Out on the Ice (Out in College 5)

Sky snorted derisively and moved aside. He left me enough room to sit up, then extended his hand as though offering to help me to my feet. I swatted him away and glowered. He rolled his eyes, inching back when I scooted to my knees. The narrow aisle made it difficult to get to my feet gracefully. I reached for the nearest chair, but he held his hand out again. This time, I grabbed it…and he immediately let go.

“Oh, hey. Sorry about that.”

“Fuck you.” I pushed him hard as I stood, brushing myself off and casting a dirty look his way. “Stay the fuck away from me, asshole. Don’t sit next to me, don’t talk to me, and bring your own fuckin’ pencil.”

Sky studied me intently and smiled. One of those slow-growing lopsided grins I’d always associated with crazy people. “Whatever you say, Fischer.”

He gave me a thorough once-over, lingering on my now obscene hard-on attempting to poke a hole through my board shorts. Then he picked up his backpack and moved to the door. I stared after him for a long moment, absently gripping my length through the nylon barrier. I’d been in enough fights on the ice and off to recognize the aftereffects of a sudden adrenaline rush. Erratic heartbeat, racing pulse, muscle tension…however, the boner was harder to explain.

I dropped my hand quickly, picked up my bag, and headed for the parking lot. I tossed my stuff into the back seat of my Prius and texted Elliot.

I’m bailin’. I need to get on the ice. Talk to you later.

I started the engine, glanced in my rearview mirror, and was about to back up when my cell buzzed. I put my phone on Bluetooth and answered, “Hey. Sorry. I can’t make it.”

“You’re an asshole,” Elliot huffed irritably. “What happened to ‘I’ll be there after class, man’?”

“Call Tucker. He’s always up for a last-minute game,” I suggested, pulling out of my parking spot. “I gotta run. See ya—”

“Hold up! What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’. Why?”

“I know you too well, Colby. Who pissed in your cornflakes? Harry?”

“Harry? No. Just…some dick at school.”

Elliot snort laughed. “A hairy dick?”

I sighed theatrically. “You’re hilarious, El.”

I filled him in on my run-in with Sky, leaving out the fact that I was, in fact, still half-hard from the encounter. Not that Elliot would be fazed. My best friend-slash-roommate was famous for coining phrases like “contact chubby” and “insta-chub” in junior high school. Definition…an immediate and embarrassing erection that results from unintentionally rubbing your junk against an opponent. We’d died laughing but both agreed it was a real phenomenon. Elliot was a volleyball player, so even though I kinda doubted he ever got much “accidental contact,” he got away with saying weird shit ’cause he was clever as fuck and funny too. He was also a fiercely protective friend. Elliot stuck with me through some of the crappiest times in my life. I trusted him implicitly and when he recently came out as bi, I made sure he knew I had his back.

But I didn’t want to talk about Sky and give Elliot the idea that our encounter was anything besides annoying.

“Let it go, Colb. You’ve got a couple of weeks of geek school left, and you can literally skate through senior year. Nothing to worry about except showing off for the scouts and deciding which NHL offer to accept,” Elliot said.

“Oh sure, ’cause that’s exactly how it’ll go.” I huffed sarcastically as I turned left onto 7th Street. “I’m hanging up now. Go find a fourth. See you after practice.”

“Not tonight. I got a date.”

“A date? Like with a person or are you talking about those raisin things that look like dried up cockroaches?”

Elliot snickered at my lame attempt at humor. “A person date.”

“Hmm. Who is she?”

“Not she…he. His name is Drew.”

“Drew,” I repeated.

I slowed behind a red Jeep and studied the bumper stickers covering the rear window while I tried to think of a polite and proper reply. My hesitation had nothing to do with a lack of support. This was just the first time Elliot talked about going out with a guy. It was new.

He’d been with Anna for three years until he broke up with her last May. They’d been one of those weirdly mature couples. The type who meal-planned, went grocery shopping every Sunday, and recorded their favorite shows on each other’s TVs even though they didn’t live together. Most twenty-two-year-old college students didn’t do that shit unless they were committed in a “We’re going to get married eventually anyway” sense. But hey, don’t listen to me. The only thing I’d ever seriously been committed to was hockey. Period.

“Yeah. We met at that seafood place by the pier. He’s a waiter and he’s funny and yeah…I asked him out and he said yes,” Elliot said conversationally.