Page 69 of Coach Sully
Cori jumps in. “That’s why I can only use vibrators!”
Okay, that’s way more than I needed to know. Backing out of this.
“No, it’s gotta be the same as women fingering themselves,” Timber says.
“Maybe you should ask Whit.” Joey snarks, talking to Delta.
Hold up. What? Why did she mention Whit?
Delta cuts her a look. “Maybe you should work on your stickwork.”
“Didn’t you hear? My stickwork is great.”
“I’m ambidextrous! I can use anything!” Timber says.
Fucking abort.
“Jesus Christ!” I shout, and cover my ears with one hand and a clipboard. “Fucking stop talking. All of you. Go. Skate. Do… something! Just stop talking.”
I shake off the mental image of my players strumming their clitars, or worse, why Timber said “anything!” with so much enthusiasm.
Everyone laughs, except for Joey. Ever the button-pusher, she adds, “Hey, Coach… can you do it?”
I wouldn’t answer that question if there was a gun to my head.
“Wait a minute… weren’t you out with a back injury a few seasons back?” she asks.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, pinching my brow. My head snaps up, and I scowl at her. “Get out there and do some lines!”
“Oooh, no thanks. I’m trying to quit. Gotta get that wholeTrainwreck Breckthing under control.”
I swing my head toward Jeanine. “Is this a nightmare?” We are weeks away from our first game, and her attitude needs a serious adjustment before then.
Jeanine points to the ice. “Breck. Lines. Now.”
Joey aims a finger at Jeanine. “There we go! Cracking the whip, Ice Queen Jeanine! I like it!”
“I swear to God…” I say to my assistant coach, shaking my head.
“Same,” she replies.
Joey Breck is a pain in my ass. Usually it’s harmless shit-talking, but I received a text from one of our staffers that they saw her partying pretty fucking hard at a club last night. I’m sure those bag lines she’s skating right now are making her regretevery decision she drank at the bar. She better not puke on my ice.
The PWHL is too new to have one player drawing a lot of negative attention. There’s a double standard for women athletes. Nobody thinks twice about an NHL player throwing a fist or leaving a bar drunk with a couple of women on his arm. However, as soon as one of our players is seen drunk and dancing up on people, all of a sudden it’s news. Annoying, but it is what it is. Our new organization can’t afford a catch-and-kill everytime Joey goes out and throws back a few.
The frustration creases my brow until I notice one of the camera guys coming out of the tunnel. Kendra’s here, and I can’t help the half smile that graces my face. I’m also thankful the crew didn’t get a chance to pick up the players’ fellatio discussion earlier. It’ll be a while before I can bleach that from my brain.
She carries in her bag of gear and pulls out a tablet, tapping away. I skate to the visitor bench where Lance, the camera operator, is setting up.
“Either of you need anything?” I ask, looking at Kendra. She knows I’m talking to her.
“Nope, we’re good,” she says with a fake smile and a firm stare.
“I’ll have one of the assistants bring over some water and snacks.” I wink at her.
Lance is oblivious as he hooks up a contraption that he wears like a vest to hold the video camera to help stabilize the shot or something. He stands and heads over to one of the holes in the plexiglass to set up a secondary tripod for filming. Jeanine is out on the ice running drills with defense. I’ve learned as soon as pucks start flying, the cameras hide behind barriers. Probably smart.
“Stop, I’m fine.” I smile at the way her lips roll together to form thepat the end of the word.