“You’re welcome.” I slap his ass as he passes me, and I follow after him. “Oh, and Ty?”
He spins on his heel, and I slam into him, crushing my mouth to his. My tongue takes control of his, and I kiss him senseless until he’s struggling to breathe.
When I pull back, I stay close, touching my forehead to his. “I love all of you.”
“I love all of you too,” he whispers and steps back. “But especially your cock.”
“That was almost romantic.”
“Hey, dicks can be very romantic. If you paid worship to mine every day, I’d be a happy man.”
I practically do. I’m always here. Mom and Dad joke that I don’t live at home anymore because I’m always at Tyson’s.
We leave his apartment and get an Uber to TD Garden. Walking into the rink, I’m hit with the smell of ice, the low buzzing of the crowd, and I’m reminded of my playing days. Granted, this is on a much larger scale, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch hockey and not think about the glory days. I thought I might miss it to the point it would hurt, but it has the opposite effect. I do miss it, but it doesn’t hurt. My college days will always be remembered fondly, but it was never my future.
As I turn to Tyson, who has a pile of snacks and food in his lap and a smile on his face, I know without a doubt, he’s my future. We’ll become two financial giants, will eventually move into a Boston penthouse with a real view, and will make each other happy.
I always knew I’d settle down after college. I never expected it to be so soon or with a man. But I wouldn’t change my path for anything.
It’s true we haven’t been together long, only a couple of months, so that future is a long way off, and maybe it won’t happen at all. It’s still early days. But ever since the night of graduation, I knew something about Tyson was different.
I never understood the phrase “when you know, you know” until I met him.
I throw my arm around him while he munches on a hot dog, and I look out at the ice so I don’t have to watch him deep-throat that thing. I don’t want to be sitting here with a hard-on for the next two and a half hours.
“Babe?” Tyson says around a mouthful of food.
“Yeah?”
“Which team is Boston playing?”
“Montreal. It’s how I got the tickets. Foster Grant gave them to me.”
Tyson coughs and splutters. “Foster Grant. As in Seth Grant’s twin brother. As in the friend I’ve kind of been avoiding because I know if I talked to him, I’d totally out us, and I didn’t want to do that until you were ready, and—”
“Holy shit,” a voice comes from the aisle.
I look up to find my ex-teammate Cohen standing there with wide eyes.
I’m slowly connecting the dots. Cohen is Seth’s boyfriend and is part of the Montreal franchise. He works in the team’s PR department. And Tyson is good friends with Seth.
I turn to Tyson. “Wait, you haven’t told Seth about us?”
“I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up! You can’t just force your boyfriend to come out to all his friends.”
“I’m out to my parents. I figured that was it? Job done?”
Tyson facepalms. “Hockey players and their definition of communicating, I swear to Lady Gaga.”
There’s suddenly a phone thrust in my face, and there’s Seth Grant, his gaze ping-ponging between Tyson and me.
I smile. “So, uh, I’ll let you two talk.” I take the phone and hand it to Tyson and then jump out of my seat to follow Cohen outside the rink to the concession stands.
He’s still staring at me weird, like he walked in on Tyson and me having sex or something.
I roll my eyes. “Like you can talk.”
“H … ow and what?”
“Tyson and I kind of hooked up at graduation? And then we didn’t realize that he was coming to work for my dad? Because you didn’t tell me that he was the one you asked for information for?”
“I didn’t know it was him. Seth said a friend.” He frowns. “I think. Maybe he told me? You know my brain is like a sieve. It only retains, like, twelve percent of everything not hockey related.”
I snort. “Anyway, we kind of spent the summer together, and now … well, yeah, we’re together.”
“Wow. I mean, cool. But I really am starting to think all those conservative people are right about queerness being contagious. What are the odds of …” He counts. “Six of our teammates being queer?”
“Out of a twenty-five-man roster? Spread over three years? Probably right on average. I can do the math for you if you want—”
“No, no math.”