Shots on Net (SCU Hockey, #1)

by J.J. Mulder

If anyone made an effort to know him, they’d see that he’s actually selfless, kind, and has a sharp sense of humor. “I like you,” I tell him. He looks at me, and if I had to guess I’d say his expression was unhappy.

“I like you, too,” he says gruffly,

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.

he lets go of my arm in favor of opening the door for me.

I know I get a little too excited about things, and people’s attention spans start to wander while I’m talking. This doesn’t seem to happen with Carter, though. His eyes crinkle and his mouth turns down in a frown when he’s listening hard, and he’ll sometimes ask follow-up questions.

“Do you still want to come to dinner, tonight?” I ask him, keeping my voice light even though I’m nervous to hear his answer. I’m desperate for his continued company. I want to keep this day going for as long as possible.

Beneath the table, our legs are still pressed together; I make no effort to move away, though, and neither does he. Something tells me he needs the silent support.

“It was fun.” He looks at me and I nod: yes, it was fun. “Did you know that polar bears are considered an aquatic mammal?”

“Maybe she’d like a visitor this weekend?” I ask, and he glances at me and smiles an eighth of a smile. I feel like a fucking hero, earning that smile.

“What can I say? I’m a giver.” Carter huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. I could easily get used to hearing those spurts of laughter and catching those rare smiles. It’s heady, getting to peek behind the curtain of Carter’s façade and see the real man underneath.

Hey, Carter?” Something in his voice has me peeking at him. He’s not smiling, but watching me closely. Our eyes meet and continues. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong.” My voice is harsh. I want him to drop this line of questioning.

His dirty blonde hair is messy on one side, like he was sleeping on it. I want to comb it with my fingers so badly, I have to clench my hand into a fist to hold myself back.

When I open them, Zeke is still there, fuming like a pint-sized thundercloud.

I’m not sure how we got here, having an argument, but I don’t like it.

Disappointment is evident on his face, and shame curdles in my stomach. I like him—far more than I’d been expecting to—and his opinion of me matters. I’ve

“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.”

Zeke’s narrow shoulder is pressed against my own, his slight weight leaned against me. I want to put that arm around him so badly. The strength of my sudden attraction to him worries me; it doesn’t make sense and it’s unlikely to go anywhere. I need to get myself under control before I end up making a mess of our friendship and hurting my own feelings in the process.

“Actually, I was wondering if you’d want to come to the game? It’s a home game on Saturday. I could get you tickets. Only if you want to go, though. No pressure.” 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. “Uhm…yeah, you could wear my jersey, if you want.” My voice sounds husky, and I hasten to clear it. “But just so you know, that’s kind of a thing that people do when they’re together.”

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.

He lifts it to his face and inhales, causing my stomach to clench painfully. He needs to stop doing things like that—I don’t do unrequited crushes, and this is fast becoming one. “Smells good, like you.” He eyes me, grinning. “Well, when you’re not sweaty, that is.”

He’s looking down at me, hoodie still clutched in his hands. There is a pensive look on his face that has me narrowing my eyes. “Zeke. We’re not talking about anal fissures any longer. Never again.” He raises his eyebrows and looks away with a huff. “Okay! Okay. I won’t bring it up again, I promise.”

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.

Before he steps off the ice, he turns and looks in our direction. I raise a hand even though he can’t possibly see me from that far away. He turns away and follows his teammates to the locker room. Beside me, Jefferson chuckles. I look over at him and find him watching me with an amused expression on his face.

“Actually, no. I’m surprised that you have gotten friendly with him in such a short amount of time.” I stare at my best friend in silence, confused and a little bit hurt. “What do you mean?”

I’ve never seen you warm to somebody so fast, and I’m not just saying that because he looks like an ex-con. I’m saying that as your best friend who had to work very hard to earn that title.”

“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.

I twist my fingers together to keep from waving at him again. I really want him to know I’m here. He’d bought the tickets and left them at will-call, texting me to let me know it was okay if I didn’t make it, but there were tickets waiting if I did.

“It was fun. He’s a good listener.” I tuck my hands into the sleeves of Carter’s hoodie. I had to roll them back in order to use my hands. “I really like him.”

Before I can stop him, he bangs a fist on the door and sticks his head inside to call for Carter. Blushing furiously, I tuck my hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and wish I could will myself into invisibility.

I take a good look at him, my own eyes widening for a different reason. He’s half undressed, sporting padded shorts that are held up by a pair of suspenders over his shoulders. He’s wearing the sort of skin-tight shirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination; it’s short sleeved, showing off the flow of ink down his arms. He’s so sweaty, the hallway lights reflect off his damp neck and face. I swallow, audibly. I believe I understand why hockey players are considered sexy.

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. He is disgustingly sweaty and very large.

“Glad you came.” He clears his throat when he says this, voice gruff with embarrassment. “Me too.” “Me too,” Jefferson says, making me jump. I’d forgotten he was still standing there. Judging by Carter’s expression, so had he. Jefferson notices, and eyes us with a sardonic twist to his mouth.

“Oh, you don’t have to go—" My ears burn in embarrassment. Did you really just forget your best friend was standing right there? “I can…”

He looks both ways, searching for me. When he sees me standing with his coach, his face breaks open into what I can only describe as happiness: a softening of his mouth and brow, and a widening of his eyes. He walks toward us, quickly.

“Wow!” he exclaims, staring intently down at the picture before looking back up at me with a sheepish expression. “I have no idea who those people are.”

I laugh, shaking my head. How can you not know who Troy Nichols and Corwin Sanhover are? God he’s fucking cute.

“That sounds brave,” Zeke says, and gratitude bubbles up inside me. I knew he’d get it. “I can’t imagine it was easy for…Troy

I stare at him while he’s distracted, my stomach clenching painfully. He looks good in my hoodie.

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.

“Of course, Carter. I’ll be at all of the home games,” he plucks at the front of my hoodie, “as long as I can keep this for a little bit longer.” “You can keep it,” I tell him, practically salivating over the thought. I really need to tone it down with the crushing-on-Zeke thing. “Yeah?” He brightens, eyes glinting silver in the artificial light of the restaurant. “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.

I lay down close enough that my arm touches his leg, and hold my breath, hoping he won’t move away. When he starts reading without moving, I bite my lip to keep from smiling in triumph.

He’s no longer pressed against me, but this change of position is a definite improvement. I have to take several deep breaths through my nose, trying to keep from getting a hard-on. My body can only focus on the simple fact of Zeke lying next to me in bed, no matter how platonic the gesture really is.

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.

His dirty blonde hair is fanned out across the pillow, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as he sleeps. Propped up on my elbow, I gaze down at him. White hot desire floods my system; the wanting is so strong, I can hardly breathe around it.

Watching from my vantage point at the door, my stomach sinks. I don’t want him to go back to his own room.

My throat tightens painfully, and I’m grateful that I can’t speak around it or I might beg him to stay.

“G’night, Carter.” He smiles up at me, soft and sleepy and tempting. “Goodnight.” I try to smile back, but can’t seem to get my facial muscles to work.

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.