Page 8

CHAPTER 8

JETT

“As I live and breathe. There’s a hockey player on my doorstep.” The tattooed girl with short dark hair, purple eyeliner, and red lips who’d sat next to Malcolm at the game fluttered her lashes.

I pushed my hand toward her. “Hi, there. I’m Jett.”

“I know who you are. I’m Layla. Come on in.” She ushered me into the apartment, calling Malcolm as she shut the door. “He’ll be out in a sec. Want anything to drink? Coffee, tea, tequila?”

“Water?”

“We’ve got that, too.” She returned with a water bottle and gave me a thorough once-over. “So you agreed to help Mal. Very cool of you.”

I gave a careless shrug. “Yeah, well…it’s no big deal.”

“It is to him.”

The sharp edge in her voice was hard to miss.

I lifted a brow and nodded. “I know.”

“Glad to hear it.” She dusted her palms and pulled a large messenger bag across her chest. “I lobbied hard for him to reach out to you, and I’m super stoked for his sake. But as his best friend and roommate, it’s my responsibility to warn you that if you fuck with him, I’ll hurt you.”

“Uh…noted.”

Layla flashed a brilliant smile. “Great. I’ll get out of your way. Sorry about Trinity, but you’re gonna crush St. Mark next week.”

“That’s the plan,” I said, bumping her outstretched fist.

I cast a curious glance around the spacious room as the lock clicked behind her—the white sheer curtains on the windows, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled to the brims, the plants hanging from hooks in a cluster in the corner near the window, and the small round table floating in between the kitchen and living area. There were museum prints of flowers on the white walls and bright throw pillows on the beige lumpy sofa. It was a homey space that managed to look lived in and welcoming at the same time.

I set my water bottle on the table and wandered to the bookshelves. I poked through a row of thick science textbooks, studying the titles till my eyes crossed. Classical Mechanics , Error Analysis and the Study of Measurements , Modern Physics , Electro …

What the fuck?

I craned my neck and tugged at the spine, jolting at the sound of someone clearing his throat.

“Are you snooping, or are you genuinely interested in electromagnetism?”

“Definitely snooping.” I shoved the book into place and turned to greet Malcolm.

Christ, he looked good. He wore a dark-green V-neck sweater and khakis and his hair was damp and a little messy, but he smelled amazing. I wondered what kind of shampoo he used or maybe it was his soap or his cologne or?—

Shit, I was staring.

Malcolm didn’t notice. Thank fuck.

I’d spent half of last night convincing myself I was interested in the blond who’d glued herself to my side at Vincento’s while I’d craved someone else. I’d kissed her and wished it was him. For real. That had actually happened. I’d had my mouth on hers, hands on her hips and ass, and felt absolutely fucking nothing. Nothing.

That was not the norm. At all. I hadn’t had the heart, or lack thereof, to fake it. I could have. I’d done it dozens of times. But going down on a woman while fantasizing about a man hadn’t seemed right.

Okay…no, that wasn’t it.

Sex was sex. There were no feelings involved in hookups. The rules were simple: be respectful and have no expectations. I was a pro at those. I didn’t do serious. Never had. My only “relationship” was in high school and had lasted until prom night, when I’d gotten a woody watching a teammate rub up against his girlfriend. My gaze had been locked on his obvious bulge in the back of the limo we’d shared, not on her tits spilling out of a lacy bodice, not on his fingers disappearing under the hem of her silk dress. No. That was the first time I’d been fascinated by cock.

It had freaked me out for sure, but nowadays, I was more comfortable in my bi skin. I controlled my desire; it didn’t control me…if that made sense.

My control was slipping, though. Every fucking thing about this guy turned me on and I couldn’t figure it out.

Malcolm was cute, not hot. He was quirky, not cool. He wasn’t athletic in the slightest, but he had more confidence than a lot of seasoned hockey players. He knew who he was and what he wanted. And he was willing to try something new to achieve his goals. I admired that kind of drive.

I just wished that I admired the curve of his ass in those khakis a little less as he moved to the small kitchen table and held up a pad of paper and a pen.

“I’m ready to begin. We didn’t discuss how much time to allot for these sessions, but I think forty-five minutes will suffice.”

“Uh…right. That works for me.” I licked my lips, tilting my chin toward the windows. Pull it together, Erickson . “Nice place, by the way. I like your plants.”

“Thank you.”

He blushed. An honest-to-God blush with pink cheeks and averted eyes. I found myself grinning again…for no particular reason.

“Do you have a green thumb?”

I half expected him to change the subject, get down to business, so he could throw my ass out the door in precisely forty-four minutes and twenty seconds, but Malcolm glanced at the plants, nodding as he sat at the table.

“I do. My parents have a large vegetable garden in their yard. I took charge of it from the time I was ten till I left for college. I switched out some of the less-yielding crops for lettuce, corn, and squash, and grew tons of tomatoes. They tend to it now. Sadly, not as well as I did.”

See what I mean about this guy?

“You’re bragging, Maloney. I like that confidence.”

Malcolm snorted. “I’m not bragging. I’m stating a fact. My parents are lovely people yet serial houseplant killers. The vegetables stand a better chance outdoors where Mother Nature can care for them till I arrive to save the day.”

“You’re funny.”

“Hilarious,” he confirmed, pointing at the chair across from him. “Shall we begin?”

“Sure.” I sat, shifting under the weight of his expectant gaze.

“I took the liberty of creating a short syllabus, including a diagram of a rink and an index of hockey terminology.” Malcolm pushed his laptop toward me. “I’ve memorized all of them. Quiz me if you’d like.”

I scrolled through his proposed outline covering etymology, history, tactics, rules, and a very fucking long glossary which included slang. “Whoa. Did you google this?”

“It’s a compilation of sources, each credited in the attached bibliography,” he replied.

“You made a bibliography.”

“Of course. One must give credit where credit is due.” Malcolm scooted his chair closer and reached over to scroll through a list of annotations. “See?”

Yeah, I saw. And I was a little pissed at myself for being so slow.

“You’re trying to scare me away,” I stated.

“No, I’m helping you.”

I shook my head. “I don’t see how this helps either of us. What do etymology and history have to do with measuring speed?”

“Well…nothing, but?—”

“Here you have ‘biscuit’ and ‘biscuit in the basket.’” I gestured at the screen. “These are very unscientific terms, Maloney.”

“True, but I know those. The biscuit is the puck and putting the biscuit into the basket is to make a goal.” Malcolm beamed. “Correct, yes?”

My lips twisted in amusement. “Yes. Can you use this info in your thesis?”

He fiddled with his glasses. “Undetermined, but doubtful.”

“Let’s try something else.” I cracked my knuckles and borrowed his pen, quickly scribbling notes on the pad of paper. “These are the shots I was telling you about and the best time to use each. Shovel shot…you’re gonna use that to flick it to another player or away from a goalie. It’s a shovel motion. Like this.” I stood to demonstrate. “Not much speed involved, but accuracy is important. A wrist shot looks like—damn, I should have brought my stick.”

“I have a broom,” he offered.

I started to laugh but decided it wasn’t the worst idea. “Okay.”

Malcolm retrieved a broom from the hallway closet. “Here you go.”

“All right. Pretend the edge of the bristles is a blade. I want to hit the puck at the center or the heel and roll my wrist as I shoot, spinning the puck at the exact angle I’ve aimed for. Like it’s an extension of the stick. The power is coming from my left hand and my quads. Here. You try it.” I passed the broom to the befuddled scientist.

“Uh…okay. Like this?” He squatted slightly, copied my hands, and drew the broom forward with the flick of his wrist.

“Damn, you’re a natural,” I enthused. “Are you sure you’ve never played?”

He chuckled. “One season at age ten in the rec league at the local rink. I was a disaster.”

“No one is a pro at ten years old. Why’d you give up?”

“I told you…I was terrible. Team sports make me nervous and when I’m nervous, I get rather clumsy, as you might have noticed. I could barely stay upright on my skates, let alone make contact with the volcanized disk. The entire episode was a lesson in survival that I’ve done my best to block from memory.” Malcolm brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and rolled his eyes, pushing the broom at me. “And I can’t blame my parents for signing me up either. I practically begged for it.”

I leaned on the broomstick. “Oh, yeah?”

“My best friend since kindergarten wanted to try hockey. We’d done a few afterschool activities together—Cub Scouts, the environmental awareness group, a math club—and I thought, why not? But hockey was terrifying and the kids were…”

“Little assholes?” I supplied.

Malcolm inclined his head. “It wasn’t fun. I didn’t fit in, but Philip did. Within a month, I’d lost my best friend and had been labeled a hopeless geek and possibly a queer one. The horror. I took up gardening soon after.”

I frowned at his glib reply. “That sucks.”

His lips lifted in a hint of humor. “Not really. I love gardening.”

“You know what I mean. Wasn’t there an adult around to put the little fuckers in their place?”

“It was almost fifteen years ago, Jett. It hardly matters anymore.”

“Maybe not, but I don’t like that they tainted what could have been a great experience. I loved hockey from the moment I strapped on my first set of skates. There was always a game on TV, volume maxed to drown out the sound of my parents arguing. My brother Breck, was all about football, but Tatum and I liked hockey. I begged to play, too. I thought I’d be good at it right out of the gate. I wasn’t. Learning to skate and handle a stick took every brain cell I had. I used to get so frustrated that my shots didn’t connect. I’d cry on the way home from practice, ‘Boo hoo, I’m the worst one.’ I distinctly remember my dad getting fed up and telling me to quit. And because I’m stubborn, contrary, and had zero desire to hang out at the house, I got serious. No more complaining…just work. I guess you could say hockey was my escape.”

Jesus, that was a lot of sharing.

Way more than necessary.

I glanced down at the broom, my fingers curling into a familiar grip. Heat zinged along my spine and on the back of my nape.

Snap out of it, Erickson. Talk about slap shots, tipping the puck, deking, something, anything…

Malcolm hummed, pulling my gaze toward him. “Books were mine.”

We shared a weighty look that conveyed understanding, acceptance, and acknowledgment. Maybe we didn’t have much in common, but there was a spark of something that felt promising. What, I couldn’t say. But it was nice to talk to someone new who didn’t assume he knew everything there was to know about me.

“Cool. Let’s keep going. We got this.”

* * *

Two days later:

“Where’s the attack zone?”

Malcolm’s nose twitched. “It’s the area around the goal, also called the um…don’t tell me. Um…”

“Starts with an O.” I tapped my drawing of an ice rink spread out on his dining table.

“Open zone. No…offense zone. Offensive zone.”

I grinned. “Good job. Show me the neutral zone.”

“You know in Star Trek , the neutral zone is a buffered area between hostile powers, like the Romulans and the Federation,” he said, adjusting his glasses.

My smile was fast and hit so hard, it hurt my cheeks. “I did know that. You’re looking at a bona fide Trekkie.”

“No. Really?”

“Really.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “What is the Romulan home world called?”

“Romulus,” I immediately replied.

“Too easy. What class starship is the Enterprise?”

“I assume you’re talking about the USS Enterprise-D, which is a galaxy-class starship.” I made a mic-drop gesture and crossed my arms.

Malcolm’s lips curled slightly, and then…he grinned. He tried to hide it at first, but he gave up and let it fly. And damn, he was very fucking cute.

“You’re a man of mystery, Mr. Erickson.”

“I know, right?” I waggled my brows. “I was a big fan as a kid. I loved the idea of an interplanetary world that I could visit with good guys and bad guys, and cool aliens.”

“Me too.”

I waited for him to add something, but he didn’t. Eventually, I pointed at my rink sketch. “Why are there three red lines on the ice?”

Malcolm slumped in his chair. “I have no idea.”

“Come on. You know this,” I cajoled.

“Their geometric position suggests that the center line marks the middle, and the other two have something to do with the net thing. I don’t know what, and I’ve lost the will to care. Ask me where the blue lines are. I know that one.”

I snorted. “Fine. Where’re the blue lines?”

He picked up a pen and marked the lines on the paper. “Here and here. Their purpose has something to do with off the sides, but I don’t know what that means and to be perfectly honest, at this very moment, I’d prefer to have my eyes gouged out than to know the answer. Can we please cease and desist any further hockey discussions today?”

I threw my head back and laughed.

“Fine. You win. I have practice in forty-five minutes, anyway.” I checked the time on my cell. “Not worth going home, but?—”

“Stay. If you’d like,” he added quickly. “I can make a healthy snack and…perhaps there’s an intergalactic rerun on television. If you want to stay…that is.”

Butterflies swarmed in my chest, and my mouth went dry. So fucking silly, right? It wasn’t as if he’d asked to suck my dick, but my body seemed to think carrot sticks and old TV shows were a decent close second.

I licked my lips and inclined my chin. “Sounds good.”

* * *

One week later:

“What’s a one-timer?”

Malcolm hummed. “It’s um…also known as a one-time shot, and it means that you only have one opportunity to score. All night. Ever. For the rest of eternity.”

I made a buzzer noise as I chomped on a pretzel. “Wrong. Try again.”

“It’s that thing of which a teammate passes the puck to you and you deposit it into the net…posthaste.”

Laughter bubbled in my chest. I tried not to let it go…I really did, but I loved the way he talked. I bit the inside of my cheek and inclined my head. “That’s generally correct. Good job.”

“Thank you. Are we finished? I made brownies earlier. Might I tempt you with one?”

“You’re bribing me to stop this important hockey tutorial with brownies?”

Malcolm nodded solemnly. “I am.”

“Do you have ice cream?”

“I do.”

“Deal.”

He beamed. “Corner or middle piece?”

“Corner, please.”

“That’s perfect. I prefer the middle. We can eat the whole pan without either of us being disappointed.”

So…we did.

* * *

Ten days later:

“Do you always lift the stick so high, or do you start at your hip?”

I skated to Malcolm who was white-knuckling the ledge, one foot on the ice, the other on the rubber mat next to the player’s bench. “Come on out, and I’ll show you.”

“No, siree. I’ve sufficiently embarrassed myself enough for one afternoon. I don’t feel like falling again. My ‘you know what’ hurts.”

“Your ass,” I deadpanned.

Malcolm smirked. “Yes.”

And just like that, I had a chubby. I skated to the goal, hoping to regain my composure, but I kid you not, I was unraveling at lightning speeds. A guy could only take so many days of hanging out with his crush before going apeshit bonkers.

Days…

Days of hockey quizzes that turned into heated debates about the possibility of humans inventing warp drive for space travel while chowing on hummus and pita chips. And lots of brownies.

Days of trying not to get caught studying his profile and pretending not to notice that his hair smelled like berries and the forest. Yeah, I know…don’t ask.

Days of texting stream-of-consciousness nonsense— Why don’t more people barbecue in winter? Have you ever made your own hummus?— and grinning like an idiot every time his name popped up on my cell.

This was a weird situation for me. I’d never had any issues getting a date or meeting willing partners, male or female. There was rarely any big discussion involved. A look, a touch, or a well-timed move usually signaled interest.

But Malcolm wasn’t like other people.

He was serious and earnest. He had big goals and a one-track mind. I’d never met anyone as focused and confident in their purpose. Malcolm had a road map built into his brain and a fuckload of patience. I admired him, and I didn’t dare do or say anything that would make him question my intentions.

I hadn’t agreed to this hockey education program with an ulterior motive. Not even close. I’d wanted a distraction, but this one had come with a supersized dose of “be careful what you ask for.”

Yeah, I was distracted all right. Very fucking distracted.

Between us, my dick ached from nightly jack-off sessions with visions of Malcolm on his knees, wrapping his fist around me with one hand and pushing his glasses along the bridge of his nose with the other before swallowing me whole. I’d stroke myself hard and fast, feet flat on the mattress, cupping my balls and teasing my crease till my orgasm caught me unaware. Then I’d resurface, panting, with cum on my chest and fingers, and tell myself that was it…the last time.

It never was. I was so fucking horny, I was losing my mind.

I’d hoped an hour on the ice after practice today would give me space and perspective, but so far that idea had backfired spectacularly.

First of all, Malcolm couldn’t skate for shit. He’d admitted that he hadn’t tried since his hockey fiasco fourteen years ago, but my theory was that he was rusty and nervous. The nervous part was what pulled him horizontal every time. He’d cling to my arm and then my hand, and eat it anyway. I’d help him to his feet only to have him lose his balance and fall all over again.

I didn’t doubt that his butt hurt. I’d bet it was red and cold, and the image of my hands kneading his cheeks did me dirty. So I skated away and hoped like hell I could come up with a Plan B.

“Yo, Jettster! Whatcha doin’ here?” Ty called out, Brady on his heels.

I glided to the boards and greeted my teammates, tipping my chin in Malcolm’s direction. “I’m helping my friend out with a science project. What are you two doing?”

Ty pulled his cell out. “Brady left his shit in his locker. I’m tagging along.”

Brady glanced toward Malcolm and did a double take. “That’s my physics TA. Maloney, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he wearing skates? Whoa. That’s trippy. I didn’t know you were friends with him. He’s kind of—” Brady’s eyes slid to mine and went wide. He clamped his mouth shut, blinking then sputtering. “He’s a good guy. Intense, but…nice.”

“Yeah, I think so too,” I replied. “I’m helping him run speed tests. If you see him around, be cool.”

“Yeah, yeah. Um…I’m gonna grab my stuff. Meet you outside, Ty.”

Ty grunted in acknowledgment, slipped his phone into his pocket, and scanned the deserted rink. He went comically still when he spotted Malcolm. “Hey, I remember that guy. He’s your stalker from the Depot.”

“He’s not a stalker, asshole. He asked for help, and I?—”

“Whoa!” Ty held up his hands. “Relax. I didn’t say anything, man.”

“Good. Don’t.”

“I won’t,” he shot back.

“Good.”

“Great.”

I rolled my eyes. “I gotta go. I have class tonight and—why are you looking at me like that?”

“You like him.”

“We established that. His project is kind of interesting and?—”

“You like him,” Ty repeated.

“Are you thirteen or something?”

Ty didn’t take the bait, and he knew me too well to be intimidated by an angry glare. “No wonder Tara was pissed. She didn’t know she had competition.”

“Fuck off. It’s not like that,” I growled.

“Hey, I’m on your side. You do you. Just be careful. Something tells me he’s not like us.”

To be honest, that was fair. I glanced at Malcolm, shimmying one blade on the ice while hanging on to the boards. A smile tugged at my mouth without my permission. I couldn’t figure out what it was about this guy that got to me, but I wouldn’t deny that I liked him…a lot.

Ty wasn’t the type to judge, anyway. Nope, my buddy was an unrepentant hedonist. “Work hard, play harder” was his motto. I suspected we weren’t the only queer guys on the team, but I couldn’t confirm that and it didn’t matter. It wasn’t my business. We both knew that not everyone else was as open-minded.

I had my reasons for staying in the closet, same as Ty. I wanted to go pro, and I didn’t want my sexuality to be part of the conversation.

Malcolm wouldn’t understand. He was an out and proud scientist, a teacher, and an intellectual. I was just a jock with a pie-in-the-sky dream. Flirty text messages and stolen looks over hockey notes was all I’d get from him.

It kinda sucked, but it would have to be enough.