4. 4

4

Robbie McGuire

Here’s the thing about dicks: they’re not all that bright. It’s just one of those things. Everyone knows it. At least, everyone who owns one or comes into regular contact with one knows it. Sometimes, they get hard for no reason. It happens. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you. Sometimes, they get hard when you don’t want them to—through absolutely no fault of your own—and sometimes, they don’t get hard when you do want them to. Obviously, that’s never happened to me, but I have it on good authority that it happens to other guys.

My point is, whatever that weirdness in the shower the other day was, I’ve put it down to Penile Lack of Intelligence, mine and Decker’s, and I’m not going to think about it again. I don’t need to. There are a shit ton of other things going on that actually need my attention. We’ve played two more games, and we’ve lost both of them. I’m trying really hard not to psych myself out, but I’m feeling the pressure. I was a big trade for the Vipers, and I know I’m here to turn things around for them. No one’s said anything about my performance or lack of it, but it’s not lost on me that so far, all my presence has done is make things worse for everyone here.

Luddy’s been great, trying to keep things light and encouraging me during and after games, even when I fuck up. He’s amazing. A great guy and a great captain. He’s exactly how I imagined he’d be, only a little better. I know some people think he should have retired by now, but they’re wrong. Having strong leadership matters. It counts for a lot, and sure, he might be slightly past his peak, but he’s still one of the best captains in the league. He's right up there with Ben Stirling, and that's saying a lot.

The only thing I don’t super love about Luddy is his take on a certain asshole right-wing. Before the game we just played, he pulled me over and no word of a lie said, “Give him a chance, Robbie. He’s not as bad as he looks.”

He was talking about Decker, if you can believe that.

Not as bad as he looks? Please. He’s a beast on the ice, six-five and well over two hundred pounds, and he plays with the kind of aggression that borders on madness. No care for the limits of his body or anyone else’s. There’s an intensity about him that sucks the peace and serenity out of the rink and leaves frosty chaos in his wake.

And off the ice? He’s easily ten times worse.

Most of us are still on the bench, looking at the scoreboard in dismay. The mood is bleak. We lost again. The game went to overtime, but still. An L is an L, and this one makes four in a row. It’s hard not to catastrophize and start reading too much into things. It’s using a considerable amount of my energy not to do so. I’m consciously trying not to think about it. I’m using a breathing technique I learned from a sports psychologist I saw when I first went pro. Inhale slowly to the count of five, hold for five, and then exhale on the count of five. Repeat five times. As I do it, I imagine a pristine sheet of white. A massive slab of ice underfoot, a circumference of boards and glass around me, containing and grounding me, and a cool breeze on my skin.

It’s a great technique. It works like a charm. It’s been my go-to since I learned it. Today, my anxiety doesn’t die down completely, though my thoughts do quieten and slow. It’s not peace exactly, but it’s a lot closer to it than what I felt when the other team scored and the game ended. I remain in this state as we shuffle to the locker room, skates still on. Here, but not quite here. Here, but in a slightly better realm.

“Where’s Decker?” I ask Bodie.

It’s not that I care. It’s that I feel a bit funny about the communal shower now. It’s never bothered me before, but when you think about it, having a bunch of adult men shower together and act like it’s totally normal is a really odd custom. I’ve Googled it, and it doesn’t happen in women’s sports. They have individual showers. Why communal showers are deemed acceptable in men’s sports, I have no idea. It’s not like we don’t make a fuck-ton of money for this club. If I hadn’t made Coach think I was a complete ass, I’d be inclined to have a word with him about it. Maybe there’s something the owners could do? The snake pit could do with a bit of a revamp. Might be good for the team’s morale. Might give us a little boost if we didn’t feel like we were suffocating every time we got in the shower. Might allow us to focus on the game if we were able to stop thinking about how that fucking snake on Decker’s spine writhed when he moved his arms. Might help improve our performance if we could stop thinking about roses and boners .

“Where’s Decker?” I ask Bodie. His nose crinkles and his head spins toward me. As I hear myself say it, I realize it’s the second time I’ve said it.

“Post-match strength training,” he says in a way that lets me know it’s the second time he’s said that too.

“Mm,” I say in what I hope is a professional tone. Post-match strength training is hardcore, but some players do it. I’ve played for teams that do it as a matter of course, but Coach Santos hates it. It goes against his way of thinking. To be honest, it annoys me to hear Decker does it. It feels like a personal attack on me. I’m pretty sure that’s what it is. I’m pretty sure the only reason he’s doing it is to get his stats up. He fucking loves that they’re better than mine at the moment. Lives for it. It’s annoying that he can’t let this competitiveness with me go. It’s fucking annoying that he spends his energy trying to be better than me, watching what I do and comparing himself to me. It drives me crazy.

It gives me that antsy, messed-up feeling.

That craving feeling.

I look down the hall, past the locker room. The gym is down there. I have an urge to go in there and give Decker a piece of my mind. I’d like to tell him how stupid it is that he cares so much about this. I mean yes, technically, his stats for this season are better than mine, but stats aren’t everything. I’m still better than him. He’s beaten me on goals for the past few games, but my assists are way up.

And he says I don’t pass.

Pfft.

Thinking about it works me up so much that I consider hitting the gym to work out some of this pent-up energy pumping through my veins. The only reason I opt for an ice bath instead is because I know damn well that if I hit the gym in this mood, I’ll probably hit Decker a little bit too. It’s been two days since the last time I punched him, and I keep thinking about it. It’s almost like I’m jonesing for it. There’s something about landing a punch on his smug face that I like. It works me the fuck up, and afterward, my bones feel bendy and my insides go all warm and gooey.

It’s wrong of me to feel that way. I know that. It’s bad. Violence is bad. Hitting a teammate is bad.

I’m not going to do it again.

Unless he provokes me.