Pucker Up

Chapter One: Bobby

Bobby Jackson's P.O.V

A chill ran down my spine.

It shouldn't have. My body should be used to this feeling—the cold bite inside the arena— after basically growing up right here on this ice, running up and down these stands, and, in and out of the cinder block insulted locker rooms.

But then again, I had never stood leaning against the outside of the boards wearing only tight black dress pants and a stupid flimsy blouse for god sake. I had a good reason for dressing this way; it was a damn hot August day and I had just come from a meeting with the Dean of the University where I wanted to look presentable and professional. It was a last-minute chat before starting my first official day on the job... but that good reason didn't change the fact that I looked like an absolute amateur right now. Hell, I was an absolute amateur for letting my father convince me I was overthinking and overplanning this morning when I wanted to haul my equipment and a change of clothes around with me from the start.

I checked my watch and huffed, kicking at the boards again as the minutes passed with no sight or sound from my father. He had been "5 minutes away" for the past 25 minutes. The man had never been late a day in his life, let alone to something hockey related, but of course, he couldn't seem to be punctual on my first day as assistant coach of his hockey team.

My stomach twisted in knots. Note to self: trust your instincts, not your father.

It wasn't good for the team's morale to have me be this low-spirited right before I head onto the ice to coach and inspire. I couldn't lie though, I was nervous. Which, if I may declare in the comfort of my own thoughts, was one of the stupidest things for me to be feeling now. Hockey was what I knew... and knew well. Though I guess I was used to creating drills for kids and teenagers— not potential NHL prospects and men practically my own age.

I came here, to the rink level, instead of waiting in the lobby or near my dad's office to get one last feel of this ice before everything changed.

As I mulled my apprehension over a few more times, I begrudgingly admitted it wasn't the task at hand that had me sick to my stomach... it was the upcoming first impressions with all of the new players. And right now, the thought of being caught standing around like an idiot with nothing to do-- and wearing this of all things-- by any of these prospective players, had me wringing my hands together like a dirty sponge.

It wasn't so much that I had anything against the boys on my soon-to-be-team—hell, I hadn't even met any of them—but I learned, through tortuous experiences, it was better if they met me on the ice first after I showed them a little bit of what I could do.

It was all part of the twisted game, I guess.

Prejudice and "female athletes" practically went hand in hand. I was hard-pressed to remember one adult who didn't assume I was a figure skater when they first saw me walk into the arena; one boy growing up who didn't laugh as I laced up for pond hockey, wondering if I was someone's little sister tagging along; or one house league coach who thought they had to force the boys to pass me the puck at least once.

For my new team, if the shock that their assistant coach was a girl wasn't bad enough, then this-- the image of an ignorant girl improperly dressed for the cold temperature, wearing freaking high heels, and looking like she had never set foot in an arena before, was definitely not the impression I was going for. If I met any of them right now, I feared what would happen — they would take one look at me and either try to flirt or insult me... I couldn't decide which was worse.

I ran my fingers through my hair, tossing the long brown locks behind my back for now since I didn't have an elastic. In an effort to look more professional for my meeting with the Dean, I removed the hair elastic that lived on my wrist and abandoned it on my dresser table.