Page 3 of Puck Your Friend

Logan Hales.

Wesley Carter.

No longer just four names on my prep sheet.

It’s them. Even though they’re more than a decade older, there’s no mistaking it. I will never forget their faces. Part of me wants to run over, shout with joy, and pull all of them into hugs. The other part wants the earth to open up and swallow me whole before they look this way.

Ford bends forward on the bench, one leg stretched out as he reaches for his toes. His skin still has a sun-kissed look. He reaches up and pushes his honey-brown hair out of his face; a few strands fall again, framing his forehead. Stubble lines his pointed jaw.

He listens to a teammate ramble and nods along, but his eyes have that dazed look he gets when he’s in his thoughts too much. Some things never change.

Logan sits beside him, cracking his neck. He’s let his strawberry-blonde hair grow long, just past his chin. Scruff, a little thicker than a goatee, defines his chin. He’s still lean, but there’s more muscle packed through his arms and chest.

His blue eyes drift across the room. My heart hammers as his gaze travels right over my head, before he looks to the talking teammate and nods.

Jace’s voice cuts through the locker room noise. His light-brown skin has always made his gray eyes pop. The wild black curls he once had have been relaxed so that they only curl at the ends. He wears them over his right side in a semi-long mohawk. It’s not as long as Logan’s, but close. It fits him better. He’s filled out through the chest and arms.

His leg bounces as he sits next to Ford. He holds his skate’s laces in his hands, but is too interested in the conversation to focus on both things.

Wes listens to Jace and laughs, the sound exactly how I remember. His high cheekbones are more defined; they were fuller when we were young. His long thin dreads are half pulled back, nothing like the short afro-style he had the last time I sawhim. It’s his eyes that hit me the hardest. They’re the same bright amber I used to get lost in between makeout sessions that last summer. His left arm rests in a black sling, and he’s not in his gear like the others.

They’ve changed. Of course they have. They’re men now.

Very good-lookingAlpha men who could easily lift me to…

Jesus, I need to get a hold of myself.

What’s wrong with me?

My suppressants are supposed to kill my libido. I thought it was gone for good, shriveled up like a grape left in the sun.

I duck my head before they can notice me and pretend to double-check my bag.

Please don’t recognize me.

Doug mutters something under his breath about the fact he’s going to see far too many balls and hairy asses during this documentary, and unpacks the tripod.

My gut twists like it did the day I left camp and couldn’t say goodbye and I chance a glance.

I’ve missed them so much.

It’s a war inside me, between wanting to both flee and crash into them.

The spicy scent from the entrance still hangs in the air. It cuts through the sweat and jockstraps odor.

Warmth slithers up the back of my neck, taking me back to that bittersweet evening: the euphoria followed by a darkness that hasn’t left since. My heart hammers as fear edges into my brain.

God, please not here. Don’t push me into a heat. This isn’t the place.

Shutting my eyes, I try to steady my breath. This is all in my head. I took a pill less than fifteen minutes ago. I shove the fear back down where it belongs. I take illegal suppressants so that what happened never happens again. I’ve made sure of that.

I’mfine.

I regain my control.Now calm enough to focus, I open my eyes, pull my tablet from the bag, and review my notes.

My body moves before my brain can catch up.I take a few steps toward them, stopping before they can notice me acting like a creeper. I’ve never had my instincts so out of my control like this.

The clove deepens, threaded with mint, rain, pine, and campfire smoke. It’s as if I’ve been transported back to the first day I met them.