One-Touch Pass (SCU Hockey #4)

by J.J. Mulder

Marcos I’m not doing anything tonight, if you wanted to hang out. Nate Are you serious? Yes, holy shit. What do you want to do? Want me to come pick you up? We could grab something to eat? Or you could come here!

want to go there. I want to go there so badly, I’m dizzy with the sudden desire of it. I’ve been so fucking stressed and wound up this past year and a half, barely been able to think beyond anything but Max and what happened to him.

There’s nothing particularly exciting about my features. I’ve got a pretty narrow face, which makes my cheekbones appear sharper and my nose more aquiline, but other than that, there’s no reason to look twice at me. Heavy dark brows over dark eyes, which Max tells me makes me look “broody” when I scowl, and doesn’t feel very sexy right now. Does Nate like broody men? I’m going to talk myself out of this if I stand here any longer.

I just have to hope that Nate can find at least one thing he likes enough to make all the rest unimportant.

I’m already reaching for my phone when Luke shakes his head. “I’ll handle it. See you when you get back?” I nod, glancing once more at Max’s prone form and Luke’s proprietary hand on his head. He’ll be all right, I tell myself.

“Hi,” Nate says, smiling so widely I could count his teeth if I wanted to. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I was standing on the other side of the door, waiting.”

I avert my eyes as I pass him, once more finding it hard to look at him. It’s like staring directly into the sun. I am so out of my league, it’s not even funny.

This is sort of weird, isn’t it?” Nate laughs again, running a hand through his hair and biting his lip as he looks at me. I relax a little, comforted to know that he’s at least a little bit as nervous as I am. “I was actually talking myself into leaving,” I admit, gesturing toward the front door. His face falls. “You don’t want to stay?” “No, I do, but…I probably shouldn’t.”

I can’t leave. How could anyone leave Nate?

“Why is this so awkward?” He laughs, scrubbing his palms vigorously over his face. “Listen, can I just kiss you? Because I think if we get that out of the way, it’ll be better. Unless that’s not why you’re here, which is fine too. We can do whatever. But if you’re here to hook up, I’d like to request kissing be involved, because⁠—" I cut him off by putting my hands on his hips and scrunching his shirt up in my fingers. Using the grip to pull him none-too-gently toward me, I tip my chin upward once his chest brushes mine. Nate inhales in surprise. Taking this as precisely what it is, he doesn’t hesitate to cup my face in his hands and lean down to kiss me.

It takes me a second to kiss him back, distracted by the fear of how I’ll react to his hands directly on my face. But instead of that familiar prickle of discomfort and the rush of vertigo, I’m treated to a delightful swoop in my stomach, like I’ve missed a step walking down stairs. It’s a good feeling, for once. A normal one.

His hands are rough—calloused, like he’s no stranger to manual labor—and the scratch of those palms against the sensitive skin of my cheeks is heady. I so rarely get to experience this, I want to take it while I can. I want more.

Before I can move to put my hands on every inch of his torso, he palms my face once more and tips my eyes up to meet his. My chest tightens at the look of unmistakable longing in his stunning eyes. Longing for me.

He laughs, and the warmth of his breath against my lips sends my heart galloping.

“It’s fine. You can touch me.” His face lights up at the words and he gives me a solid tug toward the staircase, stepping to the side so that I can precede him up. He looks as happy about the news as I am.

Why is it that the things that usually annoy me seem to be attractive and adorable when Nate does them? “Want me to help you pack?” I offer. “Oh my god, no. I want you to get naked.”

“What are you doing?” he asks. “Turning the lights off.” He stares at me, incredulous. “What? No! How will I see you?” I don’t point out that not seeing me would, in fact, be the whole point of turning the lights off. The room is bright with the overhead light on. Getting naked in this room is going to leave nothing to the imagination. I clear my throat. “Well…if you’re sure.”

He tilts his head away once he’s got the waist undone, placing his palms on my hips and running them down my legs as he kneels down to pull my jeans all the way off. The move is so sexy, I suddenly feel very unmoored and shaky.

There’s a smile on his when he kisses me, like he knows exactly how fried my brain is right now.

He frowns, an expression that shouldn’t be adorable, but is. He’s got such a wonderfully animated face.

“Well, fuck.” He laughs. “I was so excited you were coming over I didn’t even think about…

Putting a hand on the center of his chest, I spread my fingers as wide as they can go. His heart thuds wildly against his sternum, and his wide green eyes meet mine. Rough hands make another pass from my hips up to my rib cage. He’s nervous.

He leans down to give me another toe-curling kiss, pressing his mouth hard against mine. “Only if you want to, though. It’s okay if you don’t. I’m just so glad you’re here.”

“Don’t mind me if I chat the whole time,” he says, which startles a laugh out of me. He looks delighted, face breaking into a wide grin. “I’m a talker when I’m nervous.” “I don’t believe it.” “It’s true. Now, I know we’ve only just met and all, but I get the impression that you’re not a talker, ever.”

He sighs when I kiss him, fingers in my hair and an ankle hooked over mine. I think that if this were all we were going to do today, I’d leave happier than I’ve been in a long time.

Either way, I’m appreciative—the touch is barely there and perfectly manageable for me right now.

Oddly, the fact that he’s nervous makes me less so.

“God, I can’t fucking believe this is happening. This is all I’ve been thinking about, and now you’re here.”

When he opens his eyes and looks down at me, cheeks a little red and eyes bright, I feel it in my belly. I am so screwed.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he tells me, for about the dozenth time. “Me too.” “You’re better at blowjobs than I am.” “Not really.” I scoff, thinking back to the night we met. He clears his throat.

“Can you explain the no-touching thing? Is it…like, a phobia?” “No, I don’t think so. Listen, I can’t explain it because I don’t really understand. I’ve never talked to anyone about it before. I just don’t really like it when people touch me, and I feel…wrong when people do. That’s all.” “But it’s okay sometimes? Like, just now? Or were you doing that even though you didn’t really want to?” I glance over at him to find worried green eyes already on my face. “No, it’s okay sometimes. It’s gotten a little worse the past couple of years, but I feel mostly fine with you.” “Oh, okay.” He visibly relaxes, smile creeping across his face once more. “Is there anything that makes it better? Or something you can do to help?” “I’m not sure,” I admit, fidgeting.

“Hockey hugs are the best kind of hug,” Nate says, turning toward me and leaning up on an elbow.

Seeing the look on my face and reading it correctly, he amends to, “Or just stay for a little bit longer.” “A little while,” I agree, because I’m honestly not ready to leave anyway.

“Everything okay?” Nate asks when I settle once more onto my back. “Yeah.” I squirm, wishing I could tell him and uncomfortable with feeling like I can’t. I just need to talk to somebody—I don’t even need them to talk back. All I want is someone to sit and listen while I word-vomit everything that happened with Max, and how rough it’s been since then. This wound needs excising, and the longer I wait, the worse I feel.

I watch his face, a confusing mixture of desire and sadness coagulating in my belly. I like him—I like the way he looks and the way he talks; I especially like the way he seems like a genuinely good person. I like the way he looks at me like I’m a meal, and he hasn’t eaten for days.

We lie in bed, not touching, and talk until the sun fully sets and darkness falls outside. Neither of us have put clothes on, and it’s ceased feeling uncomfortable. In fact, it feels natural. I’m pretty sure that if he were to roll over and kiss me, or put his hand on my leg, I wouldn’t have an adverse reaction. My discomfort from earlier suddenly seems very, very long ago.

“I think you like it,” he says loftily, making me roll my eyes again even as my lips twitch. “Okay, I like it a little,” I admit, reaching out and tracing the very tip of my finger over one of the horns. He shudders and leans back as though trying to get closer to me. Flattening my hand, I run it up and down his back before curling my fingers over his shoulder and pulling him toward me. When he turns his head, I kiss him.

Immediately, he puts a hand on the back of my head to keep me there. We kiss languidly, neither of us trying to turn it into anything else, and by the time we break apart, I’m shaky with the realization that I am completely fucked. I don’t want to be friends with Nate. Not even a little bit. Friends is nowhere near good enough.

I have no intention of taking a shower until I absolutely have to—I want to smell Nate on me for as long as possible.

There’s something wrong with me, and if I don’t figure it out, I’ll never have again what I had tonight with Nate. And I want that. I want someone to talk to, and be with. Someone who wants me to spend the night with them, and kisses me just because they feel like it. I want to be someone who can receive that without feeling sick.

They’re a couple, I realize, and feel a soft stab of jealousy. I shouldn’t be staring at them, but I can’t seem to make myself look away. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve seen a pair of men on a date, but it feels like a sign after I’ve spent the entire evening thinking about Marcos. Hell, I’ve spent the entire summer so far thinking about Marcos.

The photo made me feel weird this morning, and it’s making me feel weird now. I’d thought distance would tamp down some of the raw desire, but if anything, I think it’s been worse. I’m at a fucking bar filled with beautiful men and women, and all I can think about is the way Marcos’ hip bones jutted out from his flat stomach when he’d stood naked in my bedroom.

Even if he doesn’t want to engage in another round of phone sex, I’d like to at least hear his voice, and maybe talk to him about all the things I’m confused about right now. Namely, him.

Micky sounds breathless with delight, and I feel a surge of affection for Coach Mackenzie. Micky rarely gets attention, and doesn’t think he deserves it. By offering him special treatment, Coach Mackenzie is showing him he’s worth the effort.

Micky puffs out a hard breath, voice calmer now that he got his news out. “Maybe this next season I’ll actually be good.” “Hey, you know what we should work on for next season? Not saying shit like that,” I admonish him crossly. I really hate it when he talks like that, as casual as anything, as though he’s not talking crap about himself. About my best friend.

“Nothing’s wrong, buddy,” I assure him. “Just got some stuff I’m trying to figure out.” “Are you sure? You really don’t sound right. You haven’t made a single joke this entire time. Are you sick? Actually, if you are sick, I’d rather not know, because I’m not sure I could handle the stress of knowing.” I laugh. “I’m not sick. Not dying. Nothing is wrong. Honestly, I’m just in my head about some personal stuff and I’m trying to work it out. Nothing bad, I promise. And you know I’ll end up telling you eventually, I’m just not ready yet.”

“What else did you get?” “Uhm, let’s see. They had a couple classics—Dracula and Dorian Gray—so I got those. I also got a book about dinosaurs—no, before you ask, there aren’t any pictures—and then a book about gay hockey players.” “Like, a biography about Troy Nichols? Holy shit, is Coach Mackenzie in there?” “No, no.” He chuckles. “It’s fiction. A romance. There’s pretty much an entire subgenre of romance devoted to hockey, and this one happens to be about two men. I haven’t read it yet.” “Mm,” I hum, biting my lip. Am I a gay hockey player now?

“Disliking human touch doesn’t mean there is something wrong with you,” she says soothingly. “In fact, it’s more common than you might think. Contact that catches you by surprise might cause a reaction simply because you were not expecting or prepared for it.”

I need to not worry about what will happen if I want to hold someone’s hand. If I want to hold Nate’s hand.

I wait for her to look at me the way I deserve to be looked at—like I’m a piece of shit. Like I’m a failure. I’m the one at fault, as surely as if I dropped the Rohypnol into his drink myself.