually head home since there’s always something to do. Especially with half a dozen fundraisers that we’re trying to organize.

But I can still taste cherries in my mouth and the scent of his perfume is lingering in my nose. I should be angry, right? Not just at his presumption, but at the inappropriateness of it.

I’m not. I’m trying to be, but that’s the least of my concerns right now. The only thing I really feel is confusion. Not just because I wanted to kiss him, but that he’d kissed me at all.

My bike is parked close to the front. I open the saddle and drop my bag inside. After making sure the extra helmet I carry around is secure on the back, I pull mine on and straddle the bike. I turn it on and the roar of the engine starting calms my nerves. For a minute, I sit there with it idling and let the power under me settle the frazzled part of my mind.

After pulling the visor down and kicking back the stand, I maneuver out of the parking lot, moving slowly until I’m off campus.

I don’t live far. About fifteen miles on the outskirts of Glensdale. I take the long way, enjoying the way the air pulls at me as I ride. Focusing on nothing but the road and traffic, I work on clearing my head.

I’m only slightly successful. By the time I pull into my driveway and further into my garage, I’m no less clear about how I feel about this. Nor how to interpret what happened.

Jessica is waiting for me just inside the door like she is most nights. I think she stops whatever she’s doing when she hears my bike coming down the road so she can greet me. Most of the time, I love this greeting.

She smiles and it’s beautiful. She’s one of the most beautiful people I know.

“Hi,” she greets and immediately wraps her arms around my neck to hug me.

I settle my arms around her waist, my chin on her shoulder. Most days, I love coming home to this. But I’m feeling unsettled right now and like it’s visible all over me that a man kissed me today. And I didn’t stop him. I encouraged the encounter.

Taking a deep breath, I breathe her in. “Hey,” I say. “You have a good day?”

Jessica nods. “Yep. Cleaned up a little. Rearranged the spare room. It’s such a weird shape that furniture never looks right.”

I smile. “Maybe we need different furniture.”

She sighs. “Maybe. Seems like a waste of money.”

I appreciate how conscientious she is with money. She’s not exactly frugal, but she’s conscious that money isn’t infinite. It does run out if it’s not replenished. With her being retired from her modeling career and me being retired from pro-hockey and coaching college kids, our income stream has definitely decreased.

We’re comfortable, of course. We’ve been wise in investing our money so we have plenty for the future. But if we’re spending stupidly, unnecessarily, then that money will eventually run out far before we’re prepared.

Jessica and I spend the night how we normally do. We cook dinner together, eat together, clean up together, and then lounge around together. As I’m laying next to her in bed, I stare at the ceiling for many long hours.

I swear, I can still catch a hint of Lemon’s cherry flavor, even after I brushed my teeth. Now that the world around me has turned off for the night, my lips tingle again. My fingers twitch to touch him. The unfamiliar warmth of his mouth on mine, his body pressed against me, is like a phantom touch on my skin.

By the next morning, I’m exhausted having not slept much. I eat the breakfast Jessica prepares for me and accept my lunch with thanks as I kiss her on my way out the door.

When I’m parked, I stop into the drink shop under the library—The Queer Palace Café—and order a Harry Mary shake before heading to my office to drop my things off. It’s early, but I wander to the athletic building and down the halls as I search out Lemon’s office.

He’s in the greens, blues, and white hall that seems to be filled with football coaches. I’m beginning to think there’s more than one team by the time I reach his door and tap on it lightly. Part of me hopes he’s not here, so I can walk away and forget about it.

“Yes?” his voice answers.

My stomach flips and I shiver. Pushing open the door, I step inside. I’m both surprised and not at Lemon’s office. It’s the size of a small bedroom. The walls are light lavender and sage. He has sets of windows on two perpendicular walls, each framed by baby pink gauzy curtains. His teal desk is enormous and has a teal laptop on top. He looks almost dwarfed where he’s sitting behind it in a large teal gaming chair.

To my right is a seating area with a bright pink couch and two matching chairs that surround a furry white rug. To my left is a shelf filled with awards and trophies and a deluxe coffee station. This is like an executive office.

I look at Lemon with slightly startled eyes.

He’s staring back with his lips pursed and eyes narrowed. Stepping inside, I shut the door slightly behind me. “Hey,” I start. “So I think?—”

“I don’t really care what you think,” he snaps. I frown at him. “You’ve somehow managed to take all my ideas and get to have all the credit for them.”

“I’m happy to include you,” I insist. “I’ve been trying to include the entire department.”

“I’m not interested. My players will not be participating in your events.”

“Don’t you think that’s selfish? You’re purposefully going to make them feel excluded for your own personal feelings.”

He glares. “I don’t need your charity.”

I sigh and close my eyes. Why is he so fucking maddening? So damn stubborn, and for what?

“Lemon—”

“You can leave,” he says. “We have nothing to discuss.”

Rolling my eyes, I just stare at him. How can I bring up what I actually want to when he’s hell bent on being bitter?

“You don’t even belong here, Hansley. You’re a hockey player. Not a coach.” His tone is bitter. “They’ll see that.”

I continue to stare at him. Did he really just say that to me? Seriously? What the fuck? Without another word, I turn and leave his office, shutting the door behind me a little harder than I need to. His words don’t hurt. I won’t let them hurt. He’s not saying it because it’s true; he’s saying what he thinks will hurt me because he’s angry for whatever reason.

There are two men walking down the hall and I pause to wait for them, wondering if they’re more football coaches.

“Hi,” one says with a wide grin. I recognize the second man now that he’s next to me. Declan Whitaker, one of the athletic trainers. “I’m Alka. This is Declan.”

I grip his proffered hand. “Hansley, nice to meet you in person.”

He grins. His eyes flicker beyond me to Lemon’s door. “I see you’ve met Coach Lemon.”

Frowning, I glance back before continuing down the hall with them alongside me. “Yes. I’m still confused about why he hates me.”

Alka laughs. “He hates everyone. I win championships, so he hates me. I have a porn star husband, so he hates me. Declan and I fake dated when he wanted Declan, so he hates me.”

“I didn’t want him, so he hates me,” Declan adds, shrugging. “I don’t show favoritism to football or his athletes, so he hates me.”

“That sounds exhausting,” I admit.

They chuckle.

“You get used to it,” Alka says, “and learn to find amusement in it and how to avoid situations where you have to deal with him as best you can.”

I shake my head. Putting yesterday’s kiss out of my mind, I decide that it was obviously a mistake. It doesn’t matter. That’s fine. Perfect. Knowing this, I can move on easily enough.

“He’s lived up to his name. Lemon is sour and bitter, just like the fruit he’s named for,” Alka says sadly, shaking his head.

“Clearly he just needs a little sugar to make him sweeter. Like lemonade,” Declan teases with a smirk.

While they banter about Lemon, I muse over the things he’s said in the last two confrontations. They’re right about one thing—he’s a bitter man. Angry. And then there’s the other thing that was made much clearer just now.

Lemon Frost wants me to fail. I will not give him that satisfaction.