Chapter 4

Tyler Bennett   pov

The problem with dicks is that they're not very intelligent. It's simply one of those things. Everybody is aware of it. Everyone who has one or frequently interacts with one is aware of it, at the very least. Sometimes, they get hard for no reason. It does occur. Ask anybody. They will inform you. Sometimes, for no fault of your own, they become difficult when you don't want them to, and other times, they don't become difficult when you do. Of course, I've never experienced it, but I have solid proof that other men do.

My point is that I've attributed the strange behaviour in the shower the other day to both Moretti's and my own Penile Lack of Intelligence, and I won't be thinking about it anymore. I'm not required to. There are a ton of other issues that genuinely require my attention. Two additional games have been played, both of which we have lost.

I'm feeling the strain, even though I'm making a great effort not to worry myself out. I know I'm here to help the Bears turn things around since I was a significant trade.

Although no one has commented on my performance or lack thereof, I am aware that, thus far, my presence has only made matters worse for everyone there. Carter has been fantastic, making an effort to keep things light-hearted and supporting me both during and after games, even when I make mistakes.

He is incredible. A wonderful man and a fantastic captain. He's just a little bit better than I had anticipated. I am aware that some people believe he ought to have retired by now, but they are mistaken. Strong leadership is important. It counts for a lot, and granted, he might be slightly over his peak, but he’s still one of the finest captains in the league. It says a lot that he is on par with Ben Stirling.

Carter's criticism of a specific right-wing arsehole is the only aspect of him that I don't really adore. He drew me aside before the game we just played, and without lying, he said, "Give him a chance, Tyler." He's not as horrible as he appears. If you can believe it, he was discussing Moretti. Not as horrible as he appears? Please. At six-five and well over two hundred pounds, he is a beast on the ice who plays with a level of intensity that verges on insanity. He doesn't give a damn about the boundaries of his body or anybody else's.

Carter's criticism of a specific right-wing arsehole is the only aspect of him that I don't really adore. He drew me aside before the game we just played, and without lying, he said, "Give him a chance, Tyler." He's not as horrible as he appears. If you can believe it, he was discussing Moretti. Not as horrible as he appears? Please. At six-five and well over two hundred pounds, he is a beast on the ice who plays with a level of intensity that verges on insanity. He doesn't give a damn about the boundaries of his body or anybody else's.

He has a certain intensity that steals the calm and tranquilly from the rink and leaves behind icy pandemonium. Off the ice, too? He is undoubtedly ten times worse. Most of us remain on the bench, staring in dismay at the scoreboard. The atmosphere is depressing. Once more, we were defeated. Even yet, the game went into overtime. This makes four in a row. An L is an L. It's difficult to avoid becoming too optimistic and reading too much into situations. Not doing so is consuming a significant amount of my energy. I’m intentionally trying not to think about it. When I initially started playing professionally, I consulted a sports psychologist who taught me a breathing method.

Breathe in carefully for five counts, hold the breath for five counts, and then release the breath on the fifth count. Five times over, repeat. I picture a spotless sheet of white while I work. A chilly air on my skin, a ring of boards and glass around me, enclosing and grounding me, and a huge slab of ice beneath my feet.

It’s a terrific method. It works like a charm. Since learning it, it has been my first choice. My anxiousness doesn't entirely go away today, but my thoughts do settle down and become quieter. It's not quite peace, but it's far closer than how I felt when the other team scored and the game was over.

I stay in this mindset while we walk, skates still on, to the locker room. Not quite here, but here. Here, but in a little better world. “Where’s Moretti?” I enquire with Jace.

I don't really care. It’s that I feel a bit weird about the shared shower now. I've never been troubled by that before, but when you think about it, it's a pretty strange habit for a group of adult guys to shower together and act like it's completely normal. It doesn't occur in women's sports, according to my G****e search. They each have a shower.

I'm not sure why communal showers are considered appropriate in men's sports. It's not as though we don't earn a ton of money for this club.

I would have talked to Coach about it if I hadn't given the impression that I was a total jerk. Perhaps the owners could take some action? A little makeover would be beneficial for the snake pit.

The team's morale could benefit. If we didn't feel like we were choking every time we took a shower, it might give us a small lift. If we could quit worrying about how that fucking serpent on Moretti's spine writhed when he moved his arms, we might be able to concentrate on the game. If we could put flowers and boners out of our minds, we could do better. “Where’s Moretti?” I enquire with Jace.

His head turns to face me, and his nose wrinkles. I recognise that this is the second time I've said it as I hear myself say it. "Post-match strength training," he continues, making it clear to me that this is the second time he has mentioned it. "Mm," I say in an attempt to seem professional.

Although it's difficult, some players engage in post-match strength training. Coach Santos detests it, but I've played for teams that do it on a regular basis. It contradicts his way of thinking. To tell the truth, I find it annoying that Moretti does it. I feel like I'm being attacked personally. I'm rather certain that's the case.

His head turns to face me, and his nose wrinkles. I recognise that this is the second time I've said it as I hear myself say it. "Post-match strength training," he continues, making it clear to me that this is the second time he has mentioned it. "Mm," I say in an attempt to seem professional.

Although it's difficult, some players engage in post-match strength training. Coach Santos detests it, but I've played for teams that do it on a regular basis. It contradicts his way of thinking. To tell the truth, I find it annoying that Moretti does it. I feel like I'm being attacked personally. I'm rather certain that's the case.

I mean, sure, scientifically, his stats for the current campaign are greater than mine, but statistics aren't everything. I’m still better than him. For the previous few games, he has outscored me on goals, but my assists have significantly increased.

I don't pass, he says. Oh no. I get so excited thinking about it that I think of going to the gym to release some of the pent-up energy coursing through my veins. The only reason I choose to take a cold bath instead is that I am fully aware that if I go to the gym in this state of mind, I would most likely also hit Moretti a little.

The last time I hit him was two days ago, yet I can't stop thinking about it. I almost feel like I'm craving it. There’s something about landing a blow on his smug face that I adore. My insides get warm and sticky, and my bones become pliable after it works me so hard. I shouldn't feel that way. I am aware of that. It's not good. Violence is not good. It is wrong to hit a teammate. I will never do that again. Unless I'm provoked by him.