Shots on Net (SCU Hockey, #1)

by J.J. Mulder

Stepping up to him, I lean over and adjust his hands. If I were hitting on him, I would have done this from behind: wrapped my arms around his smaller frame and physically showed him how to do it. I would have lingered, fingers on his, and maybe pressed my back against his a little more than would be necessary.

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.

This time, when his ball goes in, he inhales sharply and looks at me, disbelieving. “Why didn’t you show me that eight holes ago?” “Because I want to win, o...

When he smiles again, his eyes are big and blue, and take up half of his face. He’s nothing like the sort of guy I’d usually go for.

Zeke looks nothing like these men—he looks like someone whose hand you hold while you make plans for the future. He’s not my type, and I don’t even have to ask to know I’m not his.

This is, without a doubt, the most fun I’ve ever had outside of hockey. It’s fucking embarrassing how much I don’t want today to end.

“Why did you—I can pay you back for the fries.” “No.” He doesn’t respond, but ducks his head and puts his card back into his wallet. 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.

I’ve never quite figured out how to negotiate social situations appropriately, always unsure of myself and what people were thinking about me. It’s easier to just remain aloof and on the outside, so that’s what I do.

He looks at me, then, smiling broadly and eyes shining with happiness. I’m a little intimidated by his ability to spout random facts at me. It sets me off balance and makes me feel like an idiot, which is stupid because he clearly isn’t doing it with malice.

He grins like he’d love nothing more than to spend every weekend hanging out with me. “Okay,” I tell him, a little uncomfortable with how nice he is. “That sounds good.”

“He is nice. It will be good for you, to have friend at home.” Rolling my eyes, I scoff. “You sound like Coach Mackenzie.” “Coach Mackenzie is always right.”

I don’t really want to meet his friend and pretend to be nice. I want to eat, shower, and listen to Zeke talk about nerdy shit—preferably in that order.

I can’t bring myself to return the smile. I wish he wasn’t here.

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.

No offense to hockey or anything, but my interest in the sport starts and ends with you.” Carter doesn’t look offended by this. If anything, he looks pleased—there is a small twist to his mouth, like he’s trying to remember how to smile.

His voice and posture are defensive—already braced to be let down. I hadn’t asked because I don’t want to hang out anymore, I’d asked in case he was too tired after the game last night to do anything.

wonder what it would take to earn his trust.

“Did you see that?” I ask excitedly. “I did.” He smiles. It’s little more than a faint curl of his lips, the corners of his mouth depressing slightly. On anyone else, it wouldn’t count as a smile. But this is Carter, whose mouth only seems to turn downward. I smile back at him, wide and without restraint.

I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to pay my way to get me to hang out with him—I’d do that no matter what.

Carter’s mouth twists into a grimace, and I wonder if I’ve overshared. But then, he reaches a hand across the center console and rests it on my knee, squeezing gently.

It’s quick, his hand there and gone in the next second, but the phantom touch remains long after. It’s the first time he’s touched me like that.

“Seriously, she liked you. You’re a lovely boy, remember? She doesn’t care what you look like, Carter, she cares that you’re kind. Which, by the way, you are. Even if you pretend not to be.”

I take a second to enjoy the view while my presence is yet unknown. 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.

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. I raise an eyebrow and lean nonchalantly against the wall, speaking to be heard over the music. “Shakira, huh?”

“Nobody can resist the power of Shakira. You must dance.” “I seemed to be resisting just fine,” I point out. “Yes, well, just because I haven’t found any bodies doesn’t mean they aren’t there. I haven’t ruled out the possibility of you being a psychopath.”

He’s weird, and nerdy; I really wish I didn’t find it as adorable as I did.

He laughs, and a little flutter of happiness kicks around my stomach at the sound. When he sits down next to me, our elbows touch and his knee bumps mine beneath the table.

“There’s another pan in the oven,” he tells me, laughing at my panic. “You eat like a baby dinosaur.” This startles a laugh from me, and I choke on enchilada.

He looks at me, still trailing an idle hand over my comforter. “Want me to read some to you?” “What, right now?” I ask, lifting my head and propping myself up on an elbow to look at him better. “Are you serious?” “Sure.” He holds out a hand and waits for me to put the book into his palm.

“My mom never read me a bedtime story. Also, don’t talk about my mom when we’re in bed. Gross.” His chuckle turns into a full-on laugh at that. It takes him a second to compose himself; once he does, he starts reading in a steady, soothing voice.

I’d like to ask him to keep reading; I have the sudden, nearly irresistible urge to ask him to stay.

“You have a nice voice. And you were right—that worked. I feel like I actually retained some of that.” He smiles. “That’s good. Want me to keep going?” Boy do I. I hesitate, unsure whether this is the sort of thing platonic roommates would be doing and whether or not I care about the distinction. “If you don’t mind.”

Since what I really want to do is invite him to spend the night, I end up opting for silence.

Trying to remind myself that he’s not my type, I get up to strip and get ready for bed. When I come back to the bedroom, my eyes immediately track to the impression Zeke left on my bed. Off limits, I remind myself, sternly, as I shut off the light and crawl into 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.

Someone like him doesn’t fall for someone like me.

and the last thing I need is to be distracted by adorable nerds.

Great game! You got a shootout! I snort a laugh, and Vas looks over in surprise. I hold up my phone in answer. Shutout.

I stare down at my phone, warmth pooling in my stomach and diffusing through my body.

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.

Looking up, I lock eyes with Vas. He’s watching me with a small smile on his face.

Stepping closer, he smiles the barest hint of a smile. It’s little more than a faint indentation of his cheeks at the corner of his mouth, but it does more to brighten the room than the lamp.

“Zeke.” “Yeah?” “Let’s just go to bed. We’ve got the zoo tomorrow, right?” He voice tilts upward at the end, like a little hopeful question mark. “Right,” I confirm, stepping around the couch to stand beside him. He nods, happy with my validation.

His hair glows gold in the light from his room and his eyes are the darkest blue I’ve ever seen. He is really quite handsome.

“You know you aren’t required to cook me food, right? Or to have dinner ready for me when I get home. I don’t…” He takes a sip of coffee, clearly trying to find the correct words. “Just—don’t feel like you have to do that, okay?” The funny thing is, I don’t feel like that at all; I like making him dinner. It’s oddly satisfying, watching the way Carter’s eyes light up when he sees me cooking for him.

When he looks at me over the pancakes, his eyes are serious. “I think I might love you,” he says, and I give a bark of startled laughter.

I will make him crack a smile today, if it’s the last thing I do.

There is an unrecognizable look on his face; the line between his eyebrows deepens as he frowns and looks down at his feet. I can tell he’s doing some quick thinking, and that I’ve made him uncomfortable.

I feel strange, hearing this—a sort of uncomfortable, prickly sensation over my skin as I think about Carter going out and finding random people to sleep with. It makes me feel sad and a little bit lonely, which makes no sense.

Well, yeah, I guess a little bit. You’re such a great guy; you deserve to be happy. You’re too good for random one-night stands.”