Power Plays & Straight A's (CU Hockey 1)

And it so happened to have been Foster exhibiting those behaviors.

Foster, who is in my room. Alone. Watching me with the kind of shrewdness I’d never appreciated.

“I agree that maybe we should take a, umm … a rain check. Yes. Let’s do that.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” He shoots to his feet and holds the pizza box out to me. “Want any more?”

“No, thank you.”

I’m frozen as he hurries to grab his hockey gear. Watching him loop the bag around his shoulder, his arm muscles working under the weight of it, is far more erotic than I could have imagined. I force myself to look away. To forget the image.

He’s already hurrying to get away, and who can blame him with how the conversation has gone tonight? This was supposed to be strictly academic, and now I’m objectifying him. I can only imagine how appalled he’d be if he knew.

He gets the door open, and I force myself to speak. “I really appreciate your time.” I’m being sincere, but it comes out stiff and formal.

Still, it makes him hesitate.

“Yeah, no problem …” He turns back to me, catching me incredibly red-faced, I’m sure. “Hey, about your first day here …”

Oh no. Which part of that god-awful day?

“I’m sorry for laughing.”

“Huh?”

“At the …” He points to his face. “I shouldn’t have laughed.”

It’s so completely unexpected, I’m speechless.

“Right. Okay.” He reaches for the door, and I shoot out of my chair.

The movement is sudden and jerky, but thankfully, he doesn’t call me on it.

“It was, umm …” I hover by him. “It was funny. I suppose. Thinking back on it.”

The tense line of his jaw softens a little. “Yeah, but I’m still sorry.”

It’s not until I’ve heard those words that I realize I don’t need them. If Seth had found me like that, he would have taken the shirt from his back to clean me up and hurried me away from where anyone could see.

Maybe that’s how I should wish Foster reacted, but …

“I liked that you laughed.”

Apparently, he’s not expecting that. “What?”

“It was honest. How you would have been with anyone, I think.”

“Well yeah, but—”

“Then apology not accepted.”

“I’m so confused.”

I laugh but quickly swallow it. “You didn’t treat me like—” I shake my head, unwilling to launch any further into it. “Never mind. Okay, well, good night.”

I hurry to close the door before I reveal anything else he might interpret as strange. And even with nerves flooding my system, I can’t stop a small laugh from breaking free. That was … possibly one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. Foster, the jockiest of all jocks came to my dorm to help me with coursework. Which he didn’t seem interested in at all. I’m overwhelmingly confused, but I … liked it.

The Foster-shaped imprint in my comforter taunts me all through my nightly routine, and when I finally mess it up enough to crawl between the sheets, I immediately regret it. It would be my luck that the first and only man I’ve had in my bed would be my best friend’s straight, jock twin brother.

And … oh no. I’m his TA. His TA who will be grading his papers and possibly lecturing his classes in the future. Was this grossly inappropriate? What would Professor Lawrence say about him being in my room? My high crashes. The only way I’m able to calm down enough to fall asleep is by reassuring myself it won’t be happening again.

Even if I wanted it to.

7

Foster

I might’ve run out of Zach’s room before I did something my brother would never forgive me for.

I liked it when he got flustered.

I liked it when he kept rambling and wouldn’t look me in the eye.

I’ve always thought he was cute, and I’ve had a lowkey, manageable crush on him, but when he was saying things like optimal state of arousal, I was close to showing him exactly what mine is.

Him, apparently.

And that sucks. Because Seth has already laid down the law.

Zach is off-limits.

I’ve been fine with that. I’ve kept my distance and stopped myself from getting to know him for the last three years.

Nothing has to change. I can still look out for him without hanging out with him.

I thought I’d have to try to evade him throughout the week, but it seems we both have the same idea.

Guess he doesn’t need my help after all. Or maybe he doesn’t want it.

That doesn’t stop me from going home for the weekend in hopes he’s there with Seth.

He’s not.

It doesn’t stop me from watching his every move during our sports psychology class on Monday morning.

He keeps his head down, his eyes on his computer screen as he takes notes while Professor Lawrence drones on and on about shit our coaches taught us freshman year. I wonder if he’s avoiding making eye contact with me or if he has to focus on the class so he actually knows what to expect when we hand in our assignments for him to grade.