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Carter Morgan is wearing athletic shorts and what is probably an artfully ripped muscle shirt. A shirt which shows off two full sleeves of tattoos that cover his arms from wrist to shoulder, and snake their way up to his neck. His blonde hair is shaved on the sides, but left longer on top and pulled into a bun at the back of his head. He has a silver hoop through one nostril; I can count on one hand the number of men I have seen with nose piercings, and I wouldn’t even need all five fingers.
“Oh, you have a lot of pads?” “No, I just block pucks naked and hope for the best.”
“Whatever you say, Your Majesty, Carter Morgan the Third, Baron of Walnut Ave and King of the Hockey Court.”
I glance at him again. The tops of his ears are red with an embarrassed flush and his eyes are wide. Probably, not many people have ever yelled at him before. I make a mental note to try and not do that again in the future.
Zeke is watching his friend wax poetic about chemistry with an amused look on his face; every now and then he glances over at me. Every time he catches my eye he smiles.
Zeke has his back toward me, standing at the counter and chopping something on a cutting board. He’s got Spanish music blaring from his phone on the island and he’s swaying his hips in time to the beat. He’s trying to sing along, but can only muster one of every handful of words. It’s ridiculous, and unbearably cute.
This is my favorite part about being the goalie, though I’d never say it out loud. I’ve never made good friends with any of my teammates beyond Vas, but after a win any animosity is gone—they all treat me like we’re brothers no matter how little I’ve done to earn that.
If I tell him he acts like we’re boyfriends, he won’t do it anymore.
“You waited,” he says, surprised. “I said I would.”
“I think I might love you,” he says, and I give a bark of startled laughter.
I nod my head toward a group of young women, openly ogling him. When he looks in their direction, one of them waves at him, bravely. He scowls at her, and turns back to me.
Linking my arm through his elbow, I pull him toward the Amphibian House. When I go to remove my arm, he tightens his and locks me in place.
I realize that I’ve really only seen two easily identifiable expressions on his face: anger and sorrow.
“You said it’s not like you can change your mind and leave. But…you can, right?” He squints at me, hands clenched together tightly in his lap. “You can. You can always say stop if you don’t want to do something.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and his gaze snaps to mine. “You don’t have to be sorry. Whomever you were with tonight should be sorry. I just—," he holds his hands up, and closes his eyes, “—I just don’t understand. I really don’t understand.
“Sorry, I know what you do, or who you do it with, is none of my business. I didn’t mean to get carried away. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right, that’s all.”
“I need to get a jersey.” “A jersey?” “Yeah, to support you!”
I’m obsessed with the thought of him wearing my clothes. It’ll be huge on him, and nobody but the two of us will know it’s mine. Maybe it’ll smell like him when he gives it back.
When he starts reading, I close my eyes and let myself enjoy it. It’s the only thing from the evening that doesn’t hurt.
It’s not that I want people to earn my friendship necessarily, but that I want to make sure they’re someone who’s going to stick around if I get attached. Too often, people give up and move on, preferring fast relationships to meaningful ones.
“Well, that’s oddly precious,” Jefferson notes, watching the procession of teammates hugging Carter.
I swallow, audibly. I believe I understand why hockey players are considered sexy.
Probably feeling the weight of my eyes on him, he looks over and smiles. It’s the same smile I saw in the picture he showed me with Anthony Lawson, but the first time I’ve seen it in real life.
The smile fades slowly. There is a deep indent between his brows where they are scrunched together in confusion.
I can’t place his tone, but it sounds too close to hurt for comfort.
“I didn’t realize that you were seeing one of the hockey players, Zeke. You’ve never struck me as a sports fan.” “Oh, we’re just roommates,” I correct.
And, last but not least, he looked like you punched him just now when you said he’s just my roommate.
I think I’ve probably fucked this up, and that feels terrible. But what feels worse is the knowledge that I’ve obviously hurt Carter’s feelings.
Looking away from him and out the window, I smile at the thought. Scary Carter Morgan III is a closet romantic—who knew?
“Sorry about earlier. Didn’t mean to yell at you,” I tell him, fidgeting. Vas is my only friend, and he’s a good one. I shouldn’t be snapping at him when he hasn’t done anything to deserve it.
My stomach performs a series of gymnastics when his eyes meet mine. It seems incredible that I was just wishing for him and here he is.
“So, you two are a thing, huh? You guys are taking over hockey, you know that?”
I can’t believe he’s still laughing. I sure as hell wouldn’t be laughing if Carter was looking at me like that.
“You guys?” he repeats. “Yeah, you know, the gays,”
“So…five is too many gays to have in the entire league, and two on the same team defies the odds. What’s the appropriate amount, I wonder? What’s the appropriate number of straight people? Is there a believable number, for you?”
“Dude, chill,” Justin says, laughing nervously. I close my eyes again. I doubt telling Carter to chill will have the desired effect. “I was just fucking around.” “Well, how about now you fuck off?” Carter suggests pleasantly. He hasn’t once raised his voice or unfolded from his lazy sprawl.
“Sorry, but you know what I just realized?” “What?” “That I like you. I really, really like you,” I tell him, unable to keep the excitement from my tone. Carter looks confused. He glances down at the book on my lap. I look down as well and laugh again, when I see the cover. “Uhm…have you not liked me up until now?”
“You heathen.” “There go all my hopes for some spontaneous anal on the living room rug,”
“It’s not a skills competition. I’m not going to be critiquing your technique, Zeke, I’m just going to be happy you’re, you know, kissing me.” I relax a little bit. “That’s a nice thing to say.”
“I really like you, Carter Morgan. I like you more than I’ve ever liked anybody before.”
He kisses me again, once, and then twice. Sighing, he leans back enough to place a kiss to my forehead, too.
“Sweetheart,” Carter says, and rubs a hand over my back. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Did you find a pearl?” “Yes!” he exclaims. Plucking it out, he cleans it carefully on his napkin and examines it. I want to kiss him so badly in this moment, I can hardly breathe.
The smile that graces his face when he steps back into the hallway and sees me waiting nearly sends me into cardiac arrest.
You’re going to finish school and you’re going to play hockey; you’ll probably still butt heads with your father, but we love you all the same.”
“Thank you,” he says, and then in a halting, uncomfortable tone: “I love you, too.”
Once Carter is seated in a chair, Max quietly ties Vas’ balloon to the back of it, lips curved up in a small smile. I wait until Carter is looking at me, mouth turned down in a frown and pink balloon bobbing behind him, before I snap a picture. It’s adorable, so I put it as the background on my lock screen.
“Yeah. It’ll be more fun without Vas bringing down our NHL scores.” “That is rude, but I shall forgive you because I am nice guy,”
“Love you,” I tell him as we crawl into bed and settle on our sides, facing each other. He looks pleased. He always looks pleased, no matter how many times I’ve said it. “Love you more,” he returns. Impossible, I think.
