Page 13 of Between the Pipes

“You can leave, too,” I call to Anthony, because I seem to only want things I cannot have and I absolutely cannot haveAnthony Lawson. He looks up from where he’s still attending to the goal and waves a hand in my direction.

“I’m good,” he yells back, voice echoing across the now empty rink.

Resigned, I begin rounding up stray pucks. This sort of thing seems to be the hardest part of the job, for me. My peripheral vision is garbage, even in my good eye, so I end up missing more than I gather. Half the time, when I think I’m done, I look back over the ice and find twice as many pucks and cones as what I have in my hand. It’s infuriating, and only becomes more so when Avery, and now Anthony, are in attendance. I don’t want them to know about my eyesight, but it becomes increasingly difficult to hide in situations such as this.

“I can clean up here,” Anthony’s voice comes from my right side, unexpectedly close, and I nearly jolt, “if you have things to finish up in the office.”

Annoyed at being snuck up on, I turn to look at him and repeat my earlier request. “You can go.”

“Or,” he says, with the air of someone about to unveil a surprise, “I can stay and help. And then we can grab something for dinner—I’m famished.”

“No dinner.”

“Yes dinner.” He skates off before I can reply, or possibly whack him with my hockey stick.

We make quick work of cleaning up, and if he had to pick anything up behind me, he’s tactful enough not to bring it up. When we exit the rink, Anthony steps off the ice ahead of me and I'm treated to an unimpeded view of his ass and broad back. The clothes he’s wearing are tight, which I appreciate and curse in equal measure. Somehow, my useless eyes have no problem at all focusing onhim.

He’s humming tunelessly as we traverse the halls toward my office, and I bite back the urge to ask him toplease shut the fuck up. I can’t tell if it’shimthat makes me uncomfortable, or just the fact that I’m attracted to a straight man that’s pissing me off. It’s been a long time—coming up on two years—since I’ve had sex with another man; so, naturally, the first guy to get me going since the accident is one that is unavailable to me.

When we get to my office I knock my right shoulder against the door frame,again, which is a testament to how scattered my thoughts have been. Anthony follows me in, like a stray puppy trailing me home. I wish I could just fuck him and get him out of my system. One time, scratch the itch, and I’d be happy.

“So, dinner.” Instead of sitting in front of my desk, he flops into Avery’s empty spot. I half expect him to swing his feet up onto the tabletop. He’s got his phone out and is scrolling through something. “What are we feeling?”

No amount of angling will keep my computer screen out of his field of vision. I leave it off, even though there are hours of video footage I could be reviewing. I’ll have to work on it tonight, in the privacy of my Anthony-free home.

“I’m not hungry,” I lie, but my traitorous stomach gives me away. Anthony’s eyes fix on my abdomen and a strange look crosses his face. I’d say it was longing, but I’m not in the business of fanciful thinking.

“If you don’t tell me what you want, I’ll just pick something for you,” he warns, eyes tracking from where they were locked on my stomach, upward over my chest, before he meets my gaze. There is an unmistakable heat in his expression. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t off base with the longing. The realization makes my fingers tingle; a desire to touch him manifesting as an actual physical reaction. I should fire him, and save myself the constant headache of his company.

“Fine with me.” I shrug. I don’t care what I eat. The only thing I’m hungry for is hiding under tight, black athletic pants and is firmly off limits.

For a few minutes there is silence, but for the tapping of his thumbs. I apply myself to work, using a legal pad to outline some drills and line changes that have been tickling my mind all day. Because he’s seated on my left, I’m free to close my right eye while I write, which helps immensely. The thought of falling asleep tonight without having to battle a headache is intoxicating. Anthony remains silent, though surely, he’s done ordering food. The probability of him sitting there watching me is high, so I ignore him and continue to try and get some work done.

He’s the first to break the silence, as I knew he would be. “What are you doing?”

“Working.”

He makes an aggrieved sound, and I bite back a smile.No smiling, it will only encourage him.Taking pity, I sit up and turn my chair enough to get a good view of him. “There were some drills I thought of earlier, that I’d like to try out. I wanted to put them to paper before I forgot.”

“Right. I’ll be quiet.”

“Can you be?” I ask, dryly, and he rolls his eyes.

“Food will be here in thirty.”

“What’s on the menu?”

He shrugs, like he didn’t just order it. “I guess you’ll find out.” It’s my turn to roll my eyes. Crossing my arms, I cock my head at him.

“Want to talk defense?” I ask, and Anthony sits up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Tell me what you think about McCaffry.”

“He’s weak,” he says, immediately. “Doesn’t trust anybody else to do their job and it makes him sloppy at his.If you’re wanting to start Morgan between the pipes, McCaffry is going to end up being a problem. They were picking at each other constantly. They either need to fuck or fight, whichever one gets them over their shit fastest.”

I bark out a startled laugh. It’s an apt, if not crude, summary. “He’s in his final year at school. I’m considering cutting him.”

“He’s played the previous three years?”

“Yeah. And from what I’ve seen, there’s been no improvement. He came into the program good, and plateaued.” I tap a finger on my legal pad, eyes resolutely on Anthony’s andnotthe hollow of his throat. “I can’t waste a spot on him if he hasn’t shown he deserves it.”

---