Goal Lines & First Times (CU Hockey, #3)

by Eden Finley

“So, yeah, they were being all weird about it, and I’m like ‘Hey, it’s no big deal, it’s just kissing. Everyone does it.’ Turns out, no one does it.”

I don’t want you to think it was only because I wanted in your pants. I didn’t, by the way. I mean, I totally would’ve boned you senior year if you offered, but that was for lack of options.” “This gets better and better.”

Beck parts his lips and pushes his tongue inside Jacobs’s mouth. I swear I hear Jacobs groan, and damn, that’s hot. No, not hot. That’s … That’s … Aww, shit.

Hell, even my best friend told me a year ago that he moved schools to get away from me. If that doesn’t build up your confidence, I don’t know what will.

“I …” The words get stuck. “I think I’m demi.”

“I’m really sorry that my need for an emotional connection and lack of sex was inconvenient for you. But guess what? It’s not so great for me either.”

I glare at her purely out of principle, but she has me curious.

“And, Seth? If you try it, do yourself a favor and don’t limit your conversations to women.”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how horny you’d get after watching a certain show with that Superman actor.”

If I am demi, and to be sexually attracted to someone I need to know them first … would gender actually matter to me? Dicks don’t scare me, they just don’t do anything for me. But then again, neither do boobs.

Joe climbs out of the boat. He’s skinnier than Logan and me, but he has a nice face. Uh, for a dude.

It’s like realizing I might not be entirely straight gave my cock permission to respond to anything remotely gay-sounding. Like it’s all, “Sorry, dude, you signed the waiver. I’m allowed to get excited over anything I want now.”

The thought of them together … it really does it for me.

The annoying part of being a dumbass is that when I think I’m making good decisions, I’m really, really not.

Dating apps are the worst.

But maybe it should be normalized. Two guys kissing as friends shouldn’t be a huge deal. Because it’s really not.

@confused96: ha ha. I actually meant why are you on a dating app wanting to talk? No luck in real life? @scientistguy: I’m butt ugly.

Hopefully human. That’s my only hard limit.

@confused96: … Are you a porcupine? I’m pretty sure if I ask, you have to say. No, wait, that’s the police. @scientistguy: Not the police either. That’s what dumbass criminals think. @confused96: Did you just call me a criminal? @scientistguy: I also called you a dumbass.

@confused96: Ah. You want to turn a bad boy good, huh? @scientistguy: Nah, I’d rather be corrupted.

@confused96: Well, obviously I speak English, French: Va te faire fourrer. And the third language is hockey. @scientistguy: Did you just tell me to get fucked in French? (Thank you Google translate!) @confused96: It correlates to the hockey thing. I stayed with a billet family in Quebec for a while. Technically, I only know smack talk, but hey, it counts.

Zach and I were inseparable before last year. Since we met, it has always been him and me. Then he ran off to CU, hooked up with Foster, and once again I’ve been relegated to second-place Grant. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.

I might hold resentment toward Foster and how I come second to everything he does—I mean, graduating as summa cum laude couldn’t even compete with him signing to the NHL—but I love him. Being his brother gives me the right to do both.

Einstein: I saw a squirrel today. I think they’re my spirit animal. Richie: Eating nuts all day?

Einstein: Ace Valentine’s Day cards. They should be a thing. I like you a lot, I think you’re hot, but I don’t want you near my spot.

Second, it’s not the actor. It’s the character. According to my old pal Google, demi people can form connections with fictional characters easier than people. And from what I know about myself, it seems pretty accurate.

Oof! I slam right into someone. I bounce back, and hands clamp down on my shoulders to steady me before I stumble over my own feet. There’s a thump of a phone hitting the ground, and as I blink the pain in my forehead away, one of Foster’s old teammates comes into vision. Rossi? Martin? No, it starts with a C. “Graceful, Cohen,” another of the hockey guys calls out from inside while giving us a thumbs up. Ah, Cohen, then.

He chuckles and grabs the door to the café, holding it open.

“Order for Richie?” Zach says something, but I completely miss what as my head snaps up toward the barista. What are the chances? I freeze. My heartbeat is in my ears as I lean a little, trying to see the counter, but damn, Cohen is in the way. I can’t see around him from this angle.

I was supposed to have this year. Me. Not Foster.

Zach has half the hockey team chasing after him to make sure he’s okay, and who do I have? I don’t need to check behind me to know the answer to that question.

“I have to brain,” Beck complains. “Ah, yes, I can see how that would be difficult for you.” I pat his shoulder. “There, there.”

My dick had flipped out more tonight than it had in the last month, and when I’d left, and Cohen was there all big and hot and staring at me with his intense gray eyes, I’d almost choked on my own spit.

There’s clearly something there between us, and it both terrifies and excites me. Uh, me and Richie. Not me and Cohen. Though he did look super hot. Super, super hot. I don’t have that reaction to anyone, and certainly not ever to him before. It had to have been the costume.

Richie: Okay, well, I think I’m really starting to like you.

Einstein: I don’t think. I know. I’m starting to really like you too.

“Hey, sorr—Seth? Seth Grant?” I look up and shoot finger guns at Cohen. Yay, someone familiar-ish. “One of Foster’s groupies, hi.”

“No, but he’ll want to talk about why I didn’t go to Thanksgiving so I could drink myself stupid. Why, Seth? We have perfect lives, Seth. We’re privileged and get whatever we want, Seth. Why are you unhappy? Why? Why? Why? Maybe because you get whatever you want, you have the perfect life, and you’ve got every single thing figured out, don’t ya, little brother?”

“Well, yeah, everyone calls me Cohen, but my name is—” Someone across the bar drops a tray of drinks, and glass shatters everywhere.

“Did you just hit on me? How many guys on the team are queer as fuck?”

And I really hate that somehow my brain is making links between Cohen and what I did with Richie.

“Adequate? If I had Google reviews, you can bet your ass I’d be gold standard. Five stars out of five. A pure fucking delight.” “Tonight’s an off night for you, then?”

“Don’t throw up. I have no money.” The car jolts as the driver slams on his brakes. “That probably doesn’t help,” Cohen says. “And I’m kidding. I have money.” He looks down at me and mouths, “I don’t, but shh.”

We’ve been talking since August, and he’s quickly becoming my favorite person. The one I go to when I want to share something fun or whine about something annoying. The one I want to wish good morning every goddamn day.

Richie: I do, but why do I get the feeling you’re doing this for the wrong reasons? Why do I get the feeling he’s a big stupid liar who lies?

“Any chance you can give Beck and Jacobs a ride?” I screw my whole face up. “Jacobs is fine. But Beck can find his own way. I’ve met that guy twice maybe, and he rubs me the wrong way.”

I follow Seth down the hall, and he lets us into the small, basic hotel room with … one bed. Couldn’t have been a twin room. No. Just one queen bed. Because of course.

around in my head. I wasn’t ready to meet Richie. Yet I’m pretty sure he’s sitting right next to me.

And now that I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s him, I’m going to be so fucking disappointed if it isn’t. Because Cohen? Oh, yeah, the attraction’s there.

There it is in black and white. Richard Cohen. Holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck. That ninety-nine percent suspicion slots over to a hundred as I sit here in stunned silence.