Goal Lines & First Times (CU Hockey 3)

Surprisingly, he’s sipping his drinks slowly, and when Jacobs finally declares it’s time to go, it’s two a.m. and I have the kind of buzz that’s going to make this conversation a lot easier.

Hopefully.

All I know is if I chicken out, I’m going to hate myself.

Foster and Zach leave to get an Uber back to Foster’s place, so Cohen and I follow Jacobs and Beck into the elevator and try to ignore the way they’re groping each other.

Cohen turns to his phone again, and when we reach our floor, he’s silent as he follows me down the hall and into our room.

I finally get the balls to open my mouth. “Waiting on someone?” I ask, nodding at his phone.

He hesitates a second. “It’s, ah, complicated.”

My heart’s in my throat as I prepare what to say next. “I get it. My relationships always end because apparently I’m too needy.” My breath catches and holds, as I wait for him to pick up on it. To catch on to this ripple of suspicion that’s been driving me crazy all night.

“Yeah, that sucks. I know someone with the same problem.”

Motherfucker. I’d laugh if this whole thing wasn’t so ridiculous.

“But I tell you what,” he continues. “You’re never needy to the right person. When you date someone, they should want to be around you, right? If they think you’re needy, screw them. Some people like needy.”

Like you?

I’m sick and anxious and excited and terrified that I’m completely off base here.

“Where is this complicated person tonight?” I ask.

“You know what, I have no clue. We’re having a rough patch.”

“I wouldn’t think a guy who looks like you would ever have a rough patch.” I cringe internally at my words, but they get Cohen’s attention.

He looks at me properly for maybe the first time all day, and as his gaze sweeps over me quickly, I swear I detect a flicker of interest. Having his full attention sets every nerve alive. “Looks aren’t everything.”

“Most people disagree.”

“It sounds like you’ve been dating the wrong kind of people.”

I hum. “I might have found someone cool recently.” I’m not even sure where I’m going with this. All I know is I have to keep talking.

Cohen drops to sit on the end of the bed. “And is that someone cool okay with you sharing a room with someone else?” The way he emphasizes “someone cool” sounds like a pronoun question.

“I have a feeling he’d be fine with it.” I let it slip on purpose, then hold my breath as I wait for him to reply.

“I’m a total asshole.”

“Why?”

“I guess I assumed you were straight.”

He’d be the first. “Is it going to be a problem if I’m not?”

His cheeks get a little red. “Yes. Wait, I mean, no, but … like, I’m fine if you’re not. And I said I’d sleep on the floor, I just …” Seeing him get flustered gives me this buzz of satisfaction as his gaze sweeps over me again.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor. We’re both grown-ass men who can handle sharing a bed for a night.” Probably.

Cohen shifts, and if I didn’t think he was Richie, I’d probably assume he was uncomfortable with sharing a bed with me. “The thing is, this complicated …” He seems to be measuring each word. “Guy I’ve been talking to … if they were the one sharing a bed with you, it’d probably make me feel weird.”

I share a bed with myself every night. I can’t point that out of course, but I’m so giddy over this whole conversation. It’s him. It has to be him.

“I mean, you’re—” Cohen looks like he’s scrambling to find the word. “—good-looking, and I’m not sure he’s as invested in this as I am.”

That sobers me up.

Does he really think that?

The last thing I want is my self-doubt making him doubt too. “I’m sure … well, you seem really cool to me. You’re probably reading things wrong.”

He gives me a small smile. “Thanks, Seth.”

I melt. Say my name again.

Cohen turns his attention back to his phone and types out a message.

A second later, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Oh God.

I scramble to pull it out, and what I read almost makes me swallow my tongue.

Richie: I miss my Einstein.

Is it possible for a heart to do somersaults? Pulse thundering in my ears, I look over at him and the way he’s biting his lip, hand clenched around his phone. Then he gets up, searches through his bag, and pulls out some clothes. He strips out of his shirt before turning for the bathroom.

My gaze drops to his V, and electricity shoots straight to my fingertips.

His tattoo. A mountain lion, not a catamount.

It’s him.

It’s actually fucking him.

Say something, Seth!

But I’m so in shock I can’t make my mouth work.

And then my chance is gone.

The bathroom door closes with a definitive click behind him.