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“Uh, Carter? Morgan?” What the hell do I call him? “Jesus, one or the other.”
“Whatever you say, Your Majesty, Carter Morgan the Third, Baron of Walnut Ave and King of the Hockey Court.” Carter makes a choking noise that I tentatively identify as a laugh. I’ve never seen anyone laugh without smiling before. It’s a little impressive.
Also, how old are you?” Zeke is still staring at me. I don’t know what the fuck he’s expecting to see, but he needs to focus on packing and not on my face. He gives a startled laugh when I ask his age and I glare at him. “Uhm, I’m in my junior year. I’m twenty, but I’ll be twenty-one in a couple of months.” “You look twelve, or something.” “And you look like someone who breaks kneecaps for the mafia,” he retorts.
“Maybe I could teach you! We can play together.” He says this with the air of Father Christmas pulling an enormous toy out of his sack. “You can teach me hockey, and I’ll teach you chess.”
I sort of wish he wasn’t wearing a shirt with sleeves—I’d like to get a closer look at those tattoos.
“So, what do you want to do?” “This was your idea,” he reminds me, and lifts his arms to adjust where his hair is tied back in a small bun. “Right…” Casting about for something—anything—I look around for inspiration. There is a group of posters pinned to a board not far down the sidewalk and I squint at it. “Mini golf!”
He’s pretty pale, but the heat of the evening has given him a nice flush and his eyes are bright. He’s got a nice smile, and hands it out freely—smiling at the kids we pass and greeting the people working at the course. I actually am enjoying myself, but I don’t think this would be half as fun if I were with someone else.
I show him how to hold the club and back up, trying not to notice the way his hair catches on his eyelashes when he blinks, or how he smells like rain.
I don’t want to argue about money. I want to keep enjoying the day and not have him worry about how he’s going to afford it. I want to be invited to more days like this, and if I have to buy that privilege, so be it.
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.
“Of course. I tried to pay attention to the game, and not only you, but I had no clue what was happening half of the time. No offense to hockey or anything, but my interest in the sport starts and ends with you.”
Zeke turns, sees me standing there and stops dead. He blushes a fierce red that travels all the way down his neck to the collar of his shirt. Even his ears are red. Jesus Christ, even that’s cute.
He’s weird, and nerdy; I really wish I didn’t find it as adorable as I did.
Immediately, as though a projector was flipped on in my mind, my thoughts turn to Zeke and other things that might be done in this bed. I wonder how he kisses. Probably gentle, and a little unsure. I can practically feel the phantom touch of soft fingertips on my skin, as I think about it. He’d probably be shy, uncertain where to touch and when. I wouldn’t mind teaching him.
I stare down at my phone, warmth pooling in my stomach and diffusing through my body. I should respond with something flippant—make a joke or some snide comment. I’m not sure Zeke even realizes he sometimes acts like we’re in a relationship, and I wonder if I should enlighten him. Roommates don’t cook dinner for each other, or read to one another, or stay up until the early hours of the morning to make sure the other gets home okay. But I don’t want him to stop, and I’m selfish. 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.”
Zeke sits up, turning toward me. Disappointed that he moved, and we’re no longer touching, I frown at him. He retaliates with a smile.
“I need to get a jersey.” “A jersey?” “Yeah, to support you!” Zeke’s eyes are wide and bright with excitement. Something warm and fuzzy curls up in my chest at the words. The thought of seeing him wearing my jersey is dizzying.
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.
“I don’t know, I just…he felt right, is all.” I blush as I say this, the tips of my ears burning. There’s no better way to explain it, though. Carter was inevitable.
Before I can second guess myself, I step forward and wrap my arms around his middle. He jolts, and I have a moment of panic when I think he won’t return the hug before his arms come around me. It’s a gentle hug—one of his hands cups my shoulder and the other rests safely on my mid back. I can feel him inhale, his chest expanding against my cheek before he lets it out slow.
I feel sad, all of a sudden. Troy and Sam’s happiness holding a mirror up to my own and making me realize that the only time I really, truly feel joyful is when I’m on the ice or with Zeke.
I’m trying to tell him that I thought about him the entire game, and felt like a better player because of it. It’s different, winning for someone other than yourself. I want him to know a lot of things that I’m incapable of putting into words.
“It’s all yours,” I respond. He grins, shaking out the sleeves so that his hands are free to pick up his burrito and take a bite. It’s the smallest piece of clothing I own, yet still far too big on him. I like that fact far, far more than I should.
He holds the book above his face and continues reading. I want to turn on my side and face him, watch his mouth as he speaks. I want to inch close enough to smell him, maybe drape an arm over his middle so I can feel the rise and fall of his stomach. Instead, I remain flat on my back, miserable with my thoughts of all the things I know I can’t have.
I think it might be time to admit I might be more than a little bit interested in Zeke. I wish I knew what the hell to do about it.
“So, hey, I was wondering, if you’re not doing anything Friday night, would you want to go to dinner? With me. Dinner, with me?”
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. It makes me want to wrap my arms around him and squeeze.
“We always split,” I remind him. I’d finally talked him into letting me pay my half of the bill whenever we went out to eat, and I wasn’t about to lose that ground now. “Not tonight,” he says firmly.
I’m okay waiting until you’re ready.” A sharp prickle forms behind my eyes, and I swallow past a lump in my throat. “I’m ready.
“So…I was wondering if you could reschedule that reservation you had and maybe we could try again.” Zeke’s ears turn red when he says this, and his fingers tighten incrementally on my hand.
“Dude, chill. There isn’t exactly a line of people desperate to go out with me. I’m not going to be waiting around for you to suck my dick.” “You have an impeccable way with words,” he mumbles, and I raise my voice to talk over him.
My mind snags on ‘obviously, I like you’ and stays there. I feel ridiculously pleased with myself. “You’ve got to quit with that shit. Guys like me are lucky to be with guys like you.”
I laugh and he immediately smiles back. It’s so easy for Zeke to be happy. I wonder if, by proximity alone, some of that irreverent joy will rub off onto me.
“Okay, well, regardless,” I shift, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken, “I don’t want to date anyone else, but you. Just to make that clear.”
“No, me either,” Zeke says, and I glance over at him. “You and me, huh?” “Yeah,” I agree, “you and me.”
“Hey,” Carter deadpans, before looking back at me. “How are you?” Good, except I missed you and I’m so glad you’re back. “Fine, how was your drive?”
Eventually, wiping his eyes, he takes a couple fortifying breaths and looks at me. His eyes are shining with uncontained joy and there is an actual fucking smile on his face. A wide, beautiful smile.
“Sorry, but you know what I just realized?” “What?” “That I like you. I really, really like you,”
“Jesus, no, I mean yes, of course I’ve liked you. What I meant is that I just realized that I like you. Like, I want to kiss you. And we should have sex, sometime.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you were bad at kissing,” he muses, not letting go of my hand. “That just means we get to practice more.”
Firming my grip on his hand, I stand and pull him to his feet. He’s still laughing when I tug him into a hug. I have to let go of his hand in order to hold him properly, but it’s worth it when he wraps his arms around my middle. His cheek is against my chest and his hands are on my back, warm even through the fabric of my shirt. I slide my own hand up his spine until I can feel the strands of his hair teasing my fingertips. The back of his neck is so fucking soft, I want to put my lips there.
“You’re so damn tall that if I want to kiss you, I’ll have to get a step stool. Or yank your face down, I guess.”
“Or you could come down to me.”
“Is that what you want me to do?” I ask, and hope that the answer is yes.
It’s laughable that Zeke was worried he’d be bad at sex. All he’s going to have to do is kiss me like this and make soft, adorable noises as he does it—I’ve never been so worked up in my life.
“I really like you, Carter Morgan. I like you more than I’ve ever liked anybody before.”
“Max, this is Zeke. He is the best thing that has ever happened to Carter.”
I’m great, except for the fact that I’m freaking about the fact that we’re going to have sex at some point.
