Face Offs & Cheap Shots (CU Hockey 2)

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay and talk?”

“Hell no.”

“Figured I should check. I’m not keen to stick around either.”

We hurry quietly through the penthouse and make our way down to Beck’s car. When we’re finally on the road again, he lets out a long breath. “Are you going to plug your music in, or what?”

“Sure, but you’re taking us through drive-thru. I’m starving.” I moan dramatically and rub my stomach which makes Beck laugh. Hearing it again is instant relief.

While he concentrates on driving, I set my hand on his thigh like he had me do yesterday.

“Now, I’m pretty sure the answer is no, but I feel like it’s my boyfriendly duty to ask if you’re okay?”

Beck snorts. “We both know what went down, and now I want to move on and forget about it.”

If it was anyone other than Beck, I’d push, but I’m pretty sure he means it. He does want to move on.

We go through a drive-thru, and the smell of bacon and coffee makes my mouth water.

“How do you know your parents won’t care?” he asks after we’ve put away two breakfast sandwiches.

“I remember a few years back, after my first year of college, we had a booth at the Dorset Summer Festival and Mom put up a little rainbow sign saying ‘ladies, gaydies, and theydies all welcome.’”

Beck laughs and I cringe.

“She got some complaints about political agenda or whatever, so the next year she made the sign bigger.”

Beck’s still laughing. “And this happened just after you started college?”

“Yep.”

“Right after you met Grant.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “And?”

“Oh, Topher.” He pats my hand. “A blowjob says literally no one is surprised when you introduce me as your boyfriend.”

“Fuck off, they don’t know.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I wasn’t like that with Grant.”

“Okay, honey.”

“Could you make that sound any more patronizing?”

“I could try.”

I can’t even be mad when he gives me a cocky smile because it feels so good to see him happy. “Better start relaxing those throat muscles.”

It takes us three hours to get to Dorset, and I direct Beck toward the farm. We used to deal mainly with vegetables, but since our apple trees grew in and Mom started running weekend events, it’s more of an orchard than a farm.

The whole front entrance has been rebranded over the past few years to look welcoming and inviting. There’s a gazebo where we usually have live music during the summer, the good apple trees for family picking, and the shed where we make cider and donuts. It’s all open to the public, and the summer months are when the farm gets a real boost in profit.

Guilt over going to college and doing the summer camp at school always cuts deep whenever I think about it too hard, so I try not to.

My parents are the ones who insisted I go to college—especially if the school is paying for it. They understand I don’t want to be a farmer and want me to have the normal college experience which is why they’re lax about my schedule and don’t force me to help out, but the guilt over leaving them shorthanded … gah, it sucks. It’s that deep-seated sense of responsibility I can never seem to shake.

I direct Beck to the back entrance. There’s a long dirt road with shrubs growing tight at the edges. This is the side that feels more like home because growing up, the farm was always a little overgrown and chaotic.

We pull up out the back before ten, so everyone should be out working, but we’ve barely parked when the back door flies open and Mom hurries out. My brothers and Dad aren’t far behind her.

“I thought you’d be working,” I say, jumping out of the car and swamping her in a tight hug.

“You really think we’re not going to be here to welcome you home? When I got your text, we rushed through morning chores.”

The other car door opens, and Mom’s attention shoots to Beck. I try to picture how he must look through her eyes, but all I can see is golden hair and a smile that makes my chest swell.

“Who’s this?” Dad asks, clapping Beck heavily on the shoulder, and it makes me laugh to see the way Beck’s eyes widen. My dad is … intimidating, I guess. He’s got half a foot and about fifty pounds on Beck, and with his shaved head and thick moustache, he doesn’t look like someone you’d mess with.

Until he smiles.

The deep lines at his eyes make him look instantly kinder.

“Ah, I’m Beck, sir.”

Dad throws his head back and laughs. “Sir? Hell no. Call me Lenny.”

Beck smiles, but I can tell he still doesn’t know how to take my dad, or my brothers, who are slowly starting to surround him. Taking pity on him, I walk over and slide my arm around his waist. “Dad’s harmless—Mom’s the one who bites. These brats,” I say, pointing to my brothers, “are Tony, Rafter, and Cole.”