Out on the Serve (Out in College 7)

I shook my head in wonder and zeroed in on Elliot chopping an onion at the island. Shirtless.

Shirtless.

It bore repeating because suddenly the mini bomb he’d set off in the apartment faded from view, and he was all I could see. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen him without a shirt. He was almost always one stitch of clothing away from being naked. But this time, I noticed his big welcoming grin, his twinkling green eyes, and his damn near perfect body.

Fact check. I’d always thought Elliot was hot. I remembered meeting him for the first time at a tournament during our freshman year of college. He played like a beast on the court, blocking shots at will and hitting the hell out of the ball with insane accuracy, as if he could see our weak spots before we had a chance to correct them. The second the final whistle blew, he dropped his on-court kickass persona, flashed a megawatt smile at me, and offered his hand and a quick “Good game.” It was the same rote acknowledgment we all shared at the end of a match, but there was something about Elliot that triggered a desire I’d kept under lock and key for years. It was hunger, admiration, need, desire, and a fuckton of lust all wrapped in one. And it was a very inconvenient combo to handle in a pair of polyester-blend volleyball shorts. The insta-wood caught me off guard and made a lasting impression.

In my defense, I was grappling with my sexuality at the time. I might have even had a girlfriend and hadn’t liked being reminded of something I didn’t have control over. That zing and the embarrassing boner I hid by benching myself with a fake cramp should have been a major strike against Elliot. But he was impossible to dislike.

Case in point…the current state of the kitchen. No, the entire apartment. Seriously, I had dozens of reasons to go apeshit bonkers and there I was, staring at his chest like an idiot.

I pulled my gaze away and shook my head. “No, um…I’m not hungry.”

“Dude, I’m starving. I almost stopped by In-N-Out on the way home, but I didn’t go grocery shopping for nothing. Take a seat. Want a beer?” Elliot pulled a beer from the fridge and held it up in invitation.

“No, thanks. I need to talk—”

“I’ll drink it. It was hot out there today. Gus wasn’t fazed at all, but I was sweating bullets at ten a.m. Did I tell you about my new partner? His name is John Gustafson. Everyone calls him Gus. He’s from Santa Barbara. He graduated before us, but according to him, we played against each other a few times, which means you probably did too. Do you know him?”

“Uh, no.”

“I didn’t either. He was kind of insulted, and I almost felt bad about it, but hey…I barely remember what I ate for dinner last night.”

His self-deprecating chuckle invited me to join in, pull up a chair, sit back, and relax. And forget about adulting in any form. Tempting, for sure. But dammit, I was just…tired.

“Elliot, we need to talk,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose.

He poured olive oil into a pan on the stove, turned on the burner, and glanced up at me. “Sure thing. What’s up?”

I still hadn’t figured out what to say, so I pointed at the onions and blurted, “You’re doing that wrong.”

In typical Elliot form, he didn’t tell me to fuck off, mind my own business, or ask who pissed in my Corn Flakes. He flashed a pirate’s grin and waggled his brows playfully. “Is that so?”

Something in his tone or his smile acted like a conduit to my cock. Not okay. I needed to stay focused. First, the talk. And the onions.

I moved around the island and adjusted the heat under the pan. “Two things. You’re supposed to add oil to a heated pan, not a cold one. There’s not much you can do about that now, but you can fix your onions.”

“What’s wrong with my onions?”

“They aren’t chopped finely enough. Those are like apple chunks. If that’s what you intended, they’re perfect. If not, I’d give them another chop.”

Elliot picked up the knife and held a tiny onion bit between his finger and thumb. “Like this?” he asked, bringing the blade down.

“Christ, no!” I snatched the knife from him and nudged his shoulder meaningfully.

I minced the onions finely and transferred them to the pan, adjusting the heat as I pulled a wooden spoon from an open drawer. I thrust it into his hands and stepped aside.

“Now what?”

“Sauté them till they’re translucent—then add your ground turkey. Make sure it’s completely cooked before you put tomatoes, tomato paste, and spices in the mix. Or whatever your recipe calls for,” I said, crossing my arms to keep myself from taking over.