Page 6 of The Kiss Class

My focus is typically elsewhere, hockey and women, if I’m being completely honest, so I’m not sure whether this man has kids, but I’d hate to be on the receiving end of a lecture because his long silence is brutal.

I shift uncomfortably in the chair and then brace myself for what’s sure to be coming when he purses his lips.

“Arsenault, the new year is just around the corner. It’s time to get your act together,” he says at last.

That wasn’t the hard blow I expected. “But I’m doing great on the ice.”

“Agreed. I’m talking about your reputation.”

I double down on telling him what I think he wants to hear. “As I said, I’ve been, um, there’s someone. She seemed interested, then broke things off. It’s dumb, but I’ve been trying to make her jealous.” I wring my sweaty hands because I’m lying, but it all just came out of my mouth like slush from the Zamboni.

I spotted Nolan, our ice resurfacing operator, talking to a gorgeous woman earlier who was well out of his league. And there I go. I shouldn’t be thinking about attractive females at the moment. Not during this conversation. I want to ask Badaszek why this matters. I’m on a winning streak on the ice, and my personal life should be private.

Only, it isn’t. Thanks to social media and gossip, it’s very public.

Badaszek doesn’t stare at me so much as he penetrates my ever-living soul.

Letting out a long sigh, whatever Coach transmits without words—and the get-your-act-together missive—finally sinks in, and the truth bobs to the surface.

Yeah, I’m a winning defenseman for an exceptional teamand have everything I could possibly want within reach. But lately, it feels like I’m losing when it comes to real, substantial, lasting relationships. The lie I just told about there being someone special in my life is the worst of them all.

Underneath my cocky bravado and charm, I’ve had that hungry ache that comes from missing more than just a meal. This isn’t a topic for Nat, the team nutritionist.

A hunch about my emos—not to be confused with my macros—nudges me. This is hard to admit.

Even surrounded by all this success and what comes with it—a cush condo, a revolving door of women who lavish me with attention, and the high of being a key player on a popular hockey team—my cabinets and closets, drawers, and storage spaces are empty. Not to mention, I’m lacking a relationship that makes life meaningful.

And not because of Cecilia’s balcony stunt.

However, I refuse to think about the L-word because the solution to it can lead to the other L-word. Loneliness and love, respectively.

As I try to bury my thoughts down deep, the door behind me flies open, and Vohn Brandt enters, clipboard in hand. The Knights are old school and keep track of all our plays on paper that get placed in a secure vault or incinerated. The coaches don’t trust technology and fear our secrets could be hacked or transmitted to the opposing teams.

Vohn launches into a defensive overload strategy he’s been working through, then goes quiet when he sees me.

Badaszek remains silent, and I’m starting to wonder if, when you become a coach, you obtain special telepathic powers because they seem to reach some kind of agreement.

Then Vohn says, “Claus?”

“No. He’s on the naughty list.”

Vohn grunts.

With a disappointed wave of his hand, Coach says, “You’re dismissed.”

I rise to my feet. Despite the long, cold silence from Badaszek, I can’t help but feel as if I’m getting away with something. The meeting could’ve been a lot worse.

When I reach the door, the coach calls me by my last name, as he does every human on the planet. Except Kathleen, who I’m guessing was his wife.

“Arsenault, I look forward to meeting that special someone at our team Christmas party. Make it happen, or else I’m putting Penguin back in.”

I swallow thickly, assuring myself that he can’t replace me with our slackline player. He wouldn’t. This also means I’d better book a ticket to Niagara Falls and find that special someone.

In the lockerroom to gear up for drills practice, Micah Lemon, our center and team captain, sits on a bench with Hayden Savage, the Knight’s left winger, on his left and James Reddford, the right winger, on his right. Meanwhile, Liam, hockey royalty who calls the famed Hendrix Ellis his brother, looks on with wry interest.

The others huddle over something before Ted barks, “Let me try.”

“Your fingers are too fat,” Hayden says.

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