On the Edge (SCU Hockey #3)

by J.J. Mulder

Carter employs his animosity as a shield to protect himself; it took next to nothing to break it down. Atlas, on the other hand, is all sharp edges. His frown is a knife blade. A warning to stay away.

A spike of envy worms through my chest. I wish I had a Carter or a Zeke to text me. I wish I had someone who was my own.

I’m certain the real Atlas behind the walls is worth knowing, as long as I can get past the Atlas guarding the gate.

“Carter is easy,” I say, waving a hand. “Carter is like…he is like a rose. Thorns, yes, but also a flower. Atlas is only the thorns.”

I cannot explain why I want Atlas to like me. I cannot even understand it myself. I just feel like it’s important. Atlas is important.

Maybe it’s because I’m wasted, but I feel like I can see a thousand shades of brown in the strands of his hair.

I feel as though I can see all the blues of the ocean in the color of his eyes. I love blue eyes, I decide. They are my favorite eye.

“All right,” I say, turning my face into the pillow. It’s a nice pillow, and it doesn’t seem to be moving. I like this pillow. “But tomorrow maybe we could try the kissing.”

“Did I hit on you?” His gaze snaps back to mine and I shrug. “I’m a flirty drunk and you’re hot.”

“I think I am mostly wanting someone that I might like to talk with, and maybe lie under a blanket with to watch hockey, and also touch my hair.”

I smile at my phone, a strange buzzy feeling in my chest when I look at his name on the screen, like I’ve swallowed a bee.

He’s fucking cute, like a little German puppy.

“I have never been interested in kissing before, until I met you,” he says, head tilted and eyes contemplative on mine. His gaze drops to my mouth. “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.”

He hasn’t moved from the spot where I kissed him, as though the bottom of his feet sprouted roots.

I have the sudden, gut-clenching desire to still be in Henri’s dorm.

If he ever does wear eyeliner, I will probably die.

Three days without contact suddenly seems like an insurmountable distance.

I honestly don’t know how I could ever have thought the way he said my name was annoying. He says it so often, and each time is like a little treat for my ears. Ah-tlas—it’s fucking sensual.

“I am only wanting to be here with you, Bärchen. I will be saying no to everyone who is not Atlas.”

I pick up my fork and look down at my plate, trying to figure out a way I can eat one-handed. If I cannot manage it, I will just go hungry. I do not want to let go of Atlas’ hand. I worry if I do, I’ll never get it back again.

Atlas, smirking, hands me the scorecard as we pass a trash can on my side as we head out the door. Instead of tossing it, I tuck it into my pocket. Proof, for the future, that perfect days do exist.

I do not understand how someone so smart could be so blind. How could I want someone else when Atlas is in the world?

There really isn’t anything more to say than that. I could tell him that I’ve barely been able to sleep these past few weeks, and that my heart hurts.

Nobody warned me that heartbreak was a physical ailment, beyond just the emotional. I miss Atlas so much, my body aches with it.

If Atlas never wanted to kiss me again, I would be sad, but if he never wanted to talk to me again, I would be devastated.

I can either protect myself from the imagined hurt of the future, or live with the very real hurt of the present. I chose wrong.

What I really want to ask is if he will be my boyfriend on purpose, not as an accident. I want to ask if he will let me take care of him and treat him kindly—the way he deserves to be treated.

Fucking Henri, with his floppy brown hair and pretty blue eyes, scares me. I am so beneath him, it’s a miracle he looks at me at all.

I hadn’t forgotten that he was beautiful, precisely, but there’s a difference between remembering something and having it right in front of me.

I touch the pad of a finger to the side of his chin, wishing I could tell him that I love him.

“Boyfriends,” he adds slowly, as though he’s testing the word to see if it can hold our weight.

“Ich habe dich mehr vermisst,” he says, barely getting the words out before his mouth presses against mine with greater urgency.

That I love him, and I treasure every year we’ve spent together. He doesn’t tell me he loves me back, but I don’t need him to.

WHAT