Page 2

Marcos gives me a flat, incredulous look, which I deserve. Why the flying fuck did I just say that? I rush to talk, desperate to keep those dark eyes on mine.

“I own horses. They’re really beautiful,” I tell him, leaning down a little bit so I don’t have to shout. And then, because bad can always get worse, I add, “I like to look at them.”

“What,” Marcos replies in a way that makes the word not precisely a question. He probably thinks I’m nuts.

“Sorry,” I apologize, because the horse thing truly was an unhinged thing to say, even for me.

“You’re drunk.”

“That would make sense, wouldn’t it?” I muse. I’m not drunk. Not even a little bit. I am, however, apparently very attracted to this random stranger. To a man.

It’s too dark to see the exact color of his eyes, even in our little pool of light. Right now they’re as dark and impenetrable as a cup of black coffee. I bet they aren’t, though. I bet his eyes are the prettiest thing about him .

“Do you want to go outside?” I ask, thinking it’ll be quieter and the lighting better.

“No,” he responds, in a way that sounds a little bit like “yes.”

“Just for a minute,” I clarify. “Maybe get some fresh air? It’s pretty crowded in here.

” He stares at me for a few moments before nodding and turning away, so I follow him down the hall and out the back door.

The moment I shut it behind us, Marcos’ shoulders sag.

I put a hand on the center of his back and he flinches. I drop my arm. “Sorry.”

We stand there on the lawn, awkwardly silent. Marcos scuffs his feet, and turns in a slow circle. I watch him greedily. I can’t seem to do anything else.

“Are you here with anyone?” I ask, hoping the answer is no.

“No.”

I nod, a burn of excitement tingling through my chest. Alone is good. Alone means he can be here with me. I decide not to look too closely at that desire right now.

“I was going to head out, soon. I’ve got a full day of class on Thursdays and hockey practice afterward,” I tell him conversationally.

His eyes snap to mine and narrow. “I’m here with my friend Micky.

I promised him we wouldn’t stay for longer than an hour and a half, so we’ll have to leave pretty soon. ”

“You play for the hockey team?”

“Yeah. You a hockey guy?” He nods, so I continue. “I started as a center, but this season Coach moved me to defense. I actually like it better. Didn’t think I would, but I do.”

Marcos’ dark eyes are fixed unblinking on my face.

He doesn’t seem to be much of a talker. After a few moments he looks away, but I don’t.

I take the opportunity to look . He’s not a big guy—a few inches shorter than me, but with the compact, lightly muscled torso that indicates he’s not unfamiliar with a gym.

His hips are narrow enough that he’d probably err closer to skinny if his body was left to its own devices.

“Do you, uh…” I trail off uncertainly. I want to ask him if he likes men, which is pretty laughable.

Until fifteen minutes ago, I would have answered that question with a no for myself .

Unsure what else to do, I pull out my phone to check the timer I set.

It’s still counting down, so I text Micky to let him know how many minutes remain.

“I better go back inside,” Marcos says, and the look on his face is so dejected, one would think he’s being held here against his will.

“You don’t have to.”

“I do.” I wait. His eyes flick to mine and his jaw sets. “Some of my friends are in there, drunk or well on their way. I need to keep an eye on them.”

“Oh, you’re designated driver tonight, huh?” I ask and his mouth pinches together in a straight line as he shrugs. “Just stay out here a little longer. You can have a little fun and still be DD.”

Marcos looks like “fun” is a three-letter bad word his mom told him not to say, but he doesn’t leave the backyard and go back inside. He tucks his hands into his pockets and looks at me.

“Do you ever hook up with guys?” I ask him, because apparently any skills I have for picking up women don’t apply to men. That wasn’t exactly the smoothest way I could have broached the subject.

Marcos closes his eyes briefly, as though praying for patience. I’m so used to seeing the expression on Coach Mackenzie’s face, it doesn’t even phase me.

“What?”

“Do you ever hook up with guys?” I repeat.

Might as well commit, seeing as I’ve already fucked this entire thing up.

I don’t even know what I’m doing—all I know is I’m having a hard time looking away from him.

I’m not a stranger to wanting someone, and what I’m feeling right now is definitely want. Why question it?

“Sure,” he answers, shrugging. Well, I’m in it now. Might as well shoot my shot.

“Do you want to?” I ask, and his gaze snaps to mine immediately. He stares hard enough for a hole to be burned through the center of my forehead, eyes narrowed and mouth turned down in a frown. He doesn’t look tempted by the offer. He looks mad.

“You’re drunk,” he mutters incredulously, repeating his earlier statement. I shake my head.

“No, I’m really not. I had two shots and a beer—most of which ended up on the floor—and I’ve been sweating those out for the past forty-five minutes. I’m not drunk,” I repeat. “You’re just…really pretty.”

He scowls harder, dark brows pulled together in a line. “Yeah, like your horse.”

The horse thing was a stupid-ass thing to say. Now he either thinks I’m into bestiality, or that I think he looks like a horse. Either is bad, and both are wrong.

“No, I wasn’t saying…horses are really pretty, and I was trying to say that you are, too. It was meant to be a compliment.”

Marcos looks like he doubts the validity of that, but isn’t in the mood to argue. He honestly doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood for much. I’m not sure why he’s even here, since he clearly isn’t having a great time.

“I’d better go.” He sighs, but stays standing right where he is. His eyes flick to mine and he sighs again.

“I’m sorry about the horse thing, really. I’m just tipsy enough to say stupid things, I guess. But,” I rush to add, before he gets any ideas to the contrary, “not drunk enough that I would regret propositioning someone.”

He huffs a very soft laugh, but doesn’t smile as he looks away from me and back to the house.

My skin buzzes with an un-scratchable itch that seems to get worse the longer I stare at him.

I want to brush my fingers into his hair, and put my hands on his hips; squeeze a little tighter than I would with a girl.

I want to put my mouth places I’ve never considered putting my mouth before. I just want .

“My roommate plays for the hockey team,” Marcos says suddenly. He’s got his phone in his hand, and he’s biting his lip as he looks down at it. “Max.”

“No way! Kuemper is a fucking beast. Love that guy.” I don’t know him well—Max Kuemper could give Micky a run for his money on being the shyest member of our team—but the man can play damn good hockey. I smile at Marcos, trying to get him to return it, but he doesn’t take the bait.

“Yeah, Max is great,” he responds quietly, with a look on his face I can’t quite discern. Sadness?

“I only know him from the team,” I admit. “Micky—my friend that I came with tonight—and I are close, but Kuemper mainly hangs with Vas. Well, and Carter Morgan, but he’s gone now. You probably already know that.”

I force my mouth closed, before I continue rambling like an idiot.

Taking a deep breath, I shake out my hands.

I’m feeling twitchy with nerves and lust. I wish he wasn’t playing hard to get.

I’m not one to shy away from feelings, or what I want.

Well, tonight I want Marcos, and I’ll be damned if I don’t give it my best shot.

“Is Max here?” I ask.

“No,” he answers firmly, almost harshly. Like a warning.

“Okay.” I rock up onto my toes and back onto my heels a couple times.

“You know, you probably shouldn’t walk around asking random people to hook up,” he says, after the silence goes on a beat too long. “Not when you look like—well, someone might take you up on it, that’s all I’m saying.”

“That was the point.”

“The wrong person might take you up on it,” he corrects. “Someone could take advantage of you.”

“I wish you would,” I mumble, loud enough for him to hear judging by the sharp bark of laughter. I grin and finally, finally, he smiles back. “I don’t ever ask people to hook up, by the way. That just…came out.”

“People usually come up to you, huh?”

“Yeah,” I admit. There’s no sense in lying about it.

I’m always the one being pursued by girls—it very rarely happens the other way around.

Marcos nods, evidently unsurprised by this information.

I clear my throat. Might as well lay all my cards on the table.

“I’ve never been with a guy, either, so there’s that. ”

“Wait, what?”

“Never. Couldn’t tell you what it is, but you’ve definitely got me feeling some type of way.” I shrug, trying to play off the way my stomach has been turning cartwheels since I saw him across the room. “Thought I was probably straight until fifteen fucking minutes ago.”

“Oh my god,” he mumbles, giving a single small shake of his head. He pulls his phone out again, head ducked as he checks something. I do the same, reminded suddenly of the fact that I’m currently being a bad friend to Micky.

Nate

Hey, Micky Mouse, you good??

Micky

I’m good. Jose is here and we are talking about anime.

Nate

I’m not sure I like that you have other friends.

Micky

Nobody could ever replace you, Nate, jewel of my heart, and light of my life.

Where did you go, anyway?

Nate

I’m out back with a hottie.

Micky

How much longer on the timer? You didn’t turn it off, did you?

Chuckling, I tuck my phone back into my pocket and look up to find Marcos’ dark eyes on me. He’s turning his own phone over in his hand, flipping it around and around and around.

“Just checking in with Micky,” I explain. “He’s allergic to fun, so I wanted to make sure he was doing all right on his own.”

“Micky,” Marcos repeats, asking a question without actually asking one.

“Jack McIntire. Goaltender. Kuemper might have mentioned him. ”

“Mm,” he hums noncommittally. A man of few words, this Marcos. I take a measured step toward him.

“So, how do you feel about receiving a very sloppy, and probably not very skilled blowjob against that shed?” I ask, nodding toward the darkest corner of the lawn.

Thank God for those two shots of whiskey, providing me with just enough confidence to say that without wavering. Marcos doesn’t even glance over.

“We can’t,” he says, which seems to be plenty far from “no” to me.

“Sure we can. I’m offering, aren’t I? Unless I’m not your type, which would be devastating, but understandable.”

“You’re everyone’s type,” he mumbles, looking away from me and over at the shed. He taps his phone on his leg, shoulders tight beneath his white shirt. The man is tense as shit—if anyone is in need of a stress reliever against a shed, it’s this guy.