Page 16 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
Something in my chest tightens, an ache that’s deeper than I’m ready to name. I wish I could move through the world in the same way. But I learned young that being myself came with a cost, and when I came out, my family made damn sure I understood how high that cost could be. That kind of lesson sticks. It hardens you.
I take a drink of my coffee—black, bitter, grounding. For a second, I think about trading it for the peppermint latte I smelled in the shop. I think about handing it to him, watching him grin as though I just made his morning.
I slow down without meaning to, my stride matching his from a distance. The peppermint scent from the shop is stillclinging to my jacket, mixing with the bitterness of my coffee, and it’s impossible not to imagine what would happen if I caught up to him, handed over something warm and sweet instead of this black sludge I drink.
He’d grin up at me, thank me like it was nothing, and then—God help me—probably say something that would make me want to kiss him.
Nope. Not going there.
I take a long drink, burning the thought right out of my mouth. I keep my pace slow enough to stay behind, following him the quarter mile to the rink, until he glances over his shoulder.
He spots me instantly, his grin kicking up as though he’d been hoping I was there all along. “Morning, Coach,” he calls, his voice carrying on the crisp air. “Trying to catch up or just enjoying the view?” He wiggles his ass at me, and I hold back a groan.
The smirk on his face makes my fingers tighten around my cup. I shake my head, pretending he didn’t just light me up with his little ass shake, and keep walking until I’m next to him.
We fall into step without even talking about it, the crunch of gravel under our shoes filling the space between us. Every so often, I catch him glancing my way as though he’s checking to see if I’m still there, and every time, that damn grin threatens to start up again.
When we reach the rink, I step ahead, grab the heavy glass door, and hold it open. “Don’t want you to strain your shoulder before practice,” I mutter, keeping my tone low and gruff and pretending it’s nothing or better yet, part of the job I’m paid to do.
His grin is instant and knowing. “Appreciate the concern, Coach.”
“Athletic trainer,” I correct him. I enjoy him calling me coach way too much to have him continue it.
“Whatever you say, Coach.” He winks.
It’s stupid, the way the corner of my mouth almost twitches, wanting to smile back. I shut it down, following him inside where the blast of cold air from the ice hits us. It’s different from the cold from outside, more like walking into a freezer.
The air inside is full of the smell of ice and gear stink, familiar enough to settle into my bones. Eli peels away into the locker room toward his stall, tossing me a casual, “See you out there.”
He makes my pulse go haywire, so it’s probably for the best that his stall is one of the furthest from me.
I head for my corner of the room, dropping my kit bag by the wall, but my eyes flick sideways, just once, catching the easy way he moves, shoulders loose, still humming under his breath as he strips off his hoodie. His hair is a mess from the walk or maybe he didn’t brush it this morning, and he shakes it out before putting on his equipment and then reaching for his practice jersey. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t seem to care who’s watching, and maybe that’s the thing that gets me the most. That he’s the same when no one’s looking.
The ache in my chest twists tighter. I’ve never had that, never been that. Not with the way my family looked at me after I came out, as if I was someone they didn’t quite recognize anymore. I learned quickly to keep my guard up. To measure every move.
Eli doesn’t measure a damn thing.
He catches me looking and grins, pulling the jersey over his head and pads in a way that looks effortless. “Enjoying the view, Coach?” he teases.
I scoff, pulling a clipboard from my bag pretending I didn’t just get caught staring. Still, he closes the distance, taller now with his skates on with the guards on his blades. “Athletictrainer, not coach, and I was just making sure your shoulder was good.”
The laugh he lets out is low, unbothered, and it follows me all the way to my seat at the trainer’s bench, where I spend the first fifteen minutes of practice pretending to take notes instead of tracking the way he moves on the ice.
SEVEN
ELI
It’s notthat I don’t notice Max most days—it’s that today, I can’t seem to stop noticing him.
He’s at the bench, clipboard in hand, looking as if he’d rather wrestle a grizzly than be here, but every time I cut past that side of the rink, my stomach does this stupid little flip. Because his eyes follow me. I canfeelit, like a warm press against the back of my neck that never quite goes away.
And the more I catch his gaze, the more I can’t help but play into it. A tighter turn here, an extra flick of my glove there. Not that I need to show off—I’m the goalie, not the star forward—but I can feel him watching. Calder’s eyes track everything I do, every move I make between the pipes.
So yeah, maybe I’m leaning into it. Maybe I drop lower, faster, just to hear the sharp crack of the puck against my pad, to prove I’ve got it handled.
The next shot comes harder, and I go down for it—too fast, too deep into the butterfly. My pads hit the ice, but something in my groin tugs wrong, a sharp, white-hot sting that zips up my inner thigh.
“Fuck—” The sound tears out of me before I can swallow it. I freeze for half a second, breath hissing between my teeth, butthe puck’s already rebounding, and there’s no time. I push back to my feet, skating it off, pretending like nothing happened.
