Chapter 33

Luca

“A gain. And harder.” Coach Brown’s inhumanity volleyed off the gym wall directly into my skull. “That ankle is healed, Luca. I don’t give a shit if you’re tired. I don’t care if you’re sore. Show me how much you want to be on this team. Prove to me that you deserve it.”

What I wanted was to punch him in the face in he said again, again.

“Again. Move your ass.”

“Yep. I’m going to punch him.” I gasped, blinking the stinging sweat from my eyes. I’d genuinely believed the daily workouts in Nate’s home gym, the 10k runs, and let’s not forget, all those bike rides to secret hookups and the Polly-cardio that followed had me back in shape. I was wrong, and in pain. Some consolation was taken in the fact that I was not alone in my suffering. Our fearless captain, Rory Kattchikov, had been the first to vomit. Weird-as-fuck goalie Bas Lyon was the second. I was determined not to be the third.

Bent over, sucking in the deep breaths, I cursed my own stupidity. “Fucking hell. I didn’t fucking miss fucking training. I could beat the fucking shit out of myself for loving this game so fucking much.”

Coach huffed and slapped me on the back of my head. “Good to see you picked up some new vocabulary in Australia, D’Cruz. Now stop bitching and move!” He then literally kicked me up the ass into position for half-kneeling horizontal start sprints. It was a mouthful and exhausting, especially after the auditory T-test, a cousin of the beep test on steroids where Coach gets to do his two favorite things: yell and blow his whistle.

“Too slow, Luca!” he taunted as I exploded from my starting position. “Again, this time, push off from the left foot. This is not a runway, and you are not Derek Zoolander.”

“He was cussing me out before I’d taken two steps,” I bitched to Rory, who was still green and serving as our glamorous water boy. “And how does he know this isn’t going to snap my Achilles again?”

“Your scan and the fitness test, dick.” Rory replied, “If you didn’t want to show off on day one, they wouldn’t be pushing so hard. They know you’re good. Now they’re going to push you, and all of us, to the edge of … not good.”

Though complaining and exhausted, I loved it. Well, maybe not the vomiting, but I loved being part of a team. Nothing, not even the grueling training, could dampen what had been the best few days of my life. Living with Polly, being back on the team… incredible.

What wasn’t? The nerves kicked in at the end of my final assessment, when coach told me I was cleared to skate. The boys were already on the ice, so I had the locker room to myself as I changed. Tommy, our equipment manager, had been busy. My gear was out, ready and waiting in my temporary cubby. With shaking hands, I tried to let routine wash over me, shin pad, skates, pants . Left to right, bottom to top. With that done, I left the comforting smell of sweat and stinking socks, and waddled down the tight squeeze of the chute, my heart thundering so loud I could hear nothing but its steady boom, boom, boom . I squeezed my eyes closed. Before me lay my past and future; a place I’d been carried off on a stretcher, booed, in disgrace. A bright, white frozen playground of flushed cheeks, clouds of breath disappearing into the lights, laughing with my team, skating till I could skate no more. I’d been waiting for the moment for weeks. Ready or not, it was time to get back on the ice.

“Got to be honest, coach. I’m scared shitless that I can’t skate anymore. This feels weird as fuck.”

Coach Brown, my hero and mentor, responded by slapping me on the back of the head and shoving me through the gate. “Get over it, cockspank.”

It was his version of dumping me into the deep end and praying I didn’t drown, and for the first few strides, I legit thought I was fucked. My legs felt stiff. My ankles were like iron rods. But with each shaking second, I increased speed, my strides gained meters, and my smile spread. I was doing it. I was skating. I was, once again, a hockey god.

That’s when it happened. The thud of my pulse was replaced by the sounds that I once lived and breathed for. The whoosh of a stick flying through the air, scraping across the ice and connecting, and absolutely poleaxing a puck. Instinct kicked in, and I was off, chasing it like a junkie after their first hit.

Attack was not my natural game, but in five strides, I’d caught, captured, and controlled the puck and had eyes for only one thing. The only issue was that Montoya and Eriikkson, my fellow D-men and linesmen, were steaming towards me. “D’Cruz, I’m open.” Without looking, an effortless flick of my wrist sent the puck to Rory on my left. The pass took the defense with it, leaving me wide open. Reading the play and the space before me, Rory passed it back. I captured it, then hit. Before I could second guess the angle or pace or anything technical, the buzzers were lighting up.

The celebration could be compared to the teams after winning the cup. Bodies crashed into me, and hands were slapping me on the back, the head, the ass, anywhere they could.

“Holy shit, D’Cruz!” Coach yelled. “Maybe we should switch you up to forward. You fucking spanked it.”

I did. And it felt fucking amazing.

“Speaking of spanking,” Rory snowed ice up my legs as he came to a halt, removed his helmet and let off a slow whistle that disappeared into the air. “Who the fuck is that, and when can she tan my hide.”

“I’m sure Tilly, your wife, would be thrilled to hear that,” I laughed, wondering why all the celebrating of my fabulousness had ended.

“What?” He shrugged, “She’s fucking hot.”

“He’s right,” added Montoya while lazily draping himself over me. “Who is that, and why is she not sitting on my dick?”

“Any wonder hockey players have such bad reps. You guys are pigs … Also, who are you even talking about? I can only see Coach Martin.”

“It’s definitely not Martin.” Montoya scoffed, “I do not want to bend Coach Martin over and do unspeakable things to his ass. Who is she?”

“Who is who?” Frustrated, I scanned the bench and the stands, my eyes searching for what had to be a busty blonde, before all air was stolen from my lungs. Wearing my jersey, an Islanders cap, and the shortest, tightest daisy dukes was Polly. My Polly.

“Shut the fuck up, you dicks,” I spat, pushing Montoya onto his ass and skating away. “That’s my wife.”