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“What is your favorite class?” “Ceramics.” “Oh?” I sit up straighter, delighted by this. “What are you making?” “Ceramics.” You did that to yourself, I reprimand myself, giving a mental shake.
“The polo shirts and khaki pants make you look like a snob,” he continues. It takes me an embarrassing amount of time to realize he’s talking about me. “You look like the kind of guy whose parents own a vacation home, and got you into school by donating money. The kind of guy who drives a fancy car and calls it his baby. You look like you’re trying to show how much better you are than the rest of us by dressing like that. You look, in short, like a douchebag.” I bite my tongue. Probably best not to tell him I drive a BMW.
“You should do it,” Zeke says immediately. “Would you like me to help you with the application? I can read through and proof it.” “Oh.” I pause, having to reorder my thoughts and what I wanted to say. I wasn’t expecting him to offer that. “That would be very kind of you, thank you.”
“Would you like to stay with Carter and me over the summer? You wouldn’t be able to stay in the dorms, probably, but we have an extra bedroom right now. We offered it to my grandma, but she’s being stubborn.” I open my mouth to reply and find that English has abandoned me. I came here to ask that, but hadn’t expected it to be offered so willingly.
Angling my head, I look at the text message thread with Carter. Zeke Vas is applying to an internship with your team for next summer. He won’t be able to stay in the dorms though, because campus will be closed. Carter I’ll text him. He should stay with us. “See,” Zeke whispers, after giving me a moment to read the messages. “We want you to stay with us.”
He’s so distracting. Even when he’s silently working beside me, my gaze seems to track to him like it’s magnetized. I have to remind myself that he’s not in any way my type, and I’m not going to have my first sexual experience with a guy be with someone like him.
“Porn is distracting, because I start to wonder if they are fairly compensated and having a good time. It is not so enjoyable for me. Also, it is not…I do not…well, it does not work for me, that is all. I do not like it.” I laugh, but immediately have to stop when my head threatens to explode. “Christ, only you.”
“No polo shirt today, I see.” “It is the weekend,” he replies, as though this matters at all.
“I shall give you a ride home,” he says once I turn back around and meet his eyes. “I’m fine.” I’m not, but I’ll be damned if I ask him for more help. Relying on people is a good way to be let down.
“I love watching you guys’ games. Don’t tell Cranky, but I sometimes prefer them to watching the NHL.” Max gasps. “Blasphemy.” “I think both are quite enjoyable,” I say equably, and Luke snorts. I don’t bother asking who he means by “Cranky.” There is only one person in our friend group who might be nicknamed as such. “Whatever you say, Switzerland.”
I knock gently on the door and wait for Zeke to let us in. He does so with a twist to his mouth, telling me he’s thinking of all the times he told me I could just let myself in and that I didn’t have to knock.
“What are you working on here, Little Z?” he asks, nudging the coffee table with his foot. Luke loves giving people special names. “Well, I’m working as a TA this semester, so I’m assisting the professor with lesson plans. Right now, we’re covering axiomatic geometry, which is fascinating.” “Oh dear God,” Luke mutters.
“That’s Margot,” Luke explains. “My ride or die.” “Oh,” I say, not familiar with this, but thinking it’s probably bad if someone is dying. “His friend,” Max clarifies.
She said, and I quote, if that’s the way they make them in Germany, why are we all living here?” Luke tells me, grinning. “No pressure, but you can have her number if you want. She’s great. Super nice and smart, too.” “Well, actually, I was not made in Germany. I was born in Germany, yes, but I was made in New Zealand while my parents were on holiday,” I correct. Max snorts and I smile at him. “But yes, thank you, I think I will take Margot’s number.”
I am wanting to make sure you are certain it is okay for me to stay here over the summer months? I do not want to be a bother, Carter.” He scowls at me, drinking down another glass of water. I take a sip of my own and wait. “You’re not a bother,” he mutters. “I should also like to pay you,” I tell him. “Absolutely fucking not,” he retorts.
“Vas, I know you already talked to Zeke about this. The answer is no. I’m not taking your money, okay? Buy your own gas and groceries, and whatever else you need, but you can sleep here for free. Don’t argue with me about it.”
I like seeing the way Carter’s face has become softer these last two years, and his mouth is quicker to smile. I like seeing how animated Max has become, as though Luke is a battery he’s drawing energy from. I like how happy they all are and I like that I am a part of it. I love them.
I could just call Henri again, I think, and like I’m some sort of magician, the thought makes him appear out of the mist. He’s strolling along the path, hands tucked into his pockets and chin tipped upward as he looks at the sky the same way I just was.
Tapping the ashes off to the side, I gesture to the other half of the bench. He hesitates and I see his eyes flick to the smoke curling up from my fingers. I feel like I can see the actual war going on in his head as he tries to decide whether he wants to be friendly or health-conscious. Friendliness wins out and he sits next to me.
“I have an interview tomorrow afternoon,” Henri says quietly, drawing my eyes back over to him. He has one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, and his khaki pants are stretched obscenely over his crotch and thighs. I definitely don’t look. I don’t even like him like that. “I am nervous.” “What’s the interview for?” I ask his dick, because who the fuck am I kidding, I can’t look away.
Clearing my throat, I compromise by closing my eyes again and leaning my head back against the bench. I’m starting to see the appeal of khaki pants.
“Thanks. So, here’s the situation.” He closes his laptop and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I fucked a dude and now I’m pretty sure I’m gay.” Sitting down on the end of his bed, I close my eyes and take a sip of way-too-hot coffee. I can’t believe this is my life right now. “Fucking a dude is a pretty gay thing to do,” I agree. Nate nods, vindicated. “Three times,” he says. “This isn’t an identity crisis. Sounds like you’ve got a pretty firm grasp.”
“But then I went to one of the baseball games and there he was in those tight pants and I just thought, ‘huh.’” He stops, staring at me and waiting as though he said something profound and is waiting for me to offer advice. “Yeah, sounds super gay,” I tell him. He makes an aggrieved noise and scrubs a hand over his face again.
I can’t believe I’ve devolved into finding a man wearing khaki pants and polo shirts attractive. It’s disgusting.
A breeze blows a wave of lemon-scented air toward me, and I inhale involuntarily. Somehow, Henri smelling like goddamn Pledge makes perfect sense and is far sexier than it has any right to be.
“Okay, well, whatever. Text me if you want to do something later.” “I will, my friend.” “We’re not friends.” “A little bit friends,” he corrects, pinching his thumb and pointer finger together and holding them up. I sigh, shaking my head and turning away.
There’s a tattoo on the small of his back of a longhorn cow skull. He told me once he got the tramp stamp after losing a bet, but I’m not convinced. I’m pretty sure he’s just a redneck. A hot one, but a redneck all the same.
“You can admit you like him. The sky won’t fall, and I promise not to say I told you so.” “I don’t like him. He’s annoying and perfect and way too fucking nice. There is—quite literally—never a hair out of place on his head. It’s all brown and soft-looking. Have you ever noticed how it’s wavy but also sort of curly in the front? Pick a fucking lane! Also, I bet he uses some fancy-ass lemon-scented shampoo and conditioner. Separate too, not the cheap, all-in-one shit I get at the drug store. And his stupid scruffy face is so…even. I think he shaves with a slide rule.” I hold my hands up, palms
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He’s like an anesthesiologist’s wet dream.
I’m not asking because I care, I’m asking because it’s polite, I tell myself, even as I recognize that I care rather more than I should. I put a bite of spaghetti in my mouth before I do something insane like put his fingers there instead.
“I want to kiss you. See if you taste like lemons.” This sends his eyebrows slanting downward as he frowns heavily, trying to figure out what I’m talking about. I can practically see him mentally tallying all the meals he’s eaten today and coming to the conclusion that none of them contained lemons. I almost laugh—I’ve never met a more literal person in my life.
I just gave him his first kiss. Under no circumstances should I be providing anyone’s first anything. I’m a plague, and a scourge. I’m the place love goes to die.
“But I like your hair, and I like talking to you even though you can be rude and think I’m strange. I like looking at you.” “Oh, well, sure. All of that makes sense.” Shrugging, I offer him the smallest of smiles. I never smile, but I’ve also never kissed a guy, so I guess tonight is a night for trying new things. “You should always determine attraction based on hair.” Henri sighs. “I am hearing sarcasm.” “You’ve got good ears.” Reaching up, I tug gently on a wavy lock of caramel hair. “You’ve got good hair, too. And…sorry about calling you weird. You’re not, I’m just a dick.”
He looks a little forlorn as I back away. If he had floppy ears, they’d be drooping to the floor. Again, he’s giving off puppy vibes, and, again, I do not find it adorable. “You are not wanting to do more kissing,” he states glumly. I shake my head. “I don’t do serious relationships, or virgins. Or Germans.” He barks a startled laugh and grins at me.
“I enjoyed kissing you,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “I wanted to.” I enjoyed it, too, I think, surprised at myself. I really shouldn’t have enjoyed it. It was, as far as kisses go, one of the worst. And yet, if he asked me to, I’d drop my backpack on the floor and dive right back in for more.
I settle my features into blandness and just wait. Silence, I have found, is the best way to get people to talk. Americans are very uncomfortable with silence, and will rush to fill it.
As nonchalantly as I can, I step behind Nate and put myself on Max’s right side, so there is no longer a body between us. I am going to stick to him like glue today.
“You look nice,” I tell him, which makes him scowl with renewed vigor.
“So, what’s up? Why’d you want me to come over?” “I do not know,” I admit, shrugging. My shoulder bumps his. We are very close together. “Why did you come?” “Touché, Henri. Touché.”
“So.” “So,” I repeat. “This is your booty call. You tell me.”
The way he’s watching me is almost clinical, like he’s cataloguing each thing I do and his own reaction to it. Same, Henri, same.
“Don’t just lie there without moving,” I instruct him, pressing my thumb to his bottom lip so he knows what I’m talking about. “Keep your mouth relaxed, and don’t worry about using your tongue unless you’re feeling it.” Instead of laughing—which any other sane person would after hearing those instructions—Henri nods solemnly and says, “I understand.”
“Oh. You were not making noises,” he points out. “Fair. But I’m also trying to focus on going slow and not eating your face. Also, I don’t need sex noises to prove I’m into this, my dick is doing that for me.” I watch as his gaze lands on my crotch and ping-pongs back to my face. A slow, satisfied smile crawls across his face. “You like me,” he says cheerfully.
He shrugs, still looking mighty pleased with himself. “I am thinking you like me a little bit.” “I am thinking you’re getting a little ahead of yourself for someone who kisses like a fourteen-year-old,” I counter, making him laugh. “I will get better with practice. I am very teachable—Coach Mackenzie has told me so.” “Oh my god.” I shake my head, unable to hold back a small chuckle. This guy. This fucking guy. “All right, Henri. Let’s keep practicing.”
my phone rings. Thinking it might be Henri, I pull it out of my pocket with more excitement than I’d care to admit. The name on the screen isn’t Henri, though. It’s Dad, which goes to show that anybody who plants an expectation, reaps a massive disappointment.
“Are you free this evening?” “Sure.” He shrugs, kicking at a loose rock on the ground and sending it skittering over the sidewalk. “Want me to come over and blow you?” I stumble over a perfectly flat piece of ground, and feel my face flush. “Goodness,” I reply. Atlas looks over at me, smirking. “Thank you for the offer, but I was actually going to see if you would like to come to the game this evening? It is our last home match. It shall be a lot of fun.” He looks at me like I’ve recommended the murder of puppies as a pleasurable pastime. “Are you serious?”
Luke turns toward me, propping his head in his hand and grinning at me. I don’t trust that grin. That grin spells trouble. “We’ve got a little bit before the game starts.” “I shouldn’t have come so early.” His lips twitch up into a smirk. “So, you and Vas, huh? Cute.” “There is no us and we’re not cute.” I glare at him, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect other than to make him smile wider. “We have a class together.” “Aw.” “How firm are the seating assignments?” I ask, frowning down at the mobile ticket on my phone. “I’m going to move.” “Sorry, you’re stuck with me for the next two hours,”
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I fucking love luke lmao
“Vas was pretty excited you were going to come. Texted me that I should be nice to you because you guys are good friends.” The careful emphasis he places on the word makes me clench my jaw. I’m staring so hard at the ice, my eyes ache. “I’m happy to hear he’s got such a good friend outside of hockey. Vas is just the best, isn’t he? Nice guy. Tall. And don’t even get me started on those thighs. Hockey thighs—am I right?” “Hey,” I snap, turning toward him and already forgetting my vow of silence. “How about you keep your eyes on Max Kuemper’s thighs and off Henri’s, got it? Unless you want
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“Cool. Like I said, I’m glad Vas has a good friend outside of hockey. I just hope that friend knows what they’re doing, and that they don’t accidentally cause him any trouble, you know?” Luke’s voice is calm—friendly—even though the words carry just a hint of a threat. I can’t help but respect him for it.
“Maybe you guys should chat a little bit, in between all the fucking,” Luke suggests mildly, flopping backward in his seat and slinging an arm over the back. “You know,” I muse, “I don’t think I like you all that much.” He laughs. I actually do like him a little bit, but over my dead body will I ever say those words out loud.
