Save the Game (SCU Hockey #2)

by J.J. Mulder

Things can’t be that bad if my best friend is here.

As soon as I see a face, I lose it—my mind is a fucking sieve. My heart is pounding so hard, I’m surprised nobody else can hear it. Breathing hurts, and my vision swims. The panic blurs everything, voices and machines bleeding together in one nonsensical wave.

“Don’t you apologize,” he says, practically spitting the words out. “Don’t you ever apologize to me. None of this is your fault, do you hear me? You have nothing to be sorry for.”

There’s a man standing just inside the door. A very, very attractive man. He’s tall, with unruly coppery-brown hair and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.

Those eyes really are extraordinary.

Are you seriously reading that, or are you just trying to impress me?” He laughs and shakes his head. “You caught me. I’ve been visiting all the overnight establishments looking for you, just so I could sit here and impress you with my literary taste.”

“Are you insane?” he asks, leaning across the table toward me. “You’ll have to go to dinner with me to find out.”

Hi. It’s Max. Who gave you this number? I hear a bark of surprised laughter from the dining room, and my smile grows wider. This night is really looking up.

Jokes aside, he really is unfairly attractive: sun darkened skin and expressive brown eyes. His dark brown hair is longer than mine and tousled up in a way that makes one wonder who was running their hands through it to get it so ruffled.

“But a handsome omelet,” I allow, and try to ignore the way my stomach swoops at my own daring. Relax. You’re just flirting, it doesn’t mean anything.

Apparently, I’ve become so starved for affection that I become attached to virtual strangers.

It’s the first time someone’s touched me in a year.

“Text me when you get home. Send me a picture of you in bed.” “Oh my god,” I laugh, shaking my head. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Luke’s ridiculous flirting and goofy disposition make me feel like I’ve spent the last few hours sitting in the sun, skin still tingling with the warmth of the rays.

miss your face.

He texts like he talks; it’s painfully endearing.

“Is everything all right?” he asks, and I tighten my fingers where they rest on my thighs. He doesn’t know. Calm down, he doesn’t know.

He walks a step behind me through the halls, making my neck prickle with discomfort. I’m ashamed of my own body’s reaction. Coach Mackenzie isn’t a threat,

I’ve become one of those people who can’t tell the difference between a friendly touch and an attack.

“Hello, you. Please tell me you’re real and not a fragment of my imagination,” I say to Max, who approaches the counter, but stops well back from it. “I’m not sure I can adequately prove that, one way or the other. I feel like you’ve probably got a pretty impressive imagination.”

Something about the whole look makes me want to give him a hug.

I would challenge anybody to have a conversation with Max Kuemper and not flirt. The man is a fucking babe.

He looks sad, like there is a little raincloud hovering over his head, following him around and raining on his parade.

Sometimes I’d like to hide. If nobody can see you, they can’t see something they’d like to take.”

I smile at him and he grins back. Lord, but he does have a nice face.

Max looks struck dumb by my pronouncement, staring at me with his lips parted slightly and eyes wide. I want to grab his face and kiss him.

He’s no longer my best friend, but a mother—eyes always watching, and wearing his worries on his sleeve. I hate him and love him in equal measure. I miss him even when he’s standing there, right in front of me.

I can’t believe there are people in the world who feel like this all the time: hungry and excited for the day, hopped up on a few hours of good sleep and the prospect of a date with a handsome man.

“Hello, you,” he says, when I’m close enough to hear. My stomach flutters again. This has become his standard way of greeting me, a flirty little you tacked on to remind me of the night we met. I wish it didn’t make me feel as special as it does.

He steps closer to me and wraps a hand around my elbow. It’s so gentle he’s barely touching me, but sweat pricks at my hairline anyway. I hold myself still, willing my nerves not to betray me as he leans in and kisses my cheek.

I can smell the sunscreen and sunshine on his skin, mixing with the saltwater scent of the ocean. For the first time in a long time, I fantasize about kissing someone on the mouth.

“I am a delight, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“So, Maxy, tell me.” “Tell you what?” “Anything. Everything. I want to know so much about you, I could write your biography.”

“I didn’t pick you up,” I point out. “You just sort of attached yourself to me.” “Like a cuddly and adorable koala.” “Or a parasite.”

This time, when he tips his head back, he laughs. I smile, trying not to openly stare at him and failing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone this handsome up close before.

He looks at me, grinning, and my stomach makes a swooping motion similar to the way the ocean is moving.

I spend the time fraught with anxiety, trying to convince myself to reach for Luke’s hand, but in the end too cowardly to do so.

I’m sick—so fucking sick—of him looking at me like I’m a sad, broken thing. I’m sick of being a sad, broken thing.

It feels good—like throwing a little fit—and I already feel marginally calmer. Maybe toddlers are on to something.

Wars have been fought for less than a smile like Max Kuemper’s.

He hesitates, steeling himself. I can literally see him square his shoulders before he steps forward and kisses me; it’s so quick, I might have imagined it. I grab him before he can move back. “Oh, I think we can do better than that,” I tell him, and cup my hand around the back of his neck the same way I’ve seen him do a dozen times.

He doesn’t resist when I bring his mouth back to mine, but I feel a hitch in his breathing when our lips meet. He wavers for only a moment before I feel the tip of his tongue teasing the seam of my mouth; I open for him, gladly, and he makes a small, needful noise as he kisses me deeper. Holy shit, the man can k...

“We made it,” he tells me, which is so fucking charming I can’t help but lean over and kiss him again.

Now that his hands are no longer occupied with safe driving, I slide my fingers between his as we walk toward the restaurant. He smiles, shy and a little uncertain, but he also tightens his grip and steps closer to me.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” I tell him, because he looks like he’s fighting some internal battle. Instead of looking mollified, he looks aggravated. “I want to stay,” he says, sounding like the words are painful to speak. “I do.”

I reach up and put a hand on his hip, directing him to stand between my legs. He’s standing above me, hands resting on my shoulders. He has the power when we’re in this position and I can see the exact moment he realizes this—he relaxes, stretching one thumb out to trace a line down my throat.

He kisses like it’s his last—putting everything in it and making me dizzy with desire.

We’re the same height and our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces: hips locked together and hearts pounding in sync.

There is a dusting of freckles over the tops of both shoulders, like someone sprinkled him with cinnamon; they are the same copper color as his hair.

I want him so badly, I can’t think where to start.