One-Touch Pass (SCU Hockey #4)

by J.J. Mulder

The trauma you experienced with your friend has placed an enormous amount of stress on you, and likely has a great deal to do with your current struggles.”

“Sometimes, incredibly empathetic people struggle with situations such as these.

Condition your brain to stop connecting touch with a negative biological response.”

Golden-brown eyes widening, Max straightens from his lazy sprawl on the couch. I hadn’t told him I even had the appointment, not sure I was ready to come clean about the exact nature of why I was going. “Are you sick?” he asks tightly, looking me up and down. “No. I just haven’t been…right, I guess. For a while.”

Max has always been the easygoing one between the two of us—slow to anger, and quick to calm down. He doesn’t like confrontation, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t go to bat for someone he loves. For me.

“Also, I hooked up with Nate. Your teammate,” I tell him, deciding that the easiest way to have this conversation is by getting it over with as quickly as possible. “Twice. Well, three times if you count phone sex. I don’t think he’s out, though, so this has to stay between us.” “Ha!” Max exclaims, leaning forward and poking the end of the remote hard into my thigh. I scowl at him and swat it away. “I knew it. I fucking knew it.” “What?” “Nate! At the baseball game! He watched you the whole time. Never looked away once.” He widens his eyes and stares at me dramatically, apparently trying to give me a visual representation of Nate watching me play baseball. “He’s obsessed with you.”

“You’re spending way too much time with Luke.” “There is no such thing as too much time with Luke.

“I threw up on Luke the first time we hooked up,” Max reminds me. “It doesn’t get more humiliating than that.” “God, we’re fucked up,” I joke, making him snort out a laugh.

“But you want it to be more and that’s why you went to the doctor,” he fills in. He knows me so well, it’s not even a question. “And that’s who you’ve been texting all the time, right? I was wondering, since it obviously wasn’t me.” “He sends me selfies all the fucking time. Pretty much daily.” “You poor thing.”

“Don’t,” I warn him, frowning. “Don’t apologize for what they did to you.” “To us,” he corrects softly. A sharp pain prickles through my chest at the words. Carefully, I reach out and wrap my fingers around his wrist, squeezing gently, before letting go and returning my hand to my lap. Exposure therapy, the doctor called it—well, I hope Max is ready for me to practice on him all summer. Maybe if I grab him enough, I’ll be able to get laid without any complications in the future.

“Oh.” He chuckles a little awkwardly. I look over at him, eyebrows raised. He’s blushing. “I told Luke that I love him.” I can’t help but laugh. “Tell me something I don’t already know.” “Hey, I’ve never said that to anyone but you before! I don’t even say it to my parents when I talk to them on the phone. And I don’t know…it just feels like a big deal.” I soften a little at that. “It is a big deal,” I agree. “So did you do a whole thing? Flower petals on the bed? Champagne? A mariachi band?” “Oh, I just went with the classic method: yelled it at him in the shampoo aisle of Wal-Mart.” “Shut up.”

“I just…I don’t know. I’ve been wanting to tell him for a while, and I guess the shampoo aisle was the tipping point. I just blurted it out at a totally inappropriate volume for a public place.” “What did Luke do?” “Well, he dropped the bottles on the floor, and kissed me in a way that was also totally inappropriate for a public place.” “No puedes llevarlo a ninguna parte,” I mumble, and Max laughs. “Well, I’m glad the pair of you have finally told each other what the rest of the world already knew.”

I’m not going to trade my well-being for his. I won’t set him on fire just to keep myself warm.

Nate—the one thing I’ve allowed myself to have recently that is for me and me alone. The single item on the “just for Marcos” list. Tapping my fingers on my belly, I watch the ceiling fan perform a dozen rotations before I reach for the phone. Nate texts me every single day, and every single day I feel a shiver of surprise. It’s astounding that he hasn’t lost interest by now. Surely he has better things to do than talk to me.

The apartment is quiet as far as I can tell from here, and I feel a little tug of jealously thinking about Max tucked in safe with Luke. It’s a ridiculous thing to be jealous about, seeing as I wouldn’t be able to handle snuggling with Nate even if he was here.

I’m going to become the most handsy motherfucker around. I will not let this rule me, or affect any more of my life.

Laughter bursts out of me so suddenly, I clap a hand over my mouth. Jesus, what is it with him—nobody makes me smile or laugh this much. I absolutely cannot get attached to him. His interest in me will fade just as quickly as it began, and I’ll be the one left wishing he would text me again.

It’s heady, being the recipient of his undivided attention. Dangerous, too, as I already know it will be a difficult thing to lose once it’s gone.

It’s not him, and I’m hit with such a profound wave of disappointment, I feel almost sick with it.

I don’t want to talk to girls or other guys or anyone else. I want to talk to fucking Marcos.

Honestly, I really just want to go home and talk to Atlas about how he knew he was bi. I want to lie in bed and text Marcos, which is certifiably insane. Am I really going to turn down the promise of a warm bed and a willing partner for the mere possibility of a conversation with Marcos?

When I check the screen, my heart beats its way into my throat at the sight of Marcos’ name.

Marcos I’m sorry, Nate. Maybe this weekend? Nate I’m going to hold you to that. Marcos I hope that you do.

I’m twenty years old, and just like that I’m bi? Something else? How the hell have I gone my entire life without knowing this about myself? I’m ashamed, all of a sudden, like it’s only just hit me how clueless I am. I’ve been queer for only a handful of months, and am already failing at it. Or, even worse, maybe I’ve been queer my entire life and am just so stupid I never noticed.

My biggest problem is I know a lot of people, but somehow I’m feeling alone in this. I’m a talker, and right now I really need someone to listen. Atlas was the wrong choice, which means I’ve only got one other option.

“So,” I start, taking another sip to buy myself some time. “I think I might be bisexual. I’ve done a few gay things recently.”

“Uhm.” He lowers the drink, bending over to set it on the ground next to the bed. “Are you…did you just come out to me?” “Huh. I guess I did.” Setting my own drink on the floor, I lie back and pillow my head on my arms. “I don’t know, though, Mick. I think I need to just talk this out.” “Oh. Well, yeah. Okay. I can talk.” He clears his throat. “Listen, I mean.”

But…like, how the fuck does this happen? Take right now, for example. I’m looking at you and I’m thinking wow, look how cute Micky is with all those freckles.” “Oh my god,” he mumbles, cheeks crimson.

“So, that’s where I’m at. I went out a couple times over the summer. It was fine and I enjoyed myself, but I still just…I still think about Marcos. And I’m fucking confused about it, and he sort of treats me like we’re buddies and nothing more. So, maybe he doesn’t want to get together again? I don’t know. Atlas says he doesn’t actually like me, he just likes having sex, which, you know, makes me feel great.”

“I…I don’t think I’m the right person to talk to,” he whispers. “Because you don’t like guys? That’s fine. You know how I am—sometimes I just need to throw words at you, and then I can figure it out myself. I’m just a little bit floored by the whole thing, that’s all. It seems crazy that I never realized I’m into dick before now, you know? Apparently, I have zero self-awareness.”

“You’ve got a good point, but no. It doesn’t bother me that I like Marcos. What bothers me is I’m kind of feeling alone in this whole thing.

Micky fidgets uneasily. I probably shouldn’t even be here talking to him about this stuff. I try to keep things light and airy with him, knowing how easily he gets uncomfortable. Me coming in here and talking about spontaneous dick sucking is going to send him over the edge. “Sorry, buddy. We can talk about something else.” “No, it’s okay. I’m glad you told me. I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t talk to anyone—to me—though. I…” He laughs awkwardly, turning away and staring at the opposite wall. When he speaks again, his voice is so small I can barely hear the words. “I like men, too.”

I refrain from sitting up and hugging him, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate an over-the-top reaction. Instead, I reach a hand over and nudge his thigh until he reluctantly meets my eyes. “That’s okay,” I tell him, and he takes a deep inhale. “I know. I’ve never said that out loud before. I’m already kind of wishing I hadn’t said it right now.” He laughs again, but it’s one of the saddest sounds I’ve ever heard him make. “Hey, come on. You know I won’t tell anyone, Mick. Not if you don’t want me to. We can have our identity crisis together, yeah?”

“Oh, well, I’m not sure I’m having a crisis, exactly. I’m normally gay. I mean, I’ve always been gay.” I sigh. “Well, I suppose that makes me abnormally bisexual, then.” He laughs, and it’s a real one ...

“You know, it’s okay to just like people. To not care about gender at all.”

So, are you going to try and make something happen with Marcos or is that what you’re here trying to decide?” “I feel like I’ve already decided, but I have no idea where he stands. We’re kind of just friends right now, which is fine, but…” I shrug, sitting up and reaching for my hot chocolate. “I think I’d like to actually go out with him. Grab dinner, or something. We get along great—dating would be like getting to spend time with one of my buddies while also getting to kiss them. Best of both worlds.”

“I don’t think manscaping matters, one way or the other,” he says suddenly, voice stronger. “It wouldn’t to me, anyway. I’d just be happy that someone, well, liked me.”

I shake my head mutely. Micky has terrible self-esteem and can’t seem to wrap his head around the idea that someone else might find him attractive. The funny thing is, he’s very attractive: tall and broad, with dark red hair and so many freckles it looks like someone flicked paint all over him. He’s got pretty brown eyes, which I noticed even before my bisexual awakening.

“I didn’t know how to talk to you! You’re so…pretty. It’s scary. You made me nervous. But then I sort of got over this”—he waves a hand at my face—“and realized that we wouldn’t be good together anyway, and I was better off having you as a friend.” “So, what I’m hearing is you came for my face, but left because of my personality? Lovely,” I deadpan.

“This was good. I feel better.” “Really?” he asks, surprised. “Yeah. Like I said, I think I just needed to say some of that out loud. I was fine over the summer, but the identity crisis sort of hit once we got back to campus. Now, it’s time to come up with a plan to get Marcos to like me.”

“Well, I’m trying to plan some dates and I need to know what he might like. I’m not talking something generic, either. I need this to be so good he can’t help but fall in love with me.”

“Well, he likes to fish.” I nearly go into cardiac arrest at this. I love fishing. Max, perhaps seeing my expression, hacks out another laugh and takes a sip of his water.

Honestly, there’s nothing he’d actively hate doing, as long as it was just the two of you. Marcos doesn’t really like big crowds or groups of people. If you’re going out, just pick something that’s a two-man activity.”

“Okay, cool. Want to help me lock him down for Saturday?” “Oh no.” Max laughs, shaking his head. “Nope. That’s all on you.” I blow out a hard breath, but nod. Fair enough. “Thanks, Max.” “Sure.” He smiles, powering down the machine and hopping off. “I…don’t give up on him if he gives you the runaround, okay? Marcos doesn’t do anything fast. Don’t move on before he’s had time to get his head in the game, all right?” “All right,” I agree. I feel like I’ve been pretty direct in my pursuit of him at the end of last semester and over the summer, but perhaps when Max says Marcos takes things slow, he means slow.

Please say yes. You can’t see me, but I am down on bended knee begging you to go on a date with me. You can’t ignore me forever, I am very tenacious. I know where you live. Okay, I don’t really. Sorry. If I did know where you lived though, I would come and find you on Saturday at 10:30.

Nate I live to serve. So is it a yes to Saturday? Do I need to beg again or will the last three hours of messages suffice? Marcos What would we be doing? Nate I cannot tell you that. It’s a surprise. But I PROMISE you’ll like it. I would bet my left testicle that you’ll love it.

Marcos Okay. Nate Okay??? Okay!!! I’ll pick you up at 10:30, what’s your address? This is a date, by the way. We’re not hanging out as friends, or doing a quicky in the truck. D-A-T-E. Prepare yourself. Marcos Can you just tell me what we’re doing? Nate Nope. Wear boardshorts and a T-shirt. Super chill.

As if on cue, my imagination conjures up images of Nate trying to hold my hand or kiss me goodbye. As always, my brain likes to supply the worst-case scenario—me having a panic attack, or pulling away and hurting his feelings.

Driving home, I picture Nate touching my arm. His hands are callused and a little rough—strong, working hands. It doesn’t bother me that he’s touching me, because I want him to. I kiss him because I want to, and that doesn’t bother me either.

“So, I’ve got a date on Saturday,” I tell him. “Oh?” he asks, and I smirk when a faint blush colors his cheeks. “With Nate. Apparently, I’m to wear boardshorts, but we aren’t swimming. Oh, and he somehow knew I had no plans with you this weekend.”