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SIX

PATRICK

The first game of the season took place on Tuesday evening when we hosted the Winter Hawks.

As far as the season openers went, it could have been a disaster.

The first period was, at least, slamming our morale into the ground and leaving us furious.

Then again, if I looked into Shane’s notebook, I might discover that this fury was precisely what fueled the second period.

We bounced back, skating out there with a purpose. Losing the first game would suck. It was a terrible omen for the team and the year ahead. Despite the constant drills, all the blood and sweat, to lose was demoralizing in the worst way possible.

So when the third period began, Coach Webber made the mistake of keeping me back. The logic was to put some rookies into the thick of it, and the Hawks destroyed them.

“God damn,” I muttered to myself.

Every two or three minutes, the whistle blew, and the bodies scattered, rotating players in the rink so that everyone had their chance to play. My performance in the second period did little to convince Coach Webber to send me out and break the tie.

I glanced around and found him. The rink was hardly brimming with people, but I’d located Shane at the very start. My gaze went to him occasionally, and something strange passed through my chest whenever I found him looking.

Who was I playing for? I’d always imagined playing for myself, but Shane had put this worm of a thought into my head. And he was right. It mattered to me that people saw just how fast I was and how skilled.

Every time I looked, his gaze was on me. Even as I sat with a scowl on my face, Shane was scribbling into his notebook and looking at me. Scribbling about me.

I scratched my head and scoffed. Coach Webber strode in my direction and signaled to get ready.

When the whistle blew again, I was in. We were deadlocked with the Hawks.

Winning by a point or two wouldn’t do us any favors.

We’d already spent a year not believing we could clear a real win, let alone a god streak.

The battle was the fiercest in the final minutes of the game.

Every time we scored a point or two, the Hawks roared back with a vengeance.

It wasn’t until I was out in the middle of it that our own fury reached its climax.

Easton and Elio, Lennox and Connor, the best guys we had.

We dispersed on the ice, looking like easy prey, giving the Hawks an extra reason to relax.

They’d been kicking our asses for an hour. They had this in the bag.

Until we swept the ice with risky moves and sheer hope that we could pull it off. Elio used his size to attack, protect, and distract. Easton used his coolheadedness to assess and signal to the rest of us how to play it. And I? Well, I was just being myself.

It came by instinct. It was the thrill of the game, a pulse that sped up when my skates touched the ice.

I thought this was what the soldiers felt when they had to climb over the trenches or scale the walls.

It was a need like no other, a need to be there, to do this thing, consuming me until my mind was numb to everything else.

Sliding and skating, evading the oncoming attacks and passing through their defenses, I moved the puck between Easton and myself, losing it seemingly under the stick until their goalie’s attention snapped for the briefest of moments, and my hands jerked, sending the puck through.

The rink roared, or however much of it was filled for the opening game, and the Saints lost their minds, tossing their sticks away and skating around victoriously.

It was a near miss, and I knew it better than anyone.

I knew how close I’d come to losing that puck.

Besides, leaving the rink with only a point of difference didn’t feel too victorious to me.

I wanted us to be the best. I wanted us to be so far ahead of everyone else that there couldn’t be any debate about it.

Even so, it felt good to go to the locker room a little while later and have my shoulders slapped and shaken.

Shane followed me into the locker room with the entire team. He wore a pleased expression until he saw me looking at him, then wiped his face clean of emotions. He nodded curtly once, and that was the end of it.

Not even a “great job out there”? I sighed to myself before taking my jersey and protective gear off. Shane sat in the corner of the locker room while we all undressed and headed to the shower. He looked resolutely at his notebook and the words he had written there.

It was a far cry from the stolen glimpses of a near-naked body at the gym.

I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or disappointed.

Yet as guys went into the shower, I lingered in the locker room, wearing only my boxer briefs.

When the last of my teammates was in the other room, I stepped closer to Shane.

He looked up, his gaze skipping over me like rocks we used to throw into the lake.

“How did I do?” I asked.

Shane fixed his glasses and nodded. “As a spectator, I’d say great. Real flashy.”

I let out a laugh, tossing my head back. When I looked at him, his gaze had fallen lower along my torso, snapping back to my eyes a heartbeat later. “Tell you what, I didn’t think I’d make it.”

“If you lost the puck there, the Hawks would have cut right through the middle and won the game,” Shane said. “And you weren’t sure?”

“I had a good feeling,” I said. “You know your hockey, by the way.”

Shane blinked and looked away. It was my fault for bringing it up. He’d played hockey, I was sure, but he hated talking about that. I’d made the same mistake before.

“Right. I’ll go wash the sweat off,” I said, turning away from him and wondering if his gaze was caressing the length of my spine now. I wondered how low it went and if he had some naughty ideas behind those brown eyes.

It was amusing to think about the ways other people fantasized about you. I liked Shane. I hoped I was really good in those fantasies.

As I stepped into the shower and dropped my underwear, an odd sort of excitement ran through my body. My cock swelled a little, and my heart skipped a few beats. To be fair, winning a game did wonders for your confidence and your libido.

I showered quickly, ignoring the stubborn erection that made my cock ache with desire, and dried myself well before wrapping the towel around my waist and stepping out.

It wasn’t totally gone even as I stepped into the locker room and hurried to my spot, digging through my backpack for clean underwear to pull on under the discreet safety of the towel.

When that was done, I relaxed a little, dressed, and invited Shane to the celebration.

He couldn’t miss this. It was so clearly part of his research that he had no excuses.

We had a few rounds of drinks, recounting the highlights from the game. Even then, Shane was writing his little notes, and I wondered how many notebooks he would fill throughout the semester. He never went anywhere without two.

I was glad he was with us. A guy as sweet as Shane would thrive if he had friends to lift him up.

His focus on his studies was a big obstacle to building the social life he deserved.

I hoped he would see that as he spent more time with me and my friends.

If he learned anything at all this semester, I hoped it would be that.

Shane met me the next afternoon in front of the gym.

He was dressed for exercise, which was the first time I’d seen him in anything other than his baggy hoodies and oversized pants.

He’d also had a haircut, the sides of his head faded, and the top long and textured.

It was a nice, clean look, and I could absolutely see guys turning their heads when he walked down the street.

“Looking good,” I said. His arms were defined, and his chest was broader than I’d expected. Not that I’d spent a great deal of time pondering the question. Shane presented himself one way, but reality wasn’t completely in line with that.

Shane’s eyes widened. “Oh, um, thanks.”

“I don’t think I ever saw you working out,” I said as we went in.

“That’s because I don’t,” he explained. “Not when we’re there together, at least. But I figured it could be useful to experience your process a little differently.”

“You want to try my routine?” I asked, eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Sure,” Shane said.

We changed our shoes and started with the treadmill for thirty minutes.

It was intense, and I was aware that I was pushing myself so that Shane would get a better idea of my endurance, but it wasn’t Shane who walked away surprised in the end.

Despite increasing the speed until my legs burned, Shane kept up with me very well.

He couldn’t run at a high speed for as long as I could, but I hadn’t expected him to last half as long as he did.

Sweat dripped from his brow, and his white T-shirt was soaked by the time he got off the treadmill, his face red and legs shaky, but he stood still and waited for me to show him what I would do next.

I wiped my face with a towel and drank plenty of water before taking him away from the warm-up area.

The fact that he simply stood there, unimpressed, pushed my buttons.

Not even a “Wow, that was intense.” He just experienced it as if it were a paragraph describing my routine rather than running five miles in half an hour.

Alright, let me show you what being tough looks like , I thought.

What followed was an hour of exercise that would leave scars on me for days.

I upped all the weights for Shane’s benefit.

And while he couldn’t match me exactly, he quietly set the maximum weights he could possibly lift, making his workout just as challenging.