Point Shot 01 - Two Man Advantage Read Free Page B

while Coach Lambert made us watch videos of our upcoming opponents for the night, the Kalamazoo Knights. I kept getting these weird-ass looks from Phil Prescott, one of the defensemen on line three.
    “See that? Jacoby there can really explode into open areas, especially the neutral zone. That’s something we need to keep in check. And by ‘in check’ I mean ‘in body check’,” Lambert explained to the room full of short-bus-riders. I stared downward, sick beyond belief to see the Cougar colors on my socks and pants instead of the Barracuda colors. “If anyone sees this needle-headed prick breaking loose, knock his damn ass into the boards. Don’t try to waltz with him. This isn’t a debutante ball and that ugly, inbred ass isn’t Peggy-Sue Primrose giggling as you tickle her muff.”
    I looked up. Prescott was still staring at me.
    “You got a problem?” I asked him. Everyone turned from the video screen Coach was standing beside. Prescott shook his empty head. My sights moved to Arou, sitting across the room from me. I returned to staring at my thighs.
    “So, let’s lock down Jacoby. Now, as for Tremblay in the net, we need to keep in his face. That’s why today you’re going to be spending a few hours going over net-front coverage. We get in front of Tremblay, we get inside his head. Is there some sort of love-match going on in here, Prescott and Kalinski?”
    My head jerked upward. The lights grew brighter as the video coach turned off the looping play-by-play with Tremblay front and center.
    “I think Prescott there is trying to imagine what it’s like to be a real hockey player,” I replied, then leaned back into my new cubicle. They could have saved the cost of a name placard.
    “Nah,” the gorilla said, “I’m just trying to figure out why you shaved but left that little patch under your bottom lip. Is that to pad your chin from your boyfriend’s balls?”
    “Hey! No slamming gays—you know the rules. Kalinski, ignore that last comment,” barked Dave Dewey, the assistant coach. “Now get your asses out on the ice.” Dewey clapped his hands, signaling the end of the morning pep talk.
    “I’m not gay,” I said as I stood, just to let the guys know what was what. It wasn’t a lie—I’m bi with a very strong tendency to pick a dude over a chick if given the choice. Arou nodded in silence, his mouth compressed.
    We fell into line, the shortest winger in the world with the A on his shoulder at my left. Dewey led us to the ice, his gait lopsided, since he’d had a knee blown out back in his pro days. I kept my eye on Prescott as we followed the assistant coach. The fucker was marked for death, or at the very least a tonsillectomy with a CCM Pro Stock composite stick. We filed past the stocky assistant coach.
    Someone bumped my elbow. I looked down at Arou.
    “Is that a statement?” he asked, tapping the area under his sexy bottom lip with a gloved finger as we skated.
    “It’s a soul patch, stumpy,” I said, eyes locked on Prescott. He was easy to find. Dragging his fucking knuckles on the ice as he skated sort of made him stand out. I zeroed in on the big four and one on his back, ramped up my speed, then drove my shoulder right into his spine. Up and over the boards he went, rolling off the visitors’ bench to the floor. Five coaches all bellowed at once. I threw it into reverse, bowing magnanimously.
    “ Kalinski! What in the name of my sweet Aunt Fanny’s pickled pussy is the matter with you?” Lambert roared, skidding across the ice wearing one skate, one shoe and a matching set of thumping temple veins.
    “I was practicing keeping Jacoby in check,” I said “That’s how we take care of assholes in the big leagues.”
    Prescott came over the boards like a rampaging T-Rex. Eight other players held him back. They didn’t have to on my account.
    “That kind of asinine horseshit is why you’re now leaving turds in my litter box, Kalinski!” Lambert roared, his nose an