Page 216 of Pucking Around

“I know,” he murmurs.

I drag my throbbing hands through my sweaty hair. “I’m freaking the fuck out, Cay.”

“I know,” he says again. “Jake, there’s no reason—”

“You’re my best fucking friend!”

My voice sounds oddly strangled. God, I was so sure when this finally happened, I’d be so much cooler about it. I’d say some cheesy line like, ‘Baby, you can manage my equipment any time.’ Then I’d wink just to make him laugh and we’d fall into each other—not that I’ve given it much thought.

Instead, Caleb is shrinking back, looking at me like I’m a cornered animal ready to strike. “Jake, we don’t have to—”

“I want more,” I squawk, stumbling forward on my skates. “I want more, Cay. I wantyou.But I’m fucking terrified to want you at the same time.”

I reach forward slapping my hands down on his shoulders, elbows locked. He can’t keep pulling away from me, but fuck if I’m ready to let myself get closer. I have to say this. Have to get it out before it eats me alive.

“Rachel’s my girl,” I say on a breath, chest heaving like I’ve just run a marathon. “I want her to love me and marry me and have my huge hockey babies. But I think you might be my guy, Cay. And Ineverthought I’d be the kind of guy to have a guy, you know what I mean? But you’re here, and you’re you, and you know me better than anyone,” I say with a surprised shake of my head. “You might know me better than Amy at this point.”

“Likely,” he mutters, slipping his hands in his pockets, unwilling to take a step closer or reciprocate my touch.

I have to keep going. I have to get it out. He deserves this. I scramble to think of the right words. “I tell everyone my favorite movie isThe Hangoverbut it’s not. You know the real answer, Cay.”

He huffs a laugh. “Oh god, really?Practical Magic? Still?”

“Fucking of course that’s my favorite movie!” I say, pushing off him with both hands. “Amy made me watch it like a thousand times growing up. It’s amazing. I want that house, Cay.”

“I know.”

“And that’s the only reason I learned to flip pancakes in the air,” I add. “Girls go crazy for that shit. It’s like pussy magic to them.”

“I know. I’ve seen you in action,” he replies.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” I admit, my gaze locked on him. He’s still in arm’s reach but I’m afraid to touch him. Afraid to break this.

He holds my gaze, his own expression softening.

I’ve never been attracted to men. Not once in my life can I remember sitting there thinking, ‘Hey, that guy’s so handsome, I’d let him spoon me.’ Even looking at Caleb now, I’m not struck senseless by his beauty. I’m not drawn to the allure of his rippling pectorals or his fancy pierced cock.

Fuck, I’m the worst lover ever, right? This is why I hate labels. I hate the performance. The expectation. I hate that I’m standing here thinking about how I’m not attracted to my guy.

But I am.

The truth hits me, and I feel like I’m spinning out all over again. I’m so attracted to Caleb, it’s not even funny. I’m just not attracted to the way he looks. Don’t get me wrong, he’s objectively a ten. But I’m attracted to…him. His unwavering loyalty, his patience, his sense of humor. I’m attracted to the way he pretends to be full when we go out for sushi so I can finish what’s on his plate. I love the way he sets up the TV to record my favorite cooking shows when we’re gone for away games.

“Nothing has to change, Jake,” he says. “We can go on just as before. We can just be with Rachel and not each other. I have no expectations—”

“Kiss me again,” I hear myself say.

“What?”

I hold his dark gaze, heart hammering in my chest. “You fucking heard me, Cay. Shut that door. Then get over here, and kiss me like I’m the last man you’ll ever kiss for the rest of your lucky fucking life.”

The energy in the room turns on a dime as Cay goes still as a statue. His entire body morphs from passive to possessive. Tearing his gaze from me, he spins around and moves to the door, shutting it with a sharp snap. The sound rattles my bones.

Oh, it is so fucking on.

But then he just stands there, one palm pressed flat against the wood of the door, not moving. For the briefest of moments, I lose my nerve.

I misread him. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want me. Why would he—