I can feel him watching me.
“But we both have the team.”
“For this year,” Beck says.
“For this year,” I echo. I’m uncomfortably aware of the mirrored regret in our tones.
I have good reason not to be pursuing the NHL, but Beck’s good, and I don’t doubt he’d catch an agent’s attention, which has me wondering why he’s not taking that path. It’s not something I’ve ever cared to think about before.
I pull up at Colchester U, and we walk back to the dorms together. This time I’m not thinking of all the ways I can ditch him.
Instead, I’m puzzling out what’s going on in his head.
I don’t even care when he joins me in the elevator.
It’s probably a good thing this stupid competition is over, because this weird companionable silence between us doesn’t work for me. We need some space. And I definitely need some time to figure out what’s going on with me.
When the elevator opens on my floor, I step out and turn back to him. I open my mouth, but I have no clue what I’m planning to say. Congratulations? Not likely. Well played?
Our eyes catch a second before the doors seal closed.
I head back to my room and shower, but by the time I climb into bed, my head is a mess.
Do I want to be friends with Beck? I don’t even fucking know. What I do know is every time he says, well, anything, it draws my attention to his mouth, and that shit is dangerous territory.
Since when do I get this whipped over one stupid kiss?
I lie in bed, staring into the dark, as I consider what my next move will be. Beck’s right. I could tell the guys he got caught and I’m the one who bailed him out. I could tell them he didn’t end up doing it at all.
I open the photos on my phone, realizing he didn’t take any of his own. Dumb move on his part.
Or trusting?
I tell my conscience to fuck off as my finger hovers over the delete icon.
I’m not sure how long I lie there, staring at the picture of him, but I know if I delete these photos, it really will be all over.
And the part of me that doesn’t want that is starting to get really loud.
So instead of being smart, instead of going after captain with everything I have, instead of putting Beck back in his place, I take a deep breath, then pull up Cohen’s number.
And hit Send.
10
Beck
The countless options on the hookup app I’m flicking through are all the same. No one is catching my eye. It’s like a Netflix menu. Maybe there’s too much to choose from. Or, more accurately, it’s like a buffet offering only potatoes.
I love potatoes. Yay carb loading. But … I don’t only want potatoes.
I seriously need out of my head. I haven’t had sex since summer break started, and I’m starting to think I’m in a relationship with my hand. The problem with that is I’m so scared of commitment I don’t want to get to the point I have to amputate it so we can break up.
It’s not that I’m in a slump. I could go out and hook up easily. I’m in an interest slump.
There’s only one mouth I’ve wanted since Jacobs kissed me.
That asshole unleashed something with his tongue, and as much as I want to hate it … I can’t.
I have no idea how to deal with that for two reasons. One, he hates me. And two, oh yeah, he’s a dude.
But mainly the hating thing.
I’ll be the first to admit in high school, I was one of those ignorant assholes who’d say things that would make me cringe now. I remember at our graduation, our principal actually said in his parting speech, “I had no idea the word gay had so many meanings.” It made us all laugh, but looking back on it, shit, what a bunch of fuckheads.
It wasn’t until my freshman year at CU where I met the great hockey god Foster Grant I realized how words can affect people.
He was a sophomore and could pull seniors in line. Because he had the talent and skill to back it up on the ice.
We all looked up to him from the beginning.
He never hid his sexuality, and he wouldn’t let any of us get away with giving him or anyone else on the team shit about it. No fag-bombs were dropped in our locker room because Grant took a stand.
And that’s how it should be.
Seeing him be open about who he was gave me a new appreciation for the notion that anyone can love anyone.
He said to me once that attraction isn’t a choice.
I might not have exactly understood that until recently.
Jacobs may hate me, but I love it when he snaps at me. And that scowl? At first I thought I liked it because I’m an attention whore and I didn’t care what form it came in. Now I’m wondering if I like it because it makes him look … gorgeous.