Instead, my memories switch to Grant and the way I used to watch him on the ice. How every time I sent the puck sailing past the opposing goalie, excitement would race through me, because scoring meant getting attention from Grant. Out there, with the adrenaline running high, every emotion is put into overdrive, and it’s impossible to tell what’s real and what’s amplified by the endorphin rush.
I’d put it down to hero worship, but now I’m not so sure.
Because in the locker room, there was none of that high. It was a quiet moment, but so fucking intense my skin felt like it was going to zap right off my bones.
There was more charge in that kiss than a thousand hockey games, and that thought is terrifying.
The insecurities I’d thought I put to rest when Grant hooked up with Zach are starting to creep in again.
Zach is awesome, and I like him, but when he and Grant began dating, I couldn’t help the little seed of resentment I held toward both of them.
I didn’t know where it came from, and I didn’t understand it.
I felt something more than friendship toward Grant, but I wasn’t sure what it was.
The longer they dated, the less confused I became because it was obvious they belonged together. For it to disappear that easily, I’d chalked it up to an episode. Like, a phase.
But tonight, when Beck pulled away from our kiss, his blown pupils were from straight up lust, and the look made me want to grab him, shove him up against the wall, and kiss him again.
Then his panic kicked in.
Which reminded me exactly how I was supposed to be acting. How I was supposed to be feeling.
I groan into my hands and finally let myself admit that I liked it. I’d forgotten I was in a locker room with half the team watching because the only thought that filled my mind was how good another man felt against me.
My stupid brain didn’t even have the decency to forget who I was kissing.
The fact it was Beck should have been an instant boner killer.
It wasn’t.
It did the complete opposite.
Fuck this.
I’m not going to sit in my dorm room and wallow over this. I’m not even going to let myself think about it.
It was a stupid challenge that didn’t mean anything, and it sure as hell will never happen again.
Especially with someone like TJ Beckett.
I shudder. Even his name sounds rich, important, and pompous.
No more thinking about him!
I get up and change into loose shorts and a tank top, then head for the team gym. Coach gave me a set of keys for the summer so we can take the camp kids for early morning weight sessions.
Time to work out until I pass out.
Is that a healthy way to deal? Fuck no. But I don’t know a guy on our team who doesn’t face their problems in the exact same way.
It’s eerily quiet as I walk in and get started. The whirl of the treadmill, the heavy thump of my feet, and each labored breath are all I hear for a long time. Normally it’s enough to clear out my mind, but this time when everything else fades away, the kiss comes back in sharp focus.
His mouth. His big body pressed against mine …
I push harder and harder until I can barely see straight.
My tongue darts out to lick at my lips, and there’s that taste again. It’s not even anything specific, just warm breath and hard lips and a slight hint of something sweet.
My dick is being persistent, so I finally slow the treadmill to a stop and lean forward against it, struggling to breathe. My tank top is plastered to my back and chest, and I have to push down on the bulge growing between my legs.
And while I stand there, exhaustion setting in, desperately trying to keep from getting turned on, a slow sort of awareness starts to seep into my tired muscles.
Occasionally there comes a point in a game where you’re behind, and your body is aching, and your mind has broken, and you realize you have nothing left to give.
I’ve fought against this pull for so long, but tonight, that kiss, I’ve reached my breaking point.
What did that Katy Perry sing about again?
I kissed a guy.
And my dick really fucking liked it.
Beck doesn’t show up for Saturday’s practice—Coach said he was sick. Aside from a few questioning looks in my direction and a few snickers, the team lets it go. We don’t cross paths on Sunday either—our day off—even though I meet up with Cohen and Rossi at a bar off campus. When it comes to alcohol, Beck normally sniffs out anything going down, but Cohen says he hasn’t heard from him.
I don’t know why it bothers me so much.