One-Touch Pass (SCU Hockey #4)

by J.J. Mulder

“Micky, what are you going to be doing at a party if you aren’t going to dance? Stand on the side and hold up the wall?” “I’ll hold your beer while you dance.” “You’re such a good boyfriend,” I tease, making him blush. “Dance with me, it’ll be fun.”

I put my hands on Micky’s hips, and try to get him to move in time to the beat. He gives me a pained grimace, and shuffles his feet a little bit. I laugh and shake my head. This fucking guy.

I look at him and think, yes. My body thrums at the sudden spike of desire, like I stuck my finger into a light socket.

I wonder if he’s here with someone, and watching them dance. The thought brings with it a small, strange twinge of jealousy. I want him to be here alone.

“You’re really pretty,” I hear myself say, completely unbidden. “Like my horse.”

“I own horses. They’re really beautiful,” I tell him, leaning down a little bit so I don’t have to shout. And then, because bad can always get worse, I add, “I like to look at them.”

I bet his eyes are the prettiest thing about him.

“Are you here with anyone?” I ask, hoping the answer is no. “No.” I nod, a burn of excitement tingling through my chest. Alone is good. Alone means he can be here with me. I decide not to look too closely at that desire right now.

“Do you ever hook up with guys?” I ask him, because apparently any skills I have for picking up women don’t apply to men. That wasn’t exactly the smoothest way I could have broached the subject.

I don’t even know what I’m doing—all I know is I’m having a hard time looking away from him. I’m not a stranger to wanting someone, and what I’m feeling right now is definitely want. Why question it?

I’m not drunk,” I repeat. “You’re just…really pretty.”

My skin buzzes with an un-scratchable itch that seems to get worse the longer I stare at him. I want to brush my fingers into his hair, and put my hands on his hips; squeeze a little tighter than I would with a girl. I want to put my mouth places I’ve never considered putting my mouth before. I just want.

I’m not one to shy away from feelings, or what I want. Well, tonight I want Marcos, and I’ll be damned if I don’t give it my best shot.

“I’ve never been with a guy, either, so there’s that.” “Wait, what?” “Never. Couldn’t tell you what it is, but you’ve definitely got me feeling some type of way.” I shrug, trying to play off the way my stomach has been turning cartwheels since I saw him across the room.

Nate I’m not sure I like that you have other friends. Micky Nobody could ever replace you, Nate, jewel of my heart, and light of my life. Where did you go, anyway? Nate I’m out back with a hottie. Micky How much longer on the timer? You didn’t turn it off, did you?

Unless I’m not your type, which would be devastating, but understandable.”

If the Greek gods did exist, one of them would have scooped up Nate the moment he angled his summer-green eyes in their direction. He’s beautiful.

So beautiful, in fact, that he’s honestly a little hard to look at. His eyes are an impossible shade of green, made more vivid by the rich brown of his hair. The light layer of five o’clock shadow on his jaw catches the light from the house, and I notice a small scar on his otherwise perfect cheekbones. He makes me a little uncomfortable. That lovely face does nothing to make me feel better about my own.

I just can’t walk away from the incredible appeal of Nate. Not yet. He’s got a gravitational pull that could rival a black hole.

I don’t like it when people touch me without warning, or sometimes at all, which isn’t exactly a quality people enjoy in a partner. These days, too much skin-to-skin contact makes me feel sick—I break out in a cold sweat, my stomach heaves, and I get dizzy.

“How about you put my hands where you want them,” he offers without missing a beat.

Nate, who exudes capability and easy confidence, holds his hand out as though he’s going to touch my back. He doesn’t, though; instead, hovering it there, centimeters from making contact. I feel the touch anyway, burning through my shirt like a brand. Silently, we walk over to the shed and around the corner.

It’s dark and private, and so much easier to be brave back here. Willing my stomach to stay settled, I brush tentative fingers across his cheek and down his neck.

He hasn’t tried to kiss me, and I wonder about that for only a second before giving myself a firm mental shake. We’re just hooking up. No need to make this more than it is.

“Marcos,” he says softly, my name seeming to float bodiless out of the night. The way he says it, voice low and breath warm against my stomach, thrums through me like a jolt of electricity.

“Give me your hands,” I request, and then bring them to my hips after he complies. He inhales a single sharp breath and spreads his fingers out.

He’s not trying to impress me, or rush to the finish. He’s taking his time, learning his limits, and slowly taking me apart.

Needing something to hold on to, I touch my fingers to the top of his head. I keep it light on purpose, not wanting to scare him into thinking I’m going to hold his head down. He makes a soft noise of approval. Threading my fingers in, I just rest my hand there as he lowers his head once more.

When I feel his forehead resting on my thigh, I nearly come from the intimacy of the gesture.

“You’re doing good, but you can stop if you want,” I whisper back. “I don’t want to stop,” he says, lifting his head.

My entire abdomen feels like it’s on fire, and my legs are actively shaking at this point. Intimacy has always been difficult for me, and this feels particularly so.

I can feel his lips curve up in a smile from where they’re pressed against me. Nobody touching my skin has ever felt this good.

It’s a painfully sweet gesture, and makes my face flush with heat.

“Good afternoon, Micky and Bas!” I smile at Vas’ cheerful greeting. I fucking love this guy.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to embarrass Coach Mackenzie. Or the team. Or you.” “Listen, I don’t need anyone’s help to embarrass myself. I do just fine on my own.” Micky laughs, shoulders finally creeping away from where he’d had them hunched up to his ears. His smile is gone just as quickly as it was there, though, as his eyes widen and fix on something over my shoulder. I turn to see Anthony Lawson skating toward us. Cute, my brain supplies helpfully, because naturally this is the moment when my newly realized attraction to men decides to perk up and sniff the air.

I’m not immune to the power of a compliment from a professional hockey player. My heart feels like it doubles in size at these words, and I smile proudly.

“Micky is working with Coach Lawson?” Vas asks cheerfully as I skate to a stop next to him. “Yeah. Poor guy is probably shitting his pants right now.” “Goodness,” Vas says. “Coach Lawson is very nice, Micky does not have to shit his pants.”

“What about you? Interested in anyone these days?” she asks, and my stomach clenches like someone squeezed it in their fist. Marcos.

Motherfucking Marcos plays baseball. I’ve been looking for him all week on campus, and here he is. When I turn back to Max, he’s watching me with a mildly concerned look on his face.

I can’t really see his face behind the cage on the helmet he’s wearing, but by the dark skin of his arms and that hand, I can tell it’s him. God, has a hand ever been so sexy?

Forgetting that there are people around, I smile, unwilling to take my eyes off of him so as not to miss it when he lifts his helmet off. I want to see his face. I want to see him under the brightness of the sun, and not a badly lit party.

That same low hum from the night of the party buzzes over my skin as I watch Marcos. Kayla was right about the pants—they are tight. Especially when the man wearing them spends most of his time squatting with his knees opened wide. The pants are indecently tight, really. Thank you, baseball gods.

The hum gets worse as I stare at his face, an incessant pulse in time with my heartbeat. I want to go over and stand near enough to see his eyes. To hear the rolled vowels of his accent, and see the dirt clinging to the sweat on his skin. Honestly, I’d sort of like to lick it off. Heat that has nothing to do with the sun burns low in my abdomen. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this level of attraction. Hell, I didn’t even know feeling like this just by looking at someone was possible. I barely know the guy. I shouldn’t want him this badly.

Max opens his mouth to say something, but snaps it closed as the door opens and a man walks out with a bag slung over his shoulder. It’s not Marcos, but something about the look on Max’s face makes me think this is Luke. “Max!” the guy exclaims, smiling so wide it takes up half his face. He drops his bag on the ground with a thump, and leans forward to kiss Max’s cheek. I turn away, trying to hide my grin. Max’s cheeks are red, and he’s got one hand clamped over the back of his neck. “Hey, Luke. Hi.” “Hello, you,” Luke responds. Max looks pleased enough to melt into the floor.

“Ay dios mío,” I whisper, closing my eyes. Maybe when I open them he’ll be gone, Luke will be gone, and it’ll just be me and Max. “Nope, not God. Just me, Nate.”

He was handsome the other night, but he’s breathtaking in the daylight. It’s terrifying. People who look like him don’t pay attention to people who look like me.

“Can I have your number?” he interrupts quickly, as though fearing where I had been going with that sentence. “You didn’t give it to me at the party, and I didn’t know how to find you.” “Find me?” I repeat dumbly. What the hell was he trying to find me for? “Yeah. I wanted to text you. I thought maybe we could get together sometime. You know”—the right side of his mouth quirks upward—“somewhere nicer than a backyard.”

Luke laughs suddenly, and the sound echoes through the concrete hall. My gaze snaps over to him and Max. He’s standing very close to my friend. I clench my fingers around the desire to yank him away.

“Okay. Can I have your number, though? I’d like to talk.” I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to that. Silently, I hold out my hand. My neck burns as I bend my head and tap my number into his phone. I can feel his eyes on me, as surely as I could feel his hands on my hips the other night. I roll my shoulder absently as I hand his phone back, the memory of last weekend at war with my dislike of being touched tonight. I want him, but I also want to be left alone.

“Oh. We’re going to grab dinner this week,” Max answers softly, looking half excited and half apologetic. “That’ll be fun,” I manage to say, even as my stomach clenches and my skin prickles with pain—tiny little needles, stabbing their way up my arms.