The Draft Is On
Coach Jefferson’s sharp whistle cut through the air like a slap. “Jenkins, Svensson, Levenski! You’re not concentrating!”
The three players finally closed their mouths and looked away, but Coach’s eyes were already back on the whiteboard when Svensson jabbed Jenkins in the ribs and let out a low, vulgar chuckle.
Jenkins glanced at his phone again, thumb hovering over the screen, trying to play it cool.
How much longer could they survive Coach’s endless lectures? Finally he set the marker down and cleared his throat.
“Assume you all understand the plays. Tomorrow we’re skating the real thing—memorize it. Leave your gear in the equipment room. It stinks. Any questions?”
A chorus of “Yes, Coach!” rang out.
Coach was already answering his phone and hustling out when the players jumped up to grab their bags like it was the last drill of the season.
That was when Svensson’s voice boomed across the empty room.
“Yo, Jenkins! Finish what you started earlier. No other girls tonight? Show me the pics.”
“Hold on a sec—”
“Bro, your screen’s so fucking tiny I can’t even read it. Put it on the projector.”
“Alright, alright.”
Jenkins tapped the mirror-link feature and the projector screen sprang to life, flooding the room with a scrolling feed of pretty girls’ social-media profiles.
The moment the first cleavage-heavy feed popped up, players who had been heading for the door froze and drifted back like zombies to the projector.
“What the hell is this?”
“Jenkins is hunting for a girl who’ll open her legs for the team.”
“Shit, hook me up too.”
The air in the meeting room suddenly tasted like every frat-house kegger the players had ever attended.
Twenty-something guys leaned in, spit already pooling at the corners of their mouths, rating every profile like it was a scouting report.
“Hook a bro up with that one.”
“Give me the brunette next.”
“Mine.”
The room had become a locker-room pep rally crossed with a strip-club row.
“Yo, this one right here—Tamara Hartley. Asian-Latin mix, right?”
“Hard pass. I saw her kick a punching bag in half last month. Anger-management issues for sure.”
“Who’s the girl next to her?”
“Downward spiral for a rising actress. Classic.”
“Wait—hot Asian one? Who is she?”
“That’s Cora Han. Friend of Angela’s. That’s why the Jersey Club crowd keeps showing up now.”
The second Cora’s name left someone’s mouth, Tristan Lockwood’s pen stopped clicking.
His eyes locked on the photo glowing on the screen, and for a split second the room went dead quiet.
“Yo, rumor is the starting QB’s been sniffing around her.”
“Bullshit. Football guys don’t get second pickings. My turn.”
“Wait, I’m feeling it too.”
The rhythmic click-click of Tristan’s pen had gone from steady to frantic.
These idiots usually went for blond cheerleaders. Cora’s face didn’t care about race; it just screamed sex.
“Yo, these clowns know that one’s my type and they’re still fighting over her?”
“Yellow fever is real.”
“Hot competition. Never seen anything like it.”
Tristan leaned his chin on one hand, jaw tight, thumb slamming the pen cap again and again.
Something about the noise made the guy next to him glance over, suspicious.
Tristan didn’t even blink. His eyes stayed glued to the screen like he was trying to burn the image into his brain.
Someone finally groaned.
“Fuck it, this is taking forever. Just do rock-paper-scissors.”
“Yeah, that’s the only fair way. Alright, everybody stand up—rock, paper…”
The players were already rising when Tristan set his pen down with a sharp click.
His voice cut through the tension like a puck to the ribs.
“I’m in.”
The silence that dropped was so complete you could hear the hum of the projector fan.
“What the—?”
Everyone twisted to stare at him like he’d grown a second head.
“Say that again?”
“I’m playing.”
The room erupted in stunned disbelief.
One player finally found his voice. “Captain, you only go for MILFs these days, right? College kids don’t count.”
“Thought you were a professional MILF hunter.”
Tristan exhaled through his nose, low and tired.
It was true—his job as captain meant endless introductions, endless excuses. But Cora Han? That was different.
He leaned back in his chair, slow and deliberate.
“Plenty of competitors. One-on-one hockey matchup it is. Fair, right?”
A crumpled scrap of paper flew from the back of the room.
“Fuck you, Lockwood. Who the hell are you supposed to beat?”
Tristan caught it without looking. “You.”
The room exploded again.
“Rocky, what the hell? Change of heart? Girlfriend cheat on you or something?”
“Just curious, man.”
“Body-size difference is massive. You two gonna kiss or fight?”
“Shut the fuck up. I’ll fold your spine in half before you can blink.”
Tristan twisted the pen between his fingers, mind racing. Why the hell had he even entered this stupid contest? Pure rivalry? Or was there more?
His thumb brushed the screen again, scrolling to Cora’s profile.
The memory hit him like a body check from behind.
Last week at the pub. He’d shown up still wired from the season opener, every teammate in the room itching for a fight. He wasn’t even drinking—just exhausted.
He’d pushed the door open and the noise had slammed into him like a wall.
Behind the bar, Cora moved with that effortless grace, black hair slicked back in a perfect high ponytail, almond eyes sharp, button nose small and perfect. The yellow jersey hugged every curve like it had been tailored by the devil himself.
The guys around him were openly staring. She noticed. Of course she noticed.
Tristan had felt the same pull back then, but he’d shoved it down. Now it was back, hotter and meaner than before.
He clicked the pen once more, then stopped.
No more.
“Lockwood,” a teammate tried again, “you okay? You’re acting weird.”
Tristan finally looked up, expression unreadable.
“I’m fine. Just… interested.”
The word hung in the air like fresh ice.
Outside, the campus lights blurred past the window, but inside the meeting room the real game had only just begun.
Tristan tapped the pen against the desk once, twice, watching the screen flicker with Cora’s latest photo.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted more—winning the contest, or making sure no one else got to touch her.
But he knew one thing for certain.
This time, he wasn’t walking away empty-handed.