Him (Him, #1)

by Sarina Bowen

Last I saw him, he was sucking on a bottle of whiskey like he was trying to make it come.

I’m closest to him, and yeah, we chill outside hockey, but “best friend” isn’t exactly a term I throw around often.

Coach is…commanding. Nah. Make that terrifying. Six-five, perpetual scowl, and a head he shaves not because he’s balding, but because he just likes looking like a scary motherfucker.

I keep watching. Keep studying. Damn it, I like the way he plays. No, I know the way he plays. Recognition dawns on me at the same moment Coach says, “Kid’s name is—” Jamie Canning.

He might not even have those particular weaknesses anymore. I, on the other hand, do. I have the same damn weakness I’ve always had.

My weakness is him.

I see clip after clip of Wes passing through the line of defense like smoke, creating scoring opportunities out of nothing but ice shavings and quick wits.

“Loser gives the winner a blowjob,” he said just as I swung. I missed the fucking puck. Actually missed it.

Although the hotel, whatever it is, won’t be nearly as grand as my family’s Beacon Hill mansion a few miles away.

Bruh there isnt enough space in beacon hill for a mansion bffr lol

We spend the next half hour snarled in traffic, because that’s just how it is in Boston.

I’ve always kept my memories of Canning to myself. Because they’re mine. For six weeks every summer, he was mine.

His tongue is pierced. That’s new, too. Annnd now I’m thinking about his tongue. Jesus fuck. And the last four years of silence between us suddenly make a bit more sense. Maybe there are drunken antics capable of wrecking a friendship.

I want Rainier to win. I want to face Canning in the finals. I want to pretend I still don’t have feelings for the guy. I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with two out of three.

I like to think I didn’t let him win on purpose.

The prize was his, except it wasn’t. It was mine. Because I’d wanted to touch him more than I’d wanted my next breath.

“It isn’t the same without you.”

I was like the serpent shoving the apple at Eve. Or rather the banana…

“You could call in your bet,” I croaked. Stroking himself, he let out a hot breath. “You daring me to?”

Maybe he’s not as carefree as he looks, my conscience suggests. Fuck off, conscience! I’m busy being mad here.

His husky voice breaks the silence. “I was afraid.”

“By the way—science has proven the correlation between calling someone a faggot and having a really small penis. You do not want to advertise that. Think about it.”

But then I see his back shaking. At least somebody gets my jokes.

Wouldn’t be fair to the straight guys if I threw my hat in the pussy ring.

“Who does it for you, then? Like, what’s your type, looks-wise?” You. “Ah, I’m not picky.”

“Jamie.” A note of warning this time. I suck a gulpful of oxygen into my lungs. Then I ignore the warning.

“Your tongue ring…” His voice is hoarse with excitement. “I want to feel it on my cock.”

And I am dying a quiet death.

“If you stop right now, I’m going to kick your ass.” Stop? Is that a word? What does it mean?

His eyes are startled, and my heart quakes with the fear that he’s about to say, “I can’t do this again.” “We have to be quiet,” he says instead.

I make the sign for “time out.” He tips his head back into the pillow and sighs,

“Want you,” I whisper. Lately, those two words define me. “Have me,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I do care about you but…” Once more she waves me off. “You were never dishonest, Jamie. Don’t start now.”

When I was a kid I collected hockey cards. They came in packs of ten with a lousy piece of gum that tasted awful.

“Tell you what—let’s make a deal. It’s been a while since I had a steak dinner. You find me a steak, and I’ll subject myself to this concert.” “Here, man.” I pretend to unbutton my fly.

“She’s his yes man and pearl-clutcher-in-chief. So she never says much.”

“We need to see you before you join the NHL. While you still have all your teeth.”

Wes winks at me and says, “Same stakes?” “Damn straight.” We both grin at my choice of words.

Jamie Canning was my first crush and my first love. But he was never mine to have.

The message is from PurpleSkittle.

“I’m not just saying that. I fucking love you, and I know that’s inconvenient. But I didn’t get a chance to tell you in Lake Placid, so I’m telling you right now. Just in case we can ever get more than a summer. I love you, and I wish things were different.”

I look out the window. I see blue. That fucking view. It’s beautiful, and I just don’t care.

“Tonight, I want you in nothing but my Toronto jersey.”

I want a Valium. Or a blowjob. Or both.

“I swear to God, Canning, if you don’t move, I’m gonna—” I pull out, then slam right back in. He makes a choked sound, his entire body trembling. “You’re gonna what?” I ask mockingly.

Joe: OMG. Jamester, really? You did not just confess to dating a Patriots fan. That is a sin, little brother. I fear for your everlasting soul.

Tammy: Joe, you asshole! Don’t listen to him, Jamie. Your boyfriend is hot. And Jess owes me twenty bucks.

Mrs. Canning: Jess, language! Jamie honey, when are you bringing your boyfriend home for Sunday dinner? And are those Doritos in the background? Is there Whole Foods in Canada? I’m going to look on their website and send you the address.

Scotty: Jamie, Dad can’t remember his Facebook password. But he says to tell you he loves you no matter what and blah blah blah.

Scott had clapped his hands against the table and shouted, “That’s my brother!” every time I skated into view.

Dear Ryan. Thank you for making Jamie so happy. He loves you and so do we. Welcome to the Canning clan.