He holds perfectly still, gauging my reaction and breathing deeply, stoically staring at the TV in a trance.
With my heart fluttering in rapid palpitations within my chest, I flip my palm over, giving Caleb leave to trail his fingers over the sensitive pads of my palm.
He obliges.
He obliges, and I fight the urge to tip my head back and lean it against the back of the couch in a euphoric haze. I bite my lower lip and glance around the room at our friends; they are none the wiser.
Seriously though, it takes every ounce of willpower not to shout, A boy is touching me. Caleb is touching me! Caleb. Is. Touching. Me.
Idly, his index finger continues torturing me with its lazy little circles, until finally, I bridge our connection and lace my fingers through his, blushing when his body visibly relaxes next to me. His broad, tense shoulders sag as he gently squeezes my hand.
We sit like this for the next half hour or so, holding hands, his thumb absentmindedly stroking mine, while The Mighty Ducks plays up on the big screen. Caleb’s teammates criticize the film’s depiction of hockey, and how it is inaccurately being portrayed.
“What!” Miles shouts at the screen. “I call bullshit. That is not how a foul is called.”
“Duh, it’s Hollywood, dipshit.” Weston throws a Dorito at Miles from his spot in the recliner where he’s snuggling with Molly. “Calm down.” He gets a few snickers. “Rookie beyotch.”
Beside me, Caleb quietly chuckles, giving my hand another squeeze. “Come on, McGrath. You can’t throw down a cop movie reference during The Mighty Ducks. Not cool.”
He chuckles at his own remark, and in the dark, someone coughs.
I turn my head in shock and gape at him. “Was that a… were you laughing? Did you just make a… a joke?”
He shakes his head, his firm lips drawn in a straight line, but it’s his eyes that give him away.
“Seriously. You thought that was funny?” I whisper, giving my head a shake in mock disappointment, and he gives my hand another squeeze. “Of all the things you could laugh at, you choose that.”
“Hey. What are you two whispering about over there,” someone asks from out of the semi-darkened room, the only light being cast by the movie and the moonlight.
Suddenly the lights flip on, and Stephan—one of the hockey players I hardly know at all—stands by the outlet, staring over at the couch. It takes me a second to realize who he’s gawking at, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Me.
Caleb.
Us.
Holding hands like two fifth graders under the jungle gym on the playground.
“Well, well, well, Showtime does know how to make a move. And here I was beginning to think you were homosexual. Check it out, guys.” He points at us like he’s just discovered a rare breed of animal, his laughing eyes wide with wonder. “Watch out, you two.” He laughs at us. “Don’t get carried away over there—that’s where babies come from.”
Caleb’s grasp on my hand tightens.
Blaze rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up, would you, Randolph? And turn the damn lights off and sit your ass back down.” I hear him mutter “idiot” before the room is dark again, and at the same time I hear Stephan’s girlfriend, Chelsea, ask him what he was even turning the light on for to begin with.
“I wanted to catch someone doing something nasty.” I hear him laugh.
“Ugh, you really are an idiot,” Chelsea hisses at him angrily from their spot on the floor. “You’re so embarrassing sometimes.”
Stephan scoffs, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It doesn’t embarrass you to be seen with me when I’m winning trophies, so why don’t you stop nagging me.”
I watch as Chelsea pushes herself up on her elbows and glares down at Stephan, who’s lying flat on his back. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she all but screeches.
Oh boy.
He shrugs on the floor. “Take it however you want.”
“I’m not such a nag when I’m blowing your tiny dick, am I, douche?” Chelsea spits out as she scuttles to a stand. She doesn’t even scan the room before storming out. Her departure is punctuated by the front door being pulled open, then slammed shut, the floral grapevine wreath swinging back and forth.
“Yikes,” Cubby says from his spot on the recliner, and he bites down on an entire handful of chips. He crunches noisily in the dark. “You know they have special pumps for small dicks, Randolph? It’s called a cock pump. You should look into it.”
“Shut up, Cubby,” Stephan shoots back.
“Um… dude. Aren’t you going to follow her?” Weston asks tentatively.
“Fuck that shit. Chelsea’s been a bitch all week,” Stephan responds but contradicts himself by rising to his feet.
“Okay. But was it really necessary to call her out in front of everyone? That was kind of harsh…”