On the Ice (Stick Side, #1)

by Amy Aislin

A shouted “Yo, Grey!” followed by an ear-splitting whistle had Mitch scanning the audience. About midway down, Chuck Yano, his teammate and closest friend on the college’s hockey team, waved at him and gestured to the empty seat beside him. Mitch pointed at his own chest. For me? he mouthed. Yano gave him the finger. Taking that as a yes, Mitch wove his way around people propping up the walls and sitting in the stairs. More than one person gave him the stink-eye when he settled into what looked like the second to last seat. He dropped his cafeteria smoothie—dinner of champions—in the cup holder attached to his chair’s armrest. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said to Yano. He nodded a hello to their friend Marco Terlizzese sitting in the row behind them. “Changed my mind,” Yano said. “What are you doing?” “Huh?” Yano flicked a finger against the notebook Mitch had taken out of his backpack. “What’s this? You taking notes? This is an optional lecture series. We’re not being tested on it.” Mitch dug into his backpack and found a pen at the bottom. “It’s just in case someone says something useful. Possible career paths, helpful resources, post-grad degree or certificate programs that might be beneficial. Things like that.” Yano squinted at him. “This from the guy who’s determined to get drafted into the NHL.” “Well, yeah.” Mitch shrugged. “But just because I want to be a pro hockey player, that doesn’t mean I will be. I’m good, but somebody better than me could come along. ...

“Grey, dude, check this out.” Marco handed him a brochure. Kinesiology Lecture Series, it read, with a breakdown of the guest panelists speaking at each of the monthly talks. Marco pointed at one name in particular, Dr. Harry Hoare. Mitch’s surprised burst of laughter had heads turning their way. “Brutal,” Yano said. “I’d change my name as soon as I was legal.” “I don’t know. There’s a lot you can do with it.” Mitch lowered his voice to a husky drawl. “Hey there. I’m Harry, Harry Hoare. Do you want to Hoare your way into my pants and lick my Harry balls?” Yano and Marco cracked up. Even the guy sitting next to him tried to stifle a laugh. The girl in front of them, however, shot him a disgusted frown over her shoulder. Mitch waggled his fingers in her direction in a silent hello. She rolled her eyes and turned back around. Well shit, what did she expect out of immature, horny sophomores? “Dude,” Yano said through gasps of laughter. “You got no game.” “Please,” Mitch scoffed. He had game. His game just didn’t involve women. Not that he’d ever tell his teammates that.

The lecture should’ve started five minutes ago. The crowd was getting restless and Mitch was sure the panelists who’d arrived on time were about to lose some of their audience. As if he’d conjured the missing Chris Blair, the door at the bottom of the lecture hall opened and in walked someone who was decidedly not Chris Blair. According to the picture in the brochure, Blair was a fifty-something gentleman with salt and pepper hair and a goatee. Good-looking in an older-dude way, if Mitch was the type to go after a guy three decades older than him. But the guy who walked in was— Holy jumping hockey sticks! The tall, jacked guy who’d just come in was none other than Alex Dean, a Tampa Bay defenseman who’d recently been put on the injured reserve list due to a broken arm. He was huge and muscled, his almost-black hair in disarray, khakis and checkered shirt wrinkled, as if he’d gotten dressed in the dark or in a hurry. Mitch might’ve drooled. Just a little. “Is that who I think it is?” Marco whispered in his ear. The crowd half-hushed as recognition of the newcomer set in, and dozens of hockey fans surreptitiously dug out their phones. Or not so surreptitiously, in the case of Yano, who stood to get a better angle. Marco kicked his seat. “Dude, have some decorum.” Yano made a face at him and sat. “It means—” “I know what decorum fucking means, douchebag.” Mitch ignored them both. He only had eyes for Dean. The man wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense. Rugged features, big...

“Good evening, everyone,” he said. “Thank you for coming and apologies for the late start.” “My fault,” Dean said into the microphone in front of him, his deep voice resonating through the lecture hall. The half-grin on his lips practically oozed charm and confidence. The crowd tittered. No lie, they fucking giggled, as if even the non-hockey fans knew they had a celebrity in their midst. Halley introduced the lecture series, then the individual panelists. “And finally, we have Mr. Alex Dean, NHL defenseman with Tampa Bay.” The crowd applauded loudly. Mitch felt for the other panelists, who’d gotten only mild claps, but, well, they weren’t celebrities. “Unfortunately,” Halley continued, “Chris Blair, Tampa’s director of sports science and rehabilitation, was unable to make his flight due to unforeseen circumstances. However, as Mr. Dean was already in the area, he kindly agreed to take Mr. Blair’s place at the last minute.” What the hell was Dean doing all the way in Vermont? It was a long way from Tampa. “As some of you may know,” Halley continued, “Mr. Dean is a GH alumnus and he’ll be speaking this evening about his experience from the perspective of a patient.” More applauding from the crowd. Dean shifted in his seat, embarrassed.

Dean had once been the Golden Boy of the GH Mountaineers. During his four-year tenure at GH, he’d helped raise the Mountaineers’ standing from a so-so NCAA Division I team, to a standout one that even went to the Frozen Four in Dean’s senior year. They lost, but it was the first and only time in GH’s forty-nine-year history that any of its sports teams had made it to the championship games. Dean was a legend among the Mountaineers. Hell, Dean was one of the reasons why Mitch had chosen GH. Not because Dean was his hockey hero—though he wasn’t ashamed to admit that Dean was his hockey crush—but because if GH’s hockey coaches could take a small-town kid like Dean and turn him into a first round draft pick by his senior year, what could they do with Mitch, who’d taken figure skating and gymnastics as well as hockey while growing up, in order to improve his skating and flexibility? Mitch could be first round draft material too, and GH could help get him there. Mitch had a plan for the next ten years. He may not have all the minute details figured out—like which team he’d be drafted by or what post-grad courses he’d need for his post-hockey career—but the steps were clearly laid out in his head.

Mitch was fully aware that the latter steps were all contingent on Step One. If he lost his scholarship, he wouldn’t be able to afford GH and he’d have to drop out, which would have a ripple effect on his dreams (AKA Steps Two through Five), knocking them over like dominoes. Step Four, however, was why he was attending this evening’s optional lecture-slash-panel-discussion: Chris Blair. But Chris Blair wasn’t here to discuss sports science and rehabilitation, which was a bitter letdown. It wasn’t that Mitch didn’t like looking and listening to Dean, but he wasn’t the reason he’d come tonight. He didn’t care about injury rehabilitation from the perspective of a patient. He needed to know what courses he should take, what post-grad certificates he should consider, who he should talk to, or even shadow, in order to get to the same kind of position Chris Blair currently held. Because that was what Mitch wanted once his career in hockey was over. Mitch had a list of questions for Chris Blair as long as his arm and he didn’t think Dean—who’d majored in creative writing, if Mitch remembered correctly—would be able to answer them. Hockey, like most sports, was a young person’s game. However, when Mitch graduated with a Bachelor of Science with a speciality in kinesiology, he’d be set to work with athletes, keeping him in the sport long after he’d retired from active play. Hockey had been part of his life ever since he could skate, and it would continue to be a part of it until he ...

“Is there anybody with a relevant question?” Again, Mitch’s hand shot up. Again, Halley called on someone else. On and on it went until finally, finally, Halley pointed at him three minutes before the lecture was to end. “Go ahead, Mr. Greyson, since you’ve been so patient,” Halley said. Mitch was sure that by patient, Halley actually meant annoyingly persistent, but whatever. “Don’t get yourself thrown out this time,” Yano muttered to him under his breath. Mitch ignored him. “I have a question for Alex Dean. Mr. Dean, given that you’ve been with the NHL for the past two-plus years, and knowing what you know now about the organization, is it what you expected? And if you had to do it over again, would you make the same decisions?” “Mr. Greyson, if you can’t keep your question relevant to the lecture, I—” “But it is relevant,” Mitch argued. “How so?” “Well, in another life, had Mr. Dean decided not to join the NHL after graduating from GH, he likely wouldn’t have a broken arm right now. But he did, and he does, which is how he ended up here today, talking to us about injury recovery from the perspective of an injured athlete.” Mitch shrugged. “So it’s relevant in a non-linear way.” Halley didn’t seem to understand. His mouth kept opening and closing, probably searching for words. From his seat at the table, Dean smiled at Mitch. Mitch enjoyed the flare of attraction that rose when Dean’s eyes met his. The chances of Dean being gay were needle-in-a-haystack small. Hell, the ...

Pushing himself off the chair to stretch his legs, and ignoring the phone that had started buzzing in his pocket ten minutes ago, Alex Dean wasn’t surprised to find a tenacious Greyson standing on the other side of the table. What did surprise him was the tangle of nerves that knotted his belly when he got a better look at how attractive the other man was. Greyson was lean and wiry and several inches shorter than Alex’s own six-feet-four, putting the top of his head level with Alex’s chin. His eyes were the color of chocolate, which matched his evening scruff and his messy, curly hair. Curls fell over his ears and his forehead. Alex wasn’t sure if he wanted to run his fingers through them or pull on a lock to see if it would spring back into its curly place. A backpack slumped off one shoulder, he had a notebook tucked under one arm, a smoothie in his hand, and an impish spark in his eyes. The man was hot. He knew it too, if the way his smirk widened while Alex took his time checking him out was any indication.

Attraction, however, meant nothing to Alex without emotions, so a person’s physical appearance didn’t usually elicit a response reminiscent of a teenage girl with a crush.

“Whoa, whoa,” Alex said, chuckling, holding his hands up to ward off more questions. “Hold it, hotshot. You’re asking the wrong person. Isn’t there anyone here you could interview, like Halley?” “I’ve already talked to them all,” Mitch replied. “But they’re all academics now, or they work in fields I’m not interested in. I wanted to talk to someone specifically about sports science and rehabilitation.” “You must’ve been disappointed when I showed up instead of Chris.” “Do you think he’d talk to me?” Mitch asked, eager as a puppy. “We could set up a phone call. Or I could email him my questions. Do you have his card?” Alex tilted his head sideways and tried to read the questions in Mitch’s notebook. There had to be at least two dozen, and he got the feeling Mitch was the kind of person who would have follow-up questions to his follow-up questions. “Let me talk to Chris,” Alex offered. “See if I can’t set something up between you.” It wasn’t an offer Alex would usually make, but he felt bad that Mitch hadn’t gotten to hear Chris speak when it was clearly something the kid had prepared for. Mitch’s whole face—which was expressive to begin with—lit up. “Yeah? Let me give you my info.” He jotted his name, email, and phone number on a blank page of his notebook, ripped the page out, and slid it across the table to Alex. “And, you know,” Mitch said, tapping the paper right above his phone number. “If you want to use this for something else too, I’d be okay with that.” Then he win...

“Mr. Greyson,” he said. “You are not the only one wishing to speak with Mr. Dean.” Mitch glanced around and his eyes went big at the line of students behind him waiting to talk to Alex. Alex bit back a sigh. His line was longer than the other panelists’. He sent a mental apology to his friends waiting for him at the pizza place in town, even as the phone in his pocket buzzed again. “Should you wish for an autograph from Mr. Dean,” Halley continued, “the request needs to be made on your own time.” “Autograph?” Mitch repeated. “Why would I want his autograph?” Alex choked back a laugh. It was refreshing to talk to someone who didn’t give a shit about his pseudo-celebrity status. “We were discussing career paths, actually,” Alex said, coming to Mitch’s defense. It was becoming clear that Halley had it in for Mitch for some reason. “Is that so?” “Yes, sir.” Mitch stood silently, his arms crossed, an annoyed gaze on Halley. “Don’t take up too much of Mr. Dean’s time please, Mr. Greyson.” Halley gestured at the cluster of students behind Mitch. “There are others waiting to speak with him.” As Halley walked away, Mitch eyed the line over his shoulder before turning back to Alex. “Bet they’re all wanting an autograph,” he muttered.

Was Alex giving off some kind of gay vibe or something? He’d promised himself a long time ago that if he ever made it to the NHL, he wouldn’t divulge his sexual preferences for anyone. He didn’t want to make a Thing out of it, wasn’t going to give the media something other than his skills to talk about. Not that he was worried—at twenty-four years old, he could count on one finger the number of times he’d been sexually attracted to someone. At this point, he was pretty sure the whole dating-romance-marriage-babies thing wasn’t in the cards for him. Not only did it take him forever to figure out if he was attracted to someone, but the way dating was going nowadays, nobody wanted to be friends first and wait for romantic feelings to develop, if they developed at all. There just wasn’t an app for that. Instead, people were too busy jumping into bed with random strangers and having casual friends-with-benefits hookups. No, thank you. Hell, he didn’t even like kissing. He’d kissed all of two people in his life and it hadn’t done anything for him either time. It was wet and gross and unpleasant. The way things were going in his nonexistent love life, he’d be a virgin for the rest of his life. Others might bemoan their virgin status at twenty-four years old, but frankly, Alex didn’t care. What was the big deal about sex anyway? In today’s sexually-charged culture, Alex often felt like an alien. That didn’t, however, prevent him from acknowledging the attractiveness of another per...

Forty-five minutes later, Alex finally walked into the pizza joint in tiny downtown Glen Hill, Vermont. He was still faintly horrified that Mitch had hit on him while in full view of the other speakers and lingering students, but as he started to realize that no one had been paying them any attention, except for the guy who’d been filming them from far enough away not to get any sound, horror gave way to mild amusement. It was also a nice ego boost, even though he wasn’t interested.

“How’s your grandpa doing?” JP asked, as if he’d known where Alex’s thoughts had gone. Heaving out a long sigh, Alex rubbed a hand over his face. “That good, huh?” “Sorry, man.” Jay patted his arm. “He’s not getting any better,” Alex said. Suddenly not so hungry, he set the rest of his slice back onto the tray. JP nabbed it. “People don’t usually get better from Alzheimer’s, do they?” Jay asked. From what Alex could tell, based on an extremely thorough and in-depth internet search combined with interviews with as many neurologists as he could find who would give him the time of day, sometimes Alzheimer’s patients did get better, or at least stabilize, for periods of time. But not Grandpa Forest. It killed Alex to see the man he remembered as being upbeat, fun, outgoing, and wicked smart reduced to a shell of who he used to be. And it was compounded by the fact that Grandpa Forest kept mistaking Alex for his own son—better known as Alex’s good-for-nothing dad. All Alex wanted was five damn minutes where his grandpa would look at him with familiarity, smile his bright, toothy grin, and say, “Alex, my boy!” the way he used to, then envelope him in his trademark bear hug. Five minutes for Grandpa Forest—Alex’s biggest supporter—to see him play in the NHL. “Let us know next time you head to Montpelier for a visit,” JP said. “We’ll come with you.” “That’s… No—” “Yes,” JP interrupted him. “You’ve always been there for us. When my mom died, when Jay’s grandma had a heart attack. Y...

It might only be 6:37 in the morning, but his roommate and best friend, Cody, was already mid-yoga routine in the living room attached to the kitchen in the townhouse they shared off-campus when Mitch dragged his feet downstairs. The lamplight reflected off the sun catcher in the window, casting multicolored hues against the walls. Cody was just about the most beautiful person Mitch had ever seen. It had nothing to do with his tall and lithe frame, flawless fair skin, wispy dark blond hair, pale blue eyes, or perfect Cupid’s bow lips, and everything to do with the fact that Cody had had his back since they met in first grade on their elementary school playground in the Hamptons. Mitch trusted him more than just about anybody on the planet, except for his dad. Once upon a time, he’d also trusted his brother the same way, but five years ago Dan had cut Mitch out of his life for reasons Mitch still didn’t understand. Cody had stuck by him while Mitch cried on his shoulder and hypothesized about what he possibly could’ve done wrong that was so bad it had made his older brother hate him. Mitch and Cody had been joined at the hip since they were six years old, so Cody had felt just as betrayed by Dan’s one-eighty as Mitch had. Mitch knew Cody better than anyone, just like Cody knew every part of Mitch, even the parts Mitch wished no one knew. Like all the crap that had gone down with his mother.

“Alex Dean,” he repeated, dumping the ice into the blender. “Defenseman for Tampa Bay.” “Defenseman? What’s that, football?” “Hockey, you moron,” he said before Cody’s snickers reached his ears. Cody was messing with him, the jerk, his body twitching with laughter. Mitch threw a stray raspberry at him. It bounced off Cody’s hip and landed on his mat soundlessly. Cody popped it into his mouth. Ew. “What was he like?” Cody asked. “Really fucking hot,” Mitch said, hunting for the peanut butter. It wasn’t in its usual spot in the cupboard above the toaster. Cody groaned. “Tell me you didn’t hit on him.” “Only a little.” If broadcasting his interest by checking Alex out and winking at him could be considered only a little. “Is he even gay?” Cody brought his legs down, sat up, and bent forward into a lunge. “Is anybody gay in pro sports?” Mitch countered. The short answer was no. Or, more accurately, yes but not many. Not yet. People who came out in pro sports lost sponsors, lost playing time, lost fans. Mitch wasn’t going to let his queerness affect his future career, which was why the only people who knew he was gay were Dan, their dad, and Cody. If he had to keep his sexuality a secret until he retired, so be it. “But what if you find somebody you want to spend the rest of your life with?” Cody had once asked. Mitch had laughed and laughed. After Dan had turned his back on him, and his mother had cut him off financially when he’d declared his disinterest in the family busines...

“Did he hit on you back?” Cody asked. “No.” Mitch found a container of yogurt in the fridge and added half to the blender. It’d do for now as a peanut butter replacement. Then he added some protein powder. “He did check me out, but it was more curious than sexual.” Yeah, Alex hadn’t seemed to know what to do with Mitch’s shameless come-on. Mitch had seen it on Alex’s face, when the man had realized he was being hit on. Alex’s eyes narrowed and he got a little furrow between his eyebrows. The confusion had been adorable. “Probably because he’s not gay, dummy.” Unfortunately, that was most likely true.

Cody’s laptop, which sat open on the island, beeped with an incoming message. Mitch opened the email, which turned out to be a Google Alert set for “Greta Westlake.” “Why are you keeping tabs on my mom?” “I want to make sure she’s not talking shit about you to anyone she shouldn’t be,” Cody said, falling into forward splits. Aww. That was his Codes. Always having his back. “Please.” Mitch clicked on the link. “She doesn’t give me a second thought, unless we lose a game.” The link took him to a job posting for an executive assistant to the CEO of Westlake Waterless Printing, Greta Westlake. Which meant that his mother had lost yet another EA. That made, what?—three?—in the past year, if the information he got from his dad was correct. It wasn’t at all surprising that nobody wanted to work for his mother. She was a difficult, unforgiving, ruthless woman who took no excuses and expected two hundred and fifty percent. She’d once fired an account manager who’d asked for a day off to grieve her recently deceased dog. And she’d fired a guy in accounting because he’d had the gall to ask for a week’s vacation that coincided with the company’s busy fall season. She got away with it because she had an excellent team of lawyers at her back. And she wondered why Mitch didn’t want to work for the family business. Yes, please. Sign me up for that bullshit. Not in this lifetime.

A whistle blew, dragging Alex’s eyes from where he’d been staring into space and onto the ice, where his old coaches were putting their players through a power play drill. Alex couldn’t see player names on the back of jerseys from where he sat, but he’d been sitting here since practice started at seven and he was starting to recognize skating patterns and body language. The Mountaineers had won their first two games of the season. The third was an away game tomorrow against Colgate that Alex suspected they’d win. Were any of the players on the team guys he’d played with when he’d been at GH? Probably. Maybe? It was possible some of the seniors had been freshmen when he’d been a senior himself. He was attempting to do the math when a shadow fell over him. “Thought that was you,” Coach Bedley said. He took the seat next to Alex. Alex secured his sleeve over his cast, hiding the giant purple cock and balls. Fucking Jay. Bedley was a big guy, rough around the edges, but he was a stellar coach. Alex never would’ve been drafted without him. Bedley had spent almost twenty years coaching in the AHL before making the move to college hockey. He claimed it was less pressure but Alex couldn’t see how that could be true. “Hey, Coach.” Alex offered his right hand, remembered it was broken, then offered his left. Bedley snorted and they shook left hands.

He nodded at the players again and said, “Tell me what you see.” “What do you mean?” “You notice everything, Dean. That’s why I always said you should be a goalie. I saw you arrive when practice started, which means you’ve been here a while. So tell me what you see.” To Alex’s utter surprise, Bedley took a small notepad and pencil out of the pocket of his GH-branded windbreaker. “What?” Alex huffed a laugh of disbelief. “Are you serious?” Bedley waited for him, pencil poised above his notepad. “Okay.” Alex leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. “That guy—” He pointed at a tall dude who punched the Plexiglass. “—gets angry too easily. It costs him the puck. Your backup goalie doesn’t interact with the other players enough on the ice. Shorty over there, number twelve? Nerves get the better of him.” A freshman, if Alex had to guess. “Do you have anything nice to say?” Coach asked, the scratch scratch of his pencil flying over paper. “I’m getting to that.” A whistle blew. One of the assistant coaches said something Alex couldn’t hear, and the players set their hockey sticks aside and started cool-down laps. “Your D-men play together as if they’ve been doing so since they could skate,” Alex said. “Your forwards are really fucking fast. And that guy, the left-winger, number nineteen.” Alex pointed to a player who was chatting with the guy next to him, hands gesturing as he spoke. “He’s agile. Got great footwork and speed. Incredibly flexible. He’s smart, looks for ope...

Two men carrying equipment bags exited the locker room, one a tall Asian guy and the other… The other was lean and wiry and had curly brown hair. “Here’s the little shit,” Bedley said under his breath, nodding at the guy on the left. At Mitch. Wait. Mitch Greyson, the shit with the in-your-face attitude Alex had met yesterday, was a math genius and super talented hockey player? Something wasn’t adding up. Mitch’s personality on-ice—he had great stick-handling skills, uncanny vision as to where his teammates would be and didn’t hog the puck, even though there had been a couple of instances during practice when he should’ve—didn’t mesh with his personality off-ice. Although, there were hints that Mitch was equally as smart both on and off the ice. Alex had seen them last night when Mitch had come to the lecture prepared with questions. Mitch was clearly serious about two things—school and hockey. Who the hell was this guy? Alex wasn’t in the mood to be hit on again and he briefly considered slinking away. Mitch spotted him before Alex could decide and he lost his chance to escape unseen. Mitch’s mouth kicked up into a half smile. “Greyson, Yano,” Bedley said. “Meet Alex Dean, defenseman for Tampa. He was a Mountaineer before your time.” “We’ve met,” Mitch said, smirking, mischief alight in his eyes. “Come to see me play?” Alex raised an eyebrow. Yano rolled his eyes. Bedley sighed and stepped aside. “Get out of here, Greyson.” “Yes, sir, Coach.” Mitch stepped forward into th...

Mitch hated parties. So much, in fact, that he’d rather work at a bee farm surrounded by hundreds of bees plotting his death, one bee sting at a time. A headache pulsed at his temples. He hid in a bathroom stall at Mama Jean’s and massaged his temples with the thumb and middle finger of one hand. The other hand held a beer he didn’t want, bought for him by someone older. Mama Jean’s was packed for tonight’s party, whoever it was for. He had to be on a bus tomorrow morning at seven. Mitch checked his watch: nine-fifteen. He had a biomechanics lab on Tuesday and a musculoskeletal tutorial on Wednesday he needed to do the readings for. His weekly written assignment for his human growth, motor development, and physical activity class was due Thursday, not to mention all the reading he still needed to do for his electives. Tomorrow was a write-off unless he could get some reading done on the bus ride to and from Hamilton. On Sunday, he had a full shift at his part-time job at the long-term care facility in Montpelier, then a two-hour session tutoring a couple of freshmen in college Algebra 101. It was brainless work for Mitch that provided him with some much-needed cash. His partial scholarship helped, but it covered only about sixty percent of his expenses. He still needed to pay his bills, and for gas, food, rent, and a portion of next semester’s tuition and textbooks. He had some cash left over from his full-time job at a café in Montpelier last summer, but if an emergency c...

She believed, in her own Greta Westlake way, that sports were “an enormous waste of time. It’s not a real career, Mitch. It’ll make you irresponsible and immature and if it’s really what you want, then you’ll have to do it without my help. When you come to your senses and realize that you need to pursue a business degree, like your brother, then I’ll give you your tuition money back.” He shook his head, remembering. Even if, for some reason, he decided to drop both hockey and kinesiology and transfer to a business program, there was no way in hell that he’d ever ask for her help. She’d made it perfectly clear that she didn’t respect his choices. He’d make it on his own, thanks. He didn’t need her help. He didn’t need anybody’s help. Determination was all well and good. However, if he wanted to stay past this year, he had to keep his grades up so the school would renew his partial scholarship. And keeping his grades up meant putting in the work, which was what he should’ve been doing tonight instead of waiting around for Alex to show up. Mitch might’ve told Alex this party was for a friend, but the truth was that he had no damn clue whose party this was. He’d heard about it somewhere and it had seemed like the perfect opportunity to hang out with Alex. Mitch wanted to go home, but he also wanted to stay in case Alex showed up, though the chances of that were laughably small. As in somewhere around negative twenty. He hadn’t had any trouble reading the clear “Hell no” on Ale...

Mitch rubbed a hand over his chest and leaned his head back against the stall wall. Sometimes he wished he had an Eddie. Someone to come home to. Someone whose family would welcome him. Someone to soothe his hurts. He was usually too busy to acknowledge the loneliness inside him, but listening to Eddie and his girlfriend kiss not only with affection but with tenderness? The loneliness hit him suddenly, like a check into the boards he hadn’t seen coming. He might’ve promised himself that he wouldn’t let anybody close again—he had to protect himself somehow, so he wouldn’t be hurt when the world found him lacking—but that didn’t mean he didn’t miss the connection with another human being. Not necessarily a sexual one, but an intimate one, like the one he used to have with Dan. It was because of Dan, and because of his mother’s callousness, that Mitch had come to GH in the first place, determined to start fresh. No one knew him here except for Cody, so he could be whoever he wanted to be with everyone else, hide behind a brash exterior. But that meant that nobody really knew him. Sometimes, he felt the pressure of hiding who he was wearing him down, but he’d gotten into the habit and he didn’t know how to make himself vulnerable, how to let anyone in. How could he, when he didn’t really know who he was anymore? Had he turned into the person he’d been pretending to be for over a year, the one that was only meant to keep his heart safe? Or was he still the same person he’d alwa...

“Literally nobody fails creative writing,” Cody said, navigating out of the student parking lot. “Don’t you think you’re being overly dramatic?” “I’m allowed to be, since I’m going to fail out of school.” “Why don’t you just drop the class?” “Can’t. The drop deadline’s passed. I wouldn’t get a refund and it’s too late in the semester to join a different class, which means I’d be down a credit that I’d have to make up next semester or next year, but I don’t have time for an extra class and—” “Okay, breathe.” Cody squeezed Mitch’s knee. “Breathe, Mitch.” Doing as ordered, Mitch took a deep breath in, then let it out slowly. He waved a hand at the Green Day song on the radio. “This is going to be me any day now. Walking on the boulevard of my broken dreams.” Cody laughed and couldn’t seem to stop. “You’re ridiculous. And you’re not going to fail. When you stop being all princess-y over it, you’ll realize that it’s early in the year and that there’s still plenty of time to make up your grade.” Mitch didn’t know what being all princess-y meant, so he ignored Cody and stared out the window at the rolling Vermont hills they passed on the way home. At this time of the year, the colors were vibrant reds and golden oranges and sunny yellows. It was fall tourist season in Vermont, but he rarely bumped into visitors unless he ventured into Montpelier. Glen Hill wasn’t a big enough town to warrant a visit, and it wasn’t on the way to anywhere that was. Mitch liked it that way. “Did you...

Alex kicked JP’s foot with his under the table. “What’s going on with you today? You’ve been in a mood since we got here.” JP stole the crust out of Alex’s hands and took a bite. “Hey!” “I have a student,” JP said around his mouthful, “who’s this close to failing out of my class. Pretty sure he knows it too, but does he come see me during my office hours today? No. I don’t want to fucking fail this kid, but if he doesn’t show up to talk to me about it, what am I supposed to do?” “Who the hell fails creative writing?” “Right?” “He’s not turning in his assignments?” Alex guessed. “No, he is. They’re just not any good.” “So, he’s half-assing them?” JP dropped the rest of the crust on the tray and wiped his hands on a napkin. “Thing is, I don’t think he is. I think he’s putting as much effort as he can into them, but he’s just…not a writer. He doesn’t understand the structure of a story. I think he’s a science major. His writing reads more like a lab report than a story.” JP sighed. “Fuck, I need another beer.” Alex got up and headed for the order counter where he got them each a beer, giving his friend a moment to stew. Grabbing the bottles by the neck with his good hand, he made his way back to JP, set the beers down, and said, “Is there a tutor who could help him?” “The English department has a few on the roster,” JP said. “But they tutor in English lit, not creative writing.” “You’ll think of something.” “I think the reason he didn’t come see me—” JP winced. “—is because I...

I tell you that I think I figured out an angle for the book?” “No shit? Tell me.” “Coach Bedley gave me the idea.” Alex took a sip of water. “There’s a kid on his team who’s basically killing himself for the game. He’s got a key to the rink so he can practice every morning that there isn’t already a scheduled practice. He’s in a science program, so he’s busy as fuck and yet he still works two jobs to make ends meet since he doesn’t see much support from his parents. According to Bedley, anyway. But it gave me the idea to dig deeper into the psyche of a hockey player. What will they do in the name of the game? What will they sacrifice? What’s the cost of a hockey career?” “Hmm.” JP drummed his fingers on the table. “So, it’s like the darker side of sports.” “Exactly.” “I like it. Did Kate go for it?” “She did.” Thank God. He didn’t want to think about going back to the drawing board. Luckily, his editor had loved the idea. “Cool.” JP leaned forward, his gaze earnest. “Don’t suppose you’ll give me her number?” “So you can be shot down yet again?” Buffing his nails on his T-shirt, JP said, “Hey, I have slicker moves now.” That was highly doubtful. Alex’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the caller ID, then waved the phone at JP. “Mind if I take this? It’s my mom.” “Still a mama’s boy,” JP teased, a glint in his dark eyes. “Still a jackass,” Alex replied. Alex headed for the hallway that led to the washrooms, where it was quieter, ignoring JP’s laughter trailing after him.

“Ready to go?” “I need to use the restroom first.” Mitch took the long way around to avoid being seen by his friends. He wasn’t in the mood to be social. He wanted to go home with Cody, do some course reading, and sulk about his creative writing class. His plans took a backseat when he found Alex Dean getting off his phone in the hallway that led to the restrooms. Alex noticed him and his head jerked back, his hand clenched on his phone, and his entire body language said Brace for impact! Not exactly flattering, but Mitch didn’t let that stop him. He tilted his head and smiled at Alex in a way that often had guys falling at his feet. Unfortunately, Alex appeared to be immune. Mitch pressed on anyway, despite the small part of him that told him to quit while he was ahead. Alex obviously wasn’t interested, but this was Mitch’s hockey crush and Alex was right there. Yet still, Mitch couldn’t get him to give him the time of day. What did a guy have to do for five minutes of Alex Dean’s time? He’d even take non-sexy time. Five minutes to talk about Alex’s journey from small-town Canadian hockey player, to the Ontario major juniors, to being recruited by GH, to the freakin’ NHL draft. Five minutes to find out what, if anything, Alex would’ve done differently, knowing what he knew now. Five minutes of conversation to learn something from him, maybe have him autograph a napkin. Instead of going the getting-to-know-you route, Mitch fell back on an old standard: sex. Sex was easy. I...

Holy crap! An NHL player—Mitch’s hockey crush, no less—had watched his game. At a loss for words, Mitch stood there blinking at Alex like a putz. “You’ve got impressive foot work,” Alex said. Mitch continued to blink at him. “You skated circles around Colgate and that goal in the third?” Alex smiled wide. “You broke Colgate’s end as if the defensemen were pylons. It was beautiful.” “I—” Mitch cleared his throat. “Well, McCall passed me the puck at just the right time, so… I mean, I did figure skating for years and…” He had no idea what he was trying to say. “Huh. I know a couple of guys who did some figure skating after their game slipped and it helped them rebound. It’s something I’ve been considering to improve my foot speed.” Alex leaned a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms, but his cast got in the way so he ended up shoving one hand in his pocket and letting the casted one dangle. “Your training shows in your footwork. How else has it helped your game?” In total disbelief that an NHL player was asking him for advice, Mitch said, “Figure skating is about using edges and your body to change direction on the ice. It’s about learning to cut a corner or to pivot the right way while maintaining your speed. It made me a better skater.” “It shows.” God, the compliments were going to go to Mitch’s head. “What made you decide to stick with hockey instead of figure skating?” Mitch shrugged and told the truth. “I liked hockey better.” “Could you do a triple axel in ful...

“I’ve got to get back to my friend.” “Wait, I—” The hallway was empty so Mitch plastered his sex smile back on his face, walked right into Alex’s personal space, and put a hand on Alex’s hip. “Why don’t you come over tonight and we’ll—” Alex palmed Mitch’s shoulders and pushed him away. “Look, kid—” “I’m not a kid.” “Mitch.” Alex held him at arm’s length. “Whatever it is you’re trying to do here, it’s not going to happen. I don’t even know you.” “What difference does that make?” Alex dropped his arms. “I don’t jump into bed with people I don’t know. Hell, I don’t even jump into bed with people I do know.” Alex wasn’t saying I’m not gay, but it did sound like he was saying I’m asexual or something similar, which left Mitch exactly nowhere. “Mitch, this person that you pretend to be?” Alex said quietly, like he was trying to tame a wild cat. “He has no substance.” Pretend. No substance. The words hit Mitch like a physical punch and he took an instinctive step back. “In the three times we’ve bumped into each other, the three-minute conversation we just had is the most real you’ve been,” Alex continued. “I like that guy. I like the guy who talks to me without ulterior motives or any pretense. The guy who showed up to last week’s lecture full of questions for Chris. The guy who plays wicked hockey and is dedicated to his team and serious about school and who, I’m told, is a math genius.” Damn Coach’s big mouth. Alex shrugged. “I’d like to get to know that guy. He’s the type of ...

Luck, as it turned out, was not on their side during Friday evening’s game against Denver. Mitch wasn’t the only one playing badly, but he was, admittedly, playing the worst out of everyone on the team. He missed passes, he couldn’t find the back of the net with a basketball never mind a small, round disc, and, once, he whiffed the puck like an amateur wielding a hockey stick for the first time. He’d been so shocked, he’d stood there in mortified confusion while Denver stole the puck and proceeded to score. The one saving grace was that they were playing in Denver, so at least they hadn’t embarrassed themselves in front of a home crowd. Assistant Coach Spinney pulled Mitch aside during the second intermission, when the Mountaineers were down 4-0. From the tiny office attached to the visitors’ locker rooms, Mitch could hear Coach Bedley giving the rest of the team an angry pep talk. Coach Spinney parked his ass against the office desk. Mitch propped his stick against the wall, threw his helmet and gloves onto a chair, and ran his hands through his sweaty hair. Frustration thrumming through his veins, he kicked the chair with his skate. Spinney raised an eyebrow. “Your head’s not in the game.” No shit. Mitch almost said it, but he wasn’t in the habit of giving lip to this particular coach. Spinney, unlike Coach Bedley, wasn’t all hockey, hockey, hockey. He actually gave a shit about the players’ well-being outside of the sport. Bedley cared inasmuch as it affected a player’s...

Spinney sighed at Mitch’s evasive answer. “Okay. You know where to find me if you need to talk.” Spinney paused, then said, “Think you could maybe skate better during the third?” Mitch actually huffed a real laugh at that. “I’ll do my best.” Turned out his best was mediocre, but it was enough so that the Mountaineers at least got a few shots on goal during the third period. Compared to how well his team had played last week against Colgate, tonight Mitch felt like a bumbling toddler learning to skate. Was Alex watching this game on TV? Fuck, Mitch hoped not. But he also kind of hoped Alex was, which meant Mitch was all kinds of fucked up in the head. It was on the tails of that thought that Yano passed him the puck and, without thinking, without evaluating where the other players were, without calculating the best angle, Mitch shot…and scored. Well, shit. That shouldn’t have worked. The team took a few moments to celebrate, but considering it was their first goal against Denver’s four and there were only three minutes left in the period, their celebration was lackluster at best. With that, the Mountaineers lost their first game of the season. It wasn’t the end of the world and it was only one game. But still, seeing as they had to play Denver again tomorrow night, morale was predictably low as the team trudged back into the locker room. Mitch wanted to apologize to his teammates for his shit playing on the ice, but as he’d heard from every coach he’d ever had, there was no...

Mitch took his time removing his equipment, then dawdled some more by checking his phone. He could see Yano eyeing him, but Mitch wasn’t in the mood to talk. If he could time it so that everyone was already on the bus when he exited the showers, he might be able to avoid the “What’s going on with you?” conversation he knew Yano wanted to have. There were three texts and a voicemail on his phone. The voicemail was from his mom. Apparently, he was a sucker for punishment, because he gave it a listen, when usually, he deleted them unheard. “Mitch, it’s your mother.” Her smooth, cultured voice made him grit his teeth. “I’ve just been informed that your college hockey team lost tonight’s game against…” A pause as she no doubt double checked who they’d played against. “Denver. As I’ve told you time and time again, hockey is not a real career. If you were any good, you wouldn’t have lost tonight’s game.” Mitch growled low in his throat. “I do think it’s time you invested your time and energy into something else. Now, I spoke with the dean at Columbia. Transferring to another college usually takes several months, but Ms. Aberdeen is willing to expedite yours so that you can start your business degree in January, in time for the new semester, provided that you make up any missing courses you need to catch up over the summer. Here’s what I’ll need from you to make the transfer happen: your transcript—” He hung up, then leaned his forehead against the metal divider between his locker...

he emerged to find Yano waiting for him. Everyone else was gone. “Going to stand there and watch me get changed?” Yano grunted. “As if I haven’t seen your bare, gay ass before.” Mitch froze with his underwear half on at the word “gay”, then forced himself to move, to finish getting dressed. He had no idea if Yano was joking or not and didn’t ask, but he must’ve had a look on his face, because Yano asked, “Were you trying to keep it a secret?” Mitch completed his outfit of jeans and a blue T-shirt with his favorite Vermont Flannel and turned slowly to face Yano. “Who else knows?” “I don’t know,” Yano said, shrugging. “It’s not like we sit around talking about it.” “How did you figure it out?” “Dude, my best friend from high school’s gay. You look at guys the same way he does. I might not know how to spell knoll, but I’m not stupid.” No, he certainly wasn’t. Mitch had underestimated his friend’s perceptiveness. “So, the rest of the guys…?” Yano shrugged again. “Oblivious idiots. Not that they’d care, even if they knew.” Mitch wasn’t so sure about that. “Most of them, anyway, but—” Yano waved his hand as if physically tossing aside their previous topic. “—that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to ask about that.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the rink, the game, and everything that had gone wrong. “What happened out there? It was like you couldn’t see the other players, never mind the puck.” Mitch sat to put on his shoes and carefully avoided Yan...

Mitch grabbed his overnight one and headed for the door, Yano behind him. Out in the hallway, Yano bumped his shoulder against Mitch’s as they headed for the parking lot with three minutes to spare. “So, what’s up?” While he appreciated Yano’s concern, all Mitch wanted to do was to crawl into bed and hope to wake up tomorrow with a clearer head on his shoulders. “School stuff mostly,” he told Yano. It was only half the truth, but Mitch didn’t want to tell Yano that he was also feeling lousy over the fact that Alex didn’t like him. He hadn’t even told Cody yet, and the man had been pestering Mitch to tell him what was wrong since last night’s dinner at Mama Jean’s. “Classes giving you trouble?” Yano asked. “My sociological theory course is whooping my ass. Don’t ask me why I took a stupid theory course. What good is theory in real life anyway?” Appreciating Yano’s attempt to make him feel better, Mitch said, “For me, it’s creative writing. Apparently, my writing has no substance.” And neither did he, according to Alex. But he wasn’t going to think about that right now. It made his heart hurt. “You’re not a writer,” Yano said. “No shit.” “So, why’d you take a writing class?” “Fucking academic advisor.” Yano made a sound of disgust. “Hate those guys. How do you think I ended up with fucking theory? Know anything about sociological theory?” He turned hopeful eyes on Mitch as Mitch pushed the exit door open. Coach Bedley was waiting in the dark parking lot under a lamp post, ho...

Weekends at Grandpa Forest’s long-term care facility in Montpelier were always busy, but not quite as much on a Saturday night after dinnertime. Alex usually kept his visits to the afternoon, but he wanted to watch the GH vs Denver game with his grandpa and, because of the time difference, it didn’t start until nine EST. He didn’t usually watch college hockey, but now that he essentially had nothing to keep him busy while he recuperated, he tried to catch his alma mater’s games. Alex and Grandpa Forest had talked hockey for as long as Alex could remember. Back when Grandpa Forest still knew how to use a computer, they’d email each other after NHL games and speak on the phone after Alex’s, back when he was in the major juniors. Grandpa Forest had always had time for Alex and his mom, even making a point to visit them several times a year. It would be nice if Grandpa Forest remembered those times, or even who Alex was. “Judd, come on in!” Grandpa Forest said when Alex knocked on his open door. Alex swallowed a disappointed sigh and stepped into his grandpa’s room. Grandpa Forest picked a shirt off the couch and nudged a pair of dirty socks under the couch. “I wasn’t expecting company today.” No, he never was. “I brought munchies,” Alex said, holding up a bag of ketchup chips he’d brought back from his last trip home. “I thought we could watch the hockey game together.” Grandpa Forest laughed. “Little Alex used to love those. Remember, Judd?” “I remember,” Alex said, dropping...

“Want to watch the game, Judd?” Alex forced a smile on his face. “Sure.” Tonight’s game was much more exciting than last night’s, which had been about as interesting as watching paint dry. The entire team was playing much better tonight, as if someone had lit a fire under their collective asses. Mitch played like he was a force of nature, his determination evident even through a TV screen. Last night, while watching the game in his rental cottage, Alex hadn’t been able to keep himself from wondering if what he’d said to Mitch on Thursday at Mama Jean’s had affected him so deeply that it had hindered his play. Then he’d called himself all sorts of stupid—he and Mitch were barely acquaintances. There was no way something said by a relative stranger would affect Mitch that way. Yet Alex couldn’t help remembering the crushed look on Mitch’s face when Alex had walked away from him. For the second day in a row, Alex called himself all sorts of stupid, this time for treating Mitch as badly as he had. He just hadn’t known how to get the other man to back off. “Uh, a simple ‘I’m not interested’ probably would’ve worked just as well,” JP had said when Alex returned to their table and told him what happened. Alex winced. Yeah, he’d been unnecessarily mean. Hell, he’d told the kid he had no substance. Alex had no excuse for what he’d said. He was a writer. He understood the power of words.

“You know, Judd,” Grandpa Forest said, “you might not have made it past midget hockey, but Alex, he’s got the heart of a hockey player. He’ll make it big one day, you’ll see.” Alex’s breath faltered and the wetness behind his eyes appeared instantly. Three years ago, he and Grandpa Forest had sat on the outdoor patio of a tiny café in Montpelier at the beginning of Alex’s senior year. It was the day Grandpa Forest had told Alex how bad his Alzheimer’s was getting, although he hadn’t stopped recognizing Alex until almost a year later. He’d never gotten to see Alex play in the NHL. “Alex, my boy,” Grandpa Forest had said on that late summer morning, the sun reflecting off his bald head, “this disease, it’s going to kill a part of me, a part of me I fear might include you.” He’d clasped one of Alex’s hands in both of his aged ones. “I want you to know that no matter what you decide to do with your life, if you choose horse ranching, or dentistry, or teaching, or something else entirely instead of hockey, know that I will always be proud of you. Keep being the generous and kind person I know you are and you’ll go places, my boy.” Grandpa Forest would be ashamed of Alex for what he’d said to Mitch yesterday. Turning his face away, Alex discreetly knuckled the tears out of his eyes, his heart aching for that lost part of Grandpa Forest that had taken Alex with it. “Judd!” Alex jolted at the shout and shot out of his seat. “What? What’s wrong? Do you need the nurse?” “Your arm’s ...

John looked up from his laptop. “Mitch.” He waved Mitch in. “Have a seat. I’m glad you came.” Mitch perched on the edge of a folding chair and held up his assignment. “I noticed there’s no grade on this.” Maybe not the way he should’ve started this meeting, but if John was going to fail him, he might as well cut to the chase, right? “Is it because it’s worse than an F?” John let out a gust of laughter. “No, not at all. The reason I didn’t grade it is because your short story didn’t follow the assignment guidelines. Technically, yes, I should’ve failed you, especially since your assignment didn’t have any of the short story elements that we talked about in class, but…” John tapped his pen against his desk, appeared to think something through, then said, “Mitch, why did you take this class?” “My academic advisor recommended it. And I still need my general electives, so…” “What’s your major?” “Kinesiology with a specialty in sports science.” “I thought you might be a science major,” John said. “Your story reads more like a lab report than fiction.” Mitch winced. “Listen.” John came around his desk and sat in the chair next to Mitch. “I really hate to fail my students, which is why I wanted to give you the chance to revise and resubmit.” “I appreciate that,” Mitch said. “Really. But if it was a piece of crap the first time, I don’t think writing it a second time is going to make it any better.” John took Mitch’s assignment out of his hand. “We’ll go through my comments, one by...

after going through John’s notes on how to use these supposed “elements,” Mitch threw his arms up in defeat and swore. “I thought I was already doing that.” John pursed his lips. “Have you considered getting a tutor?” Mitch bristled. “I don’t need help.” John pointed at the assignment in Mitch’s hands. Fuck, a tutor? As if he wasn’t broke enough already? And working something else into his already busy schedule? He groaned and sagged in his chair. If it would help him get his GPA up so he could stay at GH, so be it. “Is there one who can work around hockey practices and games and my part-time jobs?” John tilted his head, regarding Mitch with renewed interest. “You’re a Mountaineer?” “Uh-huh. I’m also a broke college student.” “What if I could find a tutor who would do it for free?”

Alex had been finishing up a draft outline for his book when JP had called and offered him a potential interviewee. “You remember the guy in my tutorial? The one I told you about, who’s almost failing?” JP said, his voice hitting higher calibers in his excitement. “Turns out he’s a Mountaineer who works two jobs. I don’t know his story, but I thought you might want to talk to him for your book. Oh, and I also need you to tutor him and basically hold his hand while he takes my course.” Sure, Alex could tutor in exchange for some fresh perspective for his book. Hell, at this stage, he’d take anything he could get. Which was how he found himself strolling into the library on Monday afternoon. He took the corridor to the right of the library entrance, the one that led to the study rooms, and found number eight, where he was meeting his student. The person already sitting at the small table, impatiently tapping a pen against his thigh and swivelling his chair from side to side, was not at all who Alex was expecting. He froze in the doorway, double checked the number on the door…and looked at Mitch Greyson. “Are you JP’s—John’s—student?” Mitch, wide-eyed and equally frozen in his chair, asked, “You’re my free tutor?” Guess that answered that, then. Setting his messenger bag on the floor, he took a seat across from Mitch and waited for the kid to decide how he was going to play this. It took another few seconds, where they sat eyeballing each other in what was no doubt shock on b...

Two paragraphs into a story that wasn’t as awful as he’d feared it would be, Alex could feel the weight of Mitch’s stare. “What?” Alex asked. “Just wondering what you’re doing here.” “What do you mean?” “For someone who claims not to like me, you agreed to tutor me awfully quick.” “I didn’t know you were the one I’d be tutoring…” Alex broke off and stifled a wince when Mitch didn’t quite manage to keep the hurt off his face before replacing it with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, surprise!” Mitch said, throwing his arms out. Then he rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger and released a heartfelt sigh. Reaching across the table, he snatched his assignment from Alex’s hands and stuffed it in his backpack. “Thanks anyway.” Mitch stood, gaze on the door at Alex’s back. “But I’ve got it from here.” Alex, however, was faster. He was standing in front of the door by the time Mitch made it around the table. Mitch fisted his hands on his hips. “Move.” Alex said the first thing that popped into his head: “Make me.” The regret was immediate when a challenging light entered Mitch’s eyes. Even so, Alex stood his ground, his body blocking the door. He was here to help and help he would, whether the kid liked it or not. Mitch plastered what Alex was sure was meant to be a sexy smile on his face and sauntered up to Alex, resting a hand on Alex’s hip exactly the way he had at Mama Jean’s the other night. Lifting up onto his toes, Mitch brought his mouth to within an inch of...

Alex didn’t mention the book. And he didn’t ask Mitch for his story. Free tutoring in exchange for some background on his tutoree was a great idea in theory, until he found out his student was Mitch Greyson, whose walls were sky-high and made of Kevlar. Alex had a feeling Mitch wouldn’t appreciate him digging into his personal life. Instead they passed the five-minute drive in Alex’s rental car from campus to Mama Jean’s in awkward silence. The change in circumstance meant Alex would be left tutoring in exchange for nothing, but he didn’t mind. He was happy to help out JP, even if Mitch wasn’t too receptive to the idea. Only a few tables were occupied at Mama Jean’s, so they snagged a private booth at the back of the restaurant. Smells of tomato sauce and baking dough reached Alex’s nose, making his stomach rumble. Alex dropped his bag on the bench seat and removed his wallet from the inside pocket. “I’ll go order,” he said to Mitch. “What can I get you?” “A beer and a personal-sized Meat Eaters.” Mitch fished a twenty out of his wallet and held it out to Alex. Alex waved it away. “It’s on me.” “Why?” “Why not?” Mitch continued to eye him with suspicion. “My treat, okay? An apology for what I said to you the other day.” Without waiting for an answer, Alex turned and headed for the order counter. He returned to the table minutes later with a beer for himself and a soft drink for Mitch. Mitch poked at his glass. “This isn’t beer.” “How observant of you,” Alex teased. Mitch w...

Mitch was smiling the kind of unreserved smile Alex hadn’t ever seen on his face. It made him look boyish and charming, but with a hint of vulnerability that didn’t surprise Alex at all. When Mitch noticed Alex watching him, he glanced away and stirred his drink with his straw, making the ice cubes clink against the glass. “Mitch, I wanted to apologize for—” “It’s fine.” “No, it’s not. What I meant to say last week is that you don’t have to pretend with me, don’t have to put up a wall. I’d like to get to know you, the real you. I’m sorry if what I said hurt you. That wasn’t my intention at all.” “You didn’t. I mean, how could you? We barely know each other.” Mitch scoffed and stirred his straw again. “Besides, how do you know that the person you say I’m pretending to be, isn’t actually who I am?” Alex nodded slowly. “Good point. I guess I don’t. Truth is, I don’t know you well enough to say that with certainty, but I’ve always had good instincts about people.” “Really?” Mitch crossed his arms, the smirk on his face telling Alex without words that Mitch thought he was full of shit. “And what are your instincts telling you about me?” “That you’re scared.” Mitch’s eyes widened and the smile slipped off his face, even as he made a sound of disbelief. “What is it you think I’m scared of?” “I don’t know.” Alex suspected it had something to do with the reason Mitch was always “on.” “And you seem reluctant to let me get to know you, so I might never know.” Their pizzas arrived, in...

“You never answered my question, you know,” Mitch said after he’d inhaled his first slice. “What question is that?” “About how the NHL is and isn’t what you expected.” “You’re not going to let go, are you?” “Nope.” Alex finished his second slice and chased it down with a sip of beer. “Are you hoping to get drafted?” he asked Mitch, curious about why Mitch wouldn’t let this go. “Or is hockey simply a way for you to attend school? The partial scholarship,” he added when Mitch shot him a questioning look. That same partial scholarship had been the only reason Alex had been able to attend GH at all. “The scholarship is one of the reasons I chose GH,” Mitch said. He didn’t elaborate on his other reasons, and Alex didn’t ask. “But hockey’s not just a hobby. I am going to get drafted.” He said it with so much conviction, Alex found himself believing him. Besides, Alex had seen Mitch play, so he knew how good the kid was. If he could keep that up over the next two-plus years and remain injury-free, he’d be a shoe-in.

your kinesiology degree?” Alex asked. “That’s for when you retire from hockey?” “Yeah, I want to work with injured athletes. It’s why I wanted to talk to Chris Blair.” “I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance.” Mitch shrugged. “Not your fault.” He pushed his plate away, most of his pizza still uneaten, and averted his gaze. “Did you, um, ask Mr. Blair about talking with me? Setting up a phone call or something?” He must’ve seen the answer on Alex’s face, because he shrugged as if it was no big deal. “It’s fine, no sweat.” “Shit, I’m sorry, Mitch. Let me email him now.” Mitch’s eyes went big with something like awe as Alex retrieved his phone from his bag and brought up the email app. “You can just…” Mitch waved a hand at Alex’s phone. “Email him out of the blue like that?” “Sure. Why not? Chris has been emailing me every morning since I got here anyway. See?” Alex turned the phone toward Mitch, where this morning’s email from Chris was displayed. It was basically the same as every email he’d sent, ever since Alex had arrived in Vermont almost two weeks ago, asking “How’s the arm?” Alex tapped out a quick email, slightly hobbled by his broken arm, as Mitch watched from across the tab...

They fell into step on the sidewalk, the early evening air cooling Alex’s skin, overheated from the restaurant. Mitch shot him a cheeky grin. “So, when are we going on date number two?” Alex couldn’t help but laugh. “Excuse me? When was date number one?” Mitch jerked his head in the direction of the restaurant. “We just had it. You invited me, you paid. Ergo, we had a date.” Alex wasn’t sure about that logic, but he let the kid have his point. “So,” Mitch continued, “when’s date number two? Unless, um…” He scratched his head and paused on the sidewalk. “Do asexuals date? I’m afraid I’m embarrassingly ignorant about that.” “What makes you think I’m asexual?” Mitch regarded him with unsure eyes. “Um, you? You said you don’t jump into bed with people you don’t know, or even people you do.” “Well, I imagine all asexuals are different, but I’m not ace. I’m demi.” “Demi…” “Demisexual. It means—” “No, I know what it means. That one I’m familiar with.” Mitch looked away, but he didn’t appear to see the small bookstore on the other side of the street, or the students sitting on the small patio of the coffee shop, or the dog walker who maneuvered around them. Finally, he nodded. “My question stands. When’s date number two?” “Mitch—” “Demis only feel sexual attraction for someone they have an emotional connection to, right?” Alex nodded. “And you said we were friends.” Alex nodded again. Mitch’s eyes lit with triumph. “If we’re friends, it means you already have an emotional connecti...

Alex kept his eyes on the road but he could feel Mitch’s stare piercing the side of his head. When Alex chanced a glance at him, Mitch looked away and bit his lip. “How about next Monday for date number two?” Alex asked. Mitch smiled at him, happy and sincere, and Alex made himself a mental promise to tread carefully where Mitch was concerned. The kid came across as invincible and confident, but Alex suspected there was a very fragile soul underneath the layer of impenetrability Mitch had created around himself.

“Who were you talking to?” Cody asked. “Alex.” Mitch had emailed him his revised short story yesterday and Alex wanted to see one more small revision before it was “good to go,” according to his text. “Aww.” Cody pulled Mitch’s hair. “Monday can’t come soon enough?” Mitch sighed and scratched an itch on his belly. Thinking of his pending date with Alex made his stomach flip, even though it was still four days away. “What’s wrong?” Cody asked. “I don’t know if asking him out was a good idea.” “Why not?” “He doesn’t even like me. I kind of forced it on him.” Mitch didn’t think Alex would’ve given in if he hadn’t wanted to, but he still felt like he’d steamrolled right over Alex. “He said yes, didn’t he?” Cody said. “Means he must like you, to some degree.” “He also said I have no substance.” Cody scoffed. “He said the person you pretend to be, the person you are when your walls are up, has no substance.” Cody paused for a second. “He’s not wrong.” “You’re an asshole,” he told Cody without any heat. “He wants me to be myself with him.” That was the scariest part of all this, never mind the fact that Mitch had never been on a date in his life and didn’t know what to expect. Or wear. Or how to behave. “And you don’t think you can do that,” Cody intuited. “I don’t know if I know who that is anymore.” “Sure you do. It’s the same person you are with me.” “Yeah, but I trust you.” There wasn’t anyone Mitch trusted more, except his dad. “Nothing says you shouldn’t trust Alex. Maybe g...