Page 4

Nate

It’s been a full week since I gave my first blowjob and I’m starting to notice just how many men there are on the SCU campus. They are everywhere. And apparently, swallowing a load of cum clears the film from your eyes, because now I’m also noticing how attractive a lot of these guys are.

Rubbing my sternum and looking away from the one who caught my attention—not Marcos, unfortunately, although for a moment I thought it was—I turn back to Micky.

We’re seated on the lawn outside of the computer sciences building, backs against a tree as we pass the time until practice.

Micky bites into a sandwich, notices me watching him, and holds it out to me, eyebrows raised in question and offer.

“I’m good, thanks.” I wave away the sandwich, and then smile when someone calls my name from across the lawn. Micky rolls his eyes.

“You know everyone,” he comments. “Doesn’t that exhaust you? ”

It doesn’t, really, but I get where he’s coming from.

I thrive on the energy of being in big groups of people.

I love to talk, and truthfully, I like being the center of attention.

Micky, who had a fucked-up childhood, is so used to making himself small and quiet, any socialization ends up being too stimulating for him.

I can’t imagine how he plays hockey in front of a sold-out arena without entering cardiac arrest, I really can’t.

“Sometimes,” I reply with a shrug, “but mostly I enjoy it. I grew up on a ranch—always people around, and always things to do. Alone time wasn’t really a thing.”

He thinks about this for a second, taking a big bite of his sandwich and chewing.

“I wish I grew up on a ranch,” he says thoughtfully.

“Well, you can come visit any time. We never say no to an extra pair of hands to do chores. We can get your big ass on a horse.”

Micky blushes at that, shaking his head but looking pleased.

The strangest things seem to make him uncomfortable, which is why I haven’t yet disclosed what went down at the party with Marcos.

If an invitation to come to the ranch makes him blush, I can only imagine what he’d make of my impromptu dick-sucking adventure.

Frowning, I look down at my cellphone, lying in the grass next to my outstretched leg.

I didn’t ask for Marcos’ number and I’ve been kicking myself ever since.

Finding him on campus is like finding a needle in a school full of needles, and even though I know I could just ask Max Kuemper about him, I’m hesitant to immediately take that route.

What if Marcos didn’t tell his roommate about what happened?

What if I accidentally out the man? No, better to just leave it alone for now.

Maybe seventeen minutes is all that was in the cards for us .

Micky’s sandwich wrapper crinkles as he balls it up and lobs it toward the trash can. He grins when it goes in.

“Ten points,” he declares. Snorting, I climb to my feet and hold out a hand to help him up. Once standing, I slap his butt, which makes him scowl beneath the blush.

“Come on, let’s start walking. We don’t want to be late for practice.”

“No,” he agrees, looking worried at the mere thought.

When we get over to the practice rink, none other than Max Kuemper is walking up the path with his buddy Henri Vasel. Beside me, Micky immediately slows down as though wanting to walk slower so as not to catch up with them and have to talk. It’s useless, though, because we’ve already been spotted.

“Good afternoon, Micky and Bas!”

I smile at Vas’ cheerful greeting. I fucking love this guy.

“Hey, Vas!” I call back. “Kuemper!”

Max Kuemper raises his hand in a very small, very uncomfortable-looking wave. Putting a hand in the middle of Micky’s shoulder blades, I propel him forward. Vas beams at us.

“How are we today?” he asks, looking at Micky. Vas reminds me a bit of a mini-Coach Mackenzie. Always looking out for everyone, but doing it with a smile whereas Coach usually utilizes scare tactics. They make a hell of a team.

“Fine, how are you?”

Vas moves closer to Micky to talk to him, patting me on the shoulder as he passes. Kuemper falls into step beside me and I desperately try to think of a way I can ask about Marcos. Hey, so how about that roommate of yours? How’s he doing? Has he said anything about me?

Cringing at myself, I clear my throat .

“You excited for the game tomorrow night?” I ask instead, because hockey is a hell of a lot safer of a topic than Marcos.

“Yeah. I like playing Minnesota. They’re always tough.”

I nod. I’m not surprised to hear that Max Kuemper prefers playing the teams that give him a bit of a challenge. I glance over at Micky, who hates playing Minnesota for the very same reason.

“Do you miss playing forward?” Kuemper asks tentatively, as we reach the arena. I reach in front of him to grab the door, and he flinches away as though not wanting me to touch him.

Pretending I didn’t notice, I wait for them all to pass through before I follow and fall back into step with him.

“I don’t really care what position I’m in, I’m just happy that I get to play,” I answer truthfully. “I like being on the team. What about you, Kuemper? Going to join us back on D someday?”

He smiles, recognizing this for the joke it is. I’m pretty sure it’s the first time a smile from him has ever been aimed in my direction.

“You can just call me Max, if you want,” he says, voice a little stronger. “Most of the team calls me Kuemper, but my friends all use Max.”

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face at that. I was insanely jealous of the “Carter Morgan, Max Kuemper, and Henri Vasel” trio when I first joined the team. Maybe this is Max’s way of inviting me in.

“Sure, Max. Thanks. Might be better for everyone to start calling me by my first name, too. Bas and Vas sounds like we’re a comedy duo or something.”

He laughs, looking more relaxed than he was moments ago.

Practice ends up being a fucking blast, when Coach surprises us by bringing along Anthony Lawson.

After running through some drills, we separate into teams and scrimmage.

Everyone plays better, as though his mere presence on the ice provides us with more skill, and even Coach Mackenzie can’t pretend he’s not having a good time.

Micky seems to be the only one not basking in the glow of Anthony Lawson’s presence.

After a particularly good save, Lawson congratulates him and Micky promptly lets in the next five shots, face growing steadily more red as play progresses.

During a break, I skate over and snatch his water bottle off the top of his net, squirting a stream into my mouth.

“What’s up, Micky Mouse?”

He sighs, waiting for me to hand him the bottle before squeezing some down the back of his neck.

“I wish he wouldn’t watch me. It makes me nervous.”

“You wish the professional goaltender wouldn’t watch you goaltend during practice,” I clarify dryly. He grimaces. “Come on, buddy, you’re playing great. He’s just here to help. It’s practice , not the Frozen Four.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to embarrass Coach Mackenzie. Or the team. Or you.”

“Listen, I don’t need anyone’s help to embarrass myself. I do just fine on my own.”

Micky laughs, shoulders finally creeping away from where he’d had them hunched up to his ears.

His smile is gone just as quickly as it was there, though, as his eyes widen and fix on something over my shoulder.

I turn to see Anthony Lawson skating toward us.

Cute, my brain supplies helpfully, because naturally this is the moment when my newly realized attraction to men decides to perk up and sniff the air.

“Hey there,” he greets us, sliding to a slow stop in front of the net. Micky moves a little closer to me, shoulders curled inward like he wishes he were smaller than his 6’5” frame.

“Hey, Coach Lawson.” I hold out a gloved hand for him to fist-bump.

“Hi,” Micky says, barely above a whisper. I can practically feel the anxiety radiating off of him, like he expects Lawson to dress him down for making a mistake in practice.

“I was slow on the regroup during that last play. My fault they had that scoring chance,” I say mildly, doing my best to take some of the heat off of Micky. Lawson’s dark eyes meet mine, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what I’m trying to do.

“No worries,” he says easily. “You guys are playing great—Vaughn is a good partner for you. I enjoyed watching you play forward, but you’re a D-man at heart.”

I’m not immune to the power of a compliment from a professional hockey player. My heart feels like it doubles in size at these words, and I smile proudly.

“So listen, I buttered up the head coach and was able to wrangle a little one-on-one time with you, McIntire. Is that cool?”

Micky looks like he’s never heard anything less cool in his life.

“Sure,” he mutters.

Lawson, who is obviously nobody’s fool, smiles in a gentle, conciliatory manner, and tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Have you ever heard of blind ball?” he asks. Micky looks at me and I shake my head. Lawson grins. “Help me flip the net around.”

Turning the net so it’s facing the boards, Lawson explains how Micky will set up in his goal the way he usually would .

“I’m going to grab some tennis balls, and throw them off the boards,” he explains. “You do your best to catch them, simple as that. No high stakes—just working on reflexes and getting out of your head a little bit.”

“Damn, I wish I could play,” I complain, right as Coach Mackenzie blows his whistle. Tapping Micky on the butt with my stick, I skate off, checking over my shoulder to see Lawson still chatting amiably at my friend.

“Micky is working with Coach Lawson?” Vas asks cheerfully as I skate to a stop next to him.

“Yeah. Poor guy is probably shitting his pants right now.”

“Goodness,” Vas says. “Coach Lawson is very nice, Micky does not have to shit his pants.”