“Hi.” Cecelia greets me with a bashful smile, standing behind the half wall by the players benches, two steaming cups of Starbucks in her hand. I look at her face, then down at the coffee, then back at her face and grin at her like a fucking lame ass.
Say something, Wakefield. I mean - Holy shit, I can’t believe she showed up. Didn’t think she’d have the lady balls, although obviously I can’t say that to her. But let’s be honest: if she were a dude I probably would.
Dumbly, and with the whistle still clenched between my teeth, I continue grinning. “Hi.”
Her face lights up with relief and her cheeks, framed adorably by a light gray scarf, get pink as she extends an all too familiar white Grande Starbucks cup. “Non-fat, half-calf, mocha latte.”
I spit the whistle out of my mouth, and as if it’s possible, my grin gets wider. “Why, are you stalking me, Cecelia Carter? Cause that would be awesome.”
“Shut up and take it,” she laughs, a twinkly little laugh that reaches in and pulls at my heart a little.
Oh god, what am I saying? Pulls at my heart a little…? Ugh.
My large hand envelops hers as I grip the cup, our eyes briefly connecting before she looks away, embarrassed. I gesture towards the seating behind me. “Do you, um… want to come sit in here on the bench?”
“Oh gosh! No, that’s okay.”
“No really, it’s cool. Here.” I take a few steps towards her, leaning over and unlatching the door that separates the stadium seating from the players, and take her hand to help her down the small wooden step down.
Behind me the buzzer sounds, and moments later, the box is filled with the fourteen (out of twenty) kids that showed up to play today. Immediately, Mitchell Decker squints at Cecelia through his protective eye gear and asks, “Who’s she?”
“Is that your girlfriend?” This from Adam Ruttiger.
“No. She’s not my girlfriend. Guys, get your heads in the game.”
“Why not? She’s hot.”
What the hell? “Shut it, Stewart. Seriously.”
“It’s a legitimate question Coach. Coach McGrath has a girlfriend, how come you don’t?” Mitchell shoves his eye gear further up on his nose with his gloved hand, and continues squinting at Cecelia.
“He’s probably gay,” another voice behind me interjects.
“I am not gay.”
Charlie Davis, our goalie, shrugs and adjusts his face mask. “Being gay is nothing to be ashamed of, Coach.”
“Closets are for clothes,” intones another prepubescent voice.
“My sister is a lesbian,” Andy Boskowitcz helpfully points out, aimlessly tapping his hockey stick on the cement floor.
“I am not gay!” I nearly shout through gritted teeth. Several parents turn and look our way. Running a hand down my face, I groan and take a deep, steadying breath. “Oh my god, why am I arguing with all of you? You’re not even twelve.”
I chance a glance at Cecelia, who is on the bench barely – just barely - containing her laughter. Her shoulders are shaking and she’s got her mouth buried so far in her scarf she’s practically chewing on it. No denying it: the girl is entertained but trying to hide it. If anything is giving her away, it’s the damn tears of amusement forming in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks.
Great. She thinks this is fucking hilarious.
The traitor.
“You can jump in at any time here,” I point out to her, gesturing to the boys, exasperated, before throwing my arms up.
“Why would I do that? You’re doing so well on your own, Coach.”
She takes out her Smartphone and snaps a picture of me before wiping her eyes and blinking at me innocently. “What?”
“I swear, if you put that on Instagram, I will kill you.”
The buzzer sounds again, and I shake my head at her.
Game time.
Cecelia
In a shocking twist, the Lightening won.
The little shits actually won.
Now. There isn’t much about hockey that I’m an expert on, but judging from what Matthew told me during the game (as he tried to help me understand what was going on), he had some serious doubts about their winning. Not to mention, to say the boys went into the game incredibly unfocused… well. That is an understatement.
I chuckle at the memory.
Leaning up against the yellow cinder block wall outside of the locker room, I can hear the echo of showers running, lots of shouting, and Matthew occasionally yelling “Guys, settle down! No running on the wet floors. Nelson, are you trying to crack your skull open?”
Actually, he’s scolded them about nine times now (I counted) in the twenty five minutes he’s been in the locker room, sounding more exasperated each time.
How cute is that?
I stand here, where Matthew asked me to wait, for another fifteen minutes before he emerges from the locker room door, looking more than a little frazzled. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes, hefting a duffle onto his broad shoulders and running his free hand through his hair. It sticks up in front haphazardly. “Thanks for waiting.”