Page 19 of My Pucking Crush

Even back then, I knew what we were doing was more than experimenting.

But I respected Coach A’s advice and tried to move on.

The first rule of sport is Coach is God. You listen to what he says no matter what. My first coach, whose name I don’t even remember, made me skate until I cried from the pain in my ankles.

His words never left me...

Pain is part of sport.

No pain no gain.

Everything I tell you to do is for your own good.

Everything I tell you to do will make you a better player.

The following year, drills included body checking. I went home with bruised ribs and aching hips every damn day.

Trainers taught us how to treat the pain. Ice. Heat. Stretching.

Mostly?

Sucking it up.

Pain builds character and trains your brain to tolerate discomfort. The physical challenges to my body have created a blueprint on my brain, a catalogue of aching limbs and throbbing muscles.

I spent an entire clinic one holiday break from school getting pummeled. That was it. No playing strategies. No skating lessons. Just enduring hits and how to recover.

“Ryan,” one of the athletic trainers calls out to me, knocking me from those memories. “In the treatment room before the break is over. I want to see that wrist.”

These guys watch us like hawks and sometimescatch things we don’t even register. There’s so much happening on the ice. Hits, shoves against the boards, and getting tripped are part of the game.

“Nah, I’m good.” I’ve been playing hockey since the second grade. I know what I need better than anyone.

“Don’t make me talk to Beck and get you benched,” he threatens.

Trainers have license to do it, too. They know most of us are stubborn, proud mules. All while I live with aching worry that the secrets I’m hiding will come out.

I faked not being injured for years. Waited until I was in utter agony and needed a crane to get it up. Having a trainer massage my sore muscles used to terrify me, worried I’ll get hard under any male’s touch. After making it to the big leagues where it’s completely unavoidable, I learned to get through it.

That further confused me, though. Maybe I wasn’t gay?

I strut through the locker room, past my teammates. And damn I feel like I’ve been a terrible captain, focusing on my own problems for a few days.

Coach gave an update to the team yesterday. Said I’d be getting additional security. He didn’t tell the team about Richmond being responsible for my attack, though.

“Ryan will need a bodyguard from me if he doesn’t do his job and keep the puck out of my crease,” a voice from the back snickers.

Jaw tight, I turn in that direction. Kane Plesser, the second relief goalie chides me. He’s new, traded from Atlanta before the deadline. He could have easily said it lower, but he wanted me to hear it.

As the team captain, I can’t haze anyone, but jerks need to be taught a lesson. Only, before I stomp over there and give my wrist a reason to be sore, Damien Carter chuckles darkly.

“They assigned Sheppard to his detail?” Carter snorts. “When will someone beat me up so that hot bodyguard can be up my ass?”

He’s openly gay, but just to us on the team. And apparently, he finds Luca attractive.

A surge of jealousy rages inside me, stopping me in my tracks. I keep thinking Luca hates me. He never smiles. I didn’t help matters, leaving without him this morning. God, will he punish me? And how?

The rest of the team heads back onto the ice for the second half of morning skate exercises. They file past me, and I hold my breath, not wanting to smell anyone.

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