“No, dude. Lindsey Teafield last summer. Ask anyone.”
“Nice, dude.” He nodded, impressed. “You hear that, Logan?” He looked over to the corner of locker room where Logan, the youngest and smallest kid on our team, was sitting. “Should be inspiring. Can happen to anyone.” He shot me a smirk.
“Please.” I said. “Look at me and look at Logan.” I ran my hand through my cold, sweaty hair, the odor of youth and hockey emanating from everything. “It’s not random. Sometimes virgins just stay virgins. Like Logan, or Coach Randy.”
Coach Randy had always been one to joke around—he’d said he’d buy us a keg if we won Districts or he’d ask for suggestions on drug dealers, always saying he needed a new “weed guy.” The Sunday after the homecoming dance he’d remarked that our goalie smelled “a lot like pepper spray.”
Everyone had heard my accusation. The locker room quieted. All eyes fixed on Coach Randy. He stopped untying his skates. I immediately regretted what I’d said.
Coach Randy wasn’t smiling. He locked eyes with me from across the room where him and Darren, his son and our star right-winger, were sitting. Everyone had stopped now. I felt my fists preemptively clench.
I knew he could tell I was afraid. He let my anxiety linger for another few seconds before cracking a smile. “I’m no virgin.” He let out little laugh. “Come on, guys,” he said, throwing his arm around his son. “I’ve got proof.”
Coach Randy stood up then and dug through the pocket of his jeans. He retrieved a smart phone and stumbled over to me in half-untied skates. Browsing, he found what he was looking for and nodded, assured. He tapped the middle of the screen and handed it to me.
There was now no question about Coach Randy’s virginity status.
Many more questions, however, sprung to mind. The cowboy hat and bandolier seemed odd wardrobe choices for Coach Randy in this outdoor amateur porn. It, also, was never explained why was he was periodically firing a handgun in the air.
Who was the woman in the video? She definitely wasn’t either of Darren’s stepmoms. Why did she have one of those racist, inaccurate Native American headdresses on? Theories on a kooky wardrobe coincidence, creative differences, or misguided political satire were all briefly considered. By the way, why was she referring to Coach Randy as “Zodiac Killer” whenever the camera panned to the date on what I presumed that day’s newspaper?
Coach Randy was a lot of things, but definitely not a virgin.
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