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The man standing in front of me, whom I assume is Carter Morgan III, looks like the kind of person who would rob Carter Morgan III at gunpoint.
“You want some soup or something? No offense, but you look like a corpse.” “Full offense, but you look like someone who deals weed to middle schoolers.”
Carter Morgan is a fucking weirdo, that much is clear.
“Whatever you say, Your Majesty, Carter Morgan the Third, Baron of Walnut Ave and King of the Hockey Court.”
I laugh. That is the closest I’ve ever heard Carter Morgan come to making a joke and it feels better than a hole-in-one ever could.
I actually am enjoying myself, but I don’t think this would be half as fun if I were with someone else.
Turning, I see Zeke with hands on hips and a scowl on his face. It’s cute. Like a puppy learning how to growl.
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.
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.
“See those three stars all in a row? That’s Orion’s belt. His left shoulder—the star Betelgeuse—is the red star. It’s 10 million years old. And get this, it’s like 700 light years away, which means that it takes the light from that star 700 years to reach Earth. So right now we are seeing a star from 700 years ago.”
The competency of this man is astounding and a little bit intimidating.
I want to eat, shower, and listen to Zeke talk about nerdy shit—preferably in that order.
His blue eyes are lighter than Zeke’s, and half as pretty.
No offense to hockey or anything, but my interest in the sport starts and ends with you.”
It’s ridiculous, and unbearably cute. I watch the motion of his hips and decide that cute might not be the best description. 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.
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.
He is really quite handsome.
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. Whacking him on the leg with the spatula, I shake my head.
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 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.
Beneath the table, our legs are still pressed together; I make no effort to move away, though, and neither does he.
he glances at me and smiles an eighth of a smile. I feel like a fucking hero, earning that smile.
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.
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.
“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 swallow, audibly. I believe I understand why hockey players are considered sexy.
God he’s fucking cute.
I’ve begun thinking of Coach Mackenzie’s connection with Tony and the rest of the guys as my own; every time I hear their names in the media, or watch their games, it feels like I’m hearing about my friends. A therapist would probably have a few things to say about me creating imaginary friendships, I suppose, but it’s nobody else’s business what happens in my own head.
making me realize that the only time I really, truly feel joyful is when I’m on the ice or with Zeke.
What I’m trying to say is that I can count on one hand the number of people who have come to a game with the express purpose of watching me play. 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.
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.
I’m once again struck by the sensation of my body reaching for his.
Those eyes are going to be the death of me.
“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.”
Carter lets out a whoop of laughter, bending forward from the force of it. I can’t help but laugh with him and for a long time the room is filled with nothing else. 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. I’ve never seen so many of his teeth before. As though my body is being controlled by a puppeteer, I lean forward and put a hand on his shoulder. I barely have to pull him toward me as I lean in and kiss his cheek. Immediately, he
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He’s not looking at me, but I’m looking at him. I’m looking at him and realizing for the first time that I want him. I want him. And that terrifies me.
“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.”
Nobody in the world makes me laugh the way Zeke does.
“I really like you, Carter Morgan. I like you more than I’ve ever liked anybody before.”
I like nobody as much as I like Zeke. It’s a little frightening, this depth of emotion. I am very, very conscious of the fragility of our relationship—born from proximity and barely a handful of months old. There are a lot of things I could survive losing, but Zeke Cassidy isn’t one of them.
“We’re best friends, Zeke. If you can’t talk about butt sex with your best friend, are we even friends?” He nudges my knee with his, below the table. “No need to be embarrassed.”
“Max, this is Zeke. He is the best thing that has ever happened to Carter.”
“Sweetheart,” Carter says, and rubs a hand over my back. I squeeze my eyes shut.
want to kiss him so badly in this moment, I can hardly breathe.
“I told him I was bi, and that I was currently dating a guy,” I tell him, and watch as he visibly relaxes. “You didn’t have to do that.” “I wanted to. I’m not ashamed of you, or being with you. If anyone has a problem with it, they can fuck off.”
But if there is one thing, I know it’s that we are solid, he and I. We’ve got what it takes to make it long-term.
