Page 15

Xander, October 27th

I throw myself onto the bench without taking my eyes away from the game that’s in full swing right before me. The mood is insane; our home rink is packed with what feels like the entirety of SBU’s student body. They’re all shouting and screaming. The stands are a heaving sea of green shirts and banners showing the stylized bat that’s our mascot. Only one corner behind the opposite goal is clad in scarlet and waving flags with an obnoxious roaring cat on it.

All the ruckus barely flickers in the corner of my eye; I’m focused on the field where our second offensive line is doing its best to add another point to the two goals Nate and I scored already. Right now, he’s slumped next to me, our shoulders pressed together.

We’re wordlessly turning our heads at the same time as the game rushes past us. My fingers clutch my stick tight enough to hurt, but I can’t relax a single muscle.

With all that’s been going on the past few weeks, it has become impossible for the coaches to keep our heads on our shoulders. And I don’t see that happening any time soon, because we’re well on our way to put the New Hampshire Wildcats in their place.

Nate especially is ravenous for another goal. When we swap back in, he flies over the ice, outracing anyone trying to cover him.

Usually, I’m the one to pull him along, but right now I have to haul ass to keep up. I push harder so I’m there for the quick pass he shoots me. Flicking the puck between my legs I slingshot it back over without looking, trusting that he’ll be there.

A Wildcat dives in front of me, falling for the ruse. Their outstretched stick gets caught between my legs; I stumble—

It doesn’t matter, because Nate is free in front of the net.

The lamp lights up, and just like that we’re three points ahead. I rush toward Nate, grinning broadly. We’re both yelling as we bump into each other. Our helmets clank together, and for a moment Nate’s face is only inches away from mine.

His exhilarated roar rings in my ears, drowning out the shouts of the crowd. His green eyes stare right into my very core. Then he pushes off effortlessly, leaving me to gather up my scattered thoughts as he turns toward the curve of Wildcats’ fans, hissing at them like a kitten, his fingers formed as claws.

I laugh at his antics. Seeing him taunt our opponents is unusual but definitely funny.

Two periods later, the bell rings for the last time and the stands practically explode. We managed to keep our own net clean, with the five—five!—goals we scored glowing on the board. My teammates rush from the bench, yelling and cheering. Soon, we’re all balled up in little groups, doing victory rounds.

One of those times, I’m arm in arm with Nate, grinning at him.

He grins back and doesn’t flit away this time.

***

We all rush through our showers, eager to join the crowds that have taken their elated mood to the outside of the stadium and across the whole campus. There’s no escaping the constant slaps on the back from strangers. It feels great when everyone celebrates like this, and since I’ve done my part to earn it, I’m gladly reaping the praise.

Invitations for early Halloween parties are flung at us as we’re heading back to our dorm to dump our stuff. We already know where to go though; there’s a house party thrown by our captain, so the whole team will be at his place, along with half the school’s athletes.

This time, I don’t give Nate any shit when he gets into the driver’s seat. To my surprise, he doesn’t stall the car once. Instead, he drives fast enough to make me cling to the door handle when we fly around a corner.

“Scared?” he teases, making me raise a brow.

“With you at the wheel? Always,” I throw back, but it only makes him laugh before he takes the next turn just as fast, making my heart jump into my throat.

The street is already packed with cars when we arrive, so we have to walk a short distance. The cool evening air is rich with laughter and the vibrating bass of techno music. We are greeted by the sight of Taylor emptying his stomach into a nearby rose bush. Beside me, Nate snorts.

“It’s that kind of party, huh?”

We squeeze through the crowds until we find the rest of our team. Drinks are pushed at us left and right, blurring out the happy drunk faces that are smiling up at me. Once I’m out of the throng of people, I catch sight of a couple of my classmates.

“Be right back,” I lean down to talk into Nate’s ear, nodding over to the corner. He blinks up at me for a moment, so I lean in closer, yell a little louder. I’m not sure if he understood me, because he just shrugs and turns to take a Jell-o shot from a stranger dressed like a cat.

By the time I find him again, about an hour later, Nate’s swaying. He’s laughing at something one of the frat bros standing in their little circle is saying. A twinge of jealousy bolts through me, too quick to be squashed down.

Fuck knows why, but for some reason a part of me seems to have forgotten that I’ve known Nate for three years; it’s like I’m seeing him clearly for the first time right now, in this overcrowded room, in the middle of a Halloween party: how he tips his head back as he laughs, his pale throat a contrast to his flushed cheeks, the bright glow in his eyes as he keeps listening to whatever joke is told next.

I can’t tear my eyes away and promptly run into a gaggle of girls. At least I’m given a few moments to gather my thoughts as I apologize to them.

Maybe it’s because Nate suddenly decided to explore new sides of himself. These past two weeks he dressed differently, behaved differently, and has just been different . I’m not used to him talking back to me and arguing over my game. It’s unexpected but also… hot to have him claim the puck, or demand a pass back, to feel challenged by him.

Or maybe it’s because we’re clicking so well on the ice—seemingly reading each other’s thoughts, tuned into every movement—that causes the treacherous flutter in my stomach.

It’s there right now, when I squeeze past the girls in their color-coordinated costumes to make my way over to Nate, who is only wearing his hockey jersey over jeans. Same as me, because none of us wanted to dress up and hide what we were tonight: winners.

“There you are!” He grins, reaching up so he can drape his arm around my shoulder. He tugs me into the group of people that I haven’t paid any attention to.

“You have to hear this!”

I don’t hear a single word of whatever funny story is being recounted, but I must chuckle at the right time, because Nate is bursting into laughter next to my ear. I couldn’t care less if I went deaf right there.

Because just like these past two weeks, his hair is tousled and free of gel, and tickling my neck.

I’m itching to touch, to feel whether it’s as soft as it looks. I imagine how I’d brush it off of his forehead, maybe curl a strand around my fingers as I—

As I bang my head against the wall.

Because that’s idiotic. I’m not into Nate! But when his green eyes, so bright behind his glasses, find me, I feel like I need to dive into Lake Champlain to cool off.

Once he’s settled down again, I pat his back.

“Let’s get you some water,” I suggest, making extra sure that I’m keeping an appropriate distance, even as I lean down to stage-whisper into his ear. I still catch a whiff of his scent.

God, he even smells differently. Not like he switched his shampoo, but there’s something else under it—crisp and cold like a winter morning. It’s a stark contrast to the pungent stench of pumpkin spice beer, Jell-o shots, and the sweat of far too many bodies crammed into the same space.

It makes me want to bury my nose in his neck and inhale deeply.

Thankfully the kitchen is empty once we get there, which I ascribe to the huge buffet in the living room that’s piled with every Halloween-themed snack imaginable.

I maneuver us inside and close the door to shut out the noise. Leaning my drunk best friend against the counter, I go to find a glass, rinse it, and then fill it with tap water before holding it out to Nate.

He’s bobbing his head along to the music that’s playing loudly over the speakers. Bits of the lyrics make it through the closed door into the kitchen. I don’t bother to try and make them out, but Nate’s lips move along.

“Drink it,” I tell him when he just blinks at the glass. Nate’s green eyes narrow.

“You drink it!” he huffs back, and I sigh but take a sip, then offer it to him again.

“See? Not poisoned.”

“Oh...okay then.” This time he takes it, though his fingers curl around mine as well. I flinch and almost drop the glass.

Nate empties the water in a long drag.

I watch as his throat bobs, staring for a bit too long as his lips come away from the edge of the glass shiny and wet and—fuck, he’s caught me.

He raises his brows and tilts his head but doesn’t say anything, letting me believe I might have gotten away with it. He’s drunk after all.

“Better now?” I ask, rubbing the back of my neck. I can feel heat rise to my cheeks.

What the fuck is wrong with me?! I can’t even blame the alcohol, because I didn’t finish the one plastic cup of beer that was shoved at me. To make matters worse, Nate keeps looking at me like I’m the Wordle and he’s on his last try.

“I dunno,” he finally says, leaning forward until he’s all the way inside my personal space, close enough that I can smell the beer and sweetness lingering on his breath. This way, I could grow to like it.

“Are you better?”

I blink at his nonsensical question. “I…yeah, I’m good, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Dunno, you seem kinda…” he trails off, and even if I couldn’t care less about the rest of the sentence, I’m spellbound, watching his mouth form the next word more than I actually hear it, feeling it as Nate’s lips just barely brush against my own, “bothered.”

It short-circuits my brain, because the next thing I know, I’m pushing him against the counter, kissing him. My hands are finally in his hair, and it’s as soft as I imagined. The blond strands are silky smooth under my fingers, his lips warm against mine. There’s little finesse in the way I press my mouth against Nate’s, but I make up for it with urgency.

For a terrifying moment he doesn’t do anything, but as I run my tongue along his bottom lip, he shudders, and finally his lips part.

The taste of pumpkin spice beer fills my mouth as I lick into Nate’s. I groan softly at the warmth and underlying taste of him that’s so much more intoxicating than any alcohol.

A sharp pain pulls me to my senses. I flinch back. My lower lip throbs where Nate bit me.

Then it’s his turn to push me.

My back hits the wall next to the fridge. Coldness rushes through me as if I really jumped into the freezing waters of Lake Champlain.

What have I been thinking? I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t—

Nate stalks forward, and I don’t have the time to scramble together an apology, because he presses his body against mine.

I’m taller, but frozen in shock, so that Nate easily pins me to the wall. He fixes the difference in height by curling his fingers in my shirt, then pulls me down into another kiss.

I don’t lose another moment wondering what’s come over my best friend, I just tilt my head into the contact. My hands are moving of their own accord, one tangling in Nate’s hair again, the other wrapping around his waist.

He’s clutching at my shirt like there’s any chance I might run off. His other hand fumbles at my side to find a way under the jersey.

I tear my mouth free with a gasp as his fingers slide over my bare skin, hot enough to leave a trail of burns. Nate is quick to take advantage of my bared neck, his lips brushing along my pulse.

“Fuck,” I groan, breathless. “Nate!”

The incredible head-spinning feeling of his tongue against my throat is interrupted by my intestines twisting into a knot.

This is Nate I’m making out with.

“...stop,” I breathe, silently cursing myself. This is not the time to apply for being named the patron saint of self-control. Another sobering breath and I manage to wrap my hand around his wrist and drag it out from under my shirt.

“Nate, stop,” I repeat, finally managing to say the words clearly enough to get his attention.

His mouth vanishes from my neck.

The sudden cold he leaves behind causes goosebumps to crawl down my back. There’s also the realization that I actually have to say something, which mixes badly with the misguided arousal that is swirling around in the pit of my stomach.

“We should...we should talk about this.”

He stares at me, suddenly wide-eyed. I’m immediately at a loss of how to continue. I don’t want to talk about this. If this is a lapse in judgment on his part, I’m irresponsible enough right now to…let it go.

But I’d hate myself tomorrow morning. Whatever just happened, he’s my best friend.

Nate tears his hand free of my grip, and his head swivels around like he’s forgotten where we are.

Alexander Hart, patron saint of self-control and ruining friendships.

“Holy shit,” he mutters under his breath, both hands going up to push his hair back from where I mussed it.

“It’s…it’s fine. Nothing happened, we’ll simply…forget about it,” my voice cracks as I say the words out loud. I’m just as guilty in this, but I’m sure I’ll snap out of whatever craze has come over me tonight—and the past week. I have to.

The part of me that wants the complete opposite of what I’m saying, that wants to pull him back against me and beg him to please tell me I’m not the only crazy one here, that part needs to shut up. Nate is too important to ruin it over whatever hormones are making me nuts.

He still hasn’t said anything, so I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

He shakes it off immediately.His sudden movement swipes the empty glass from the counter. It shatters against the floor, making both of us jump. Nate’s head whips around, eyes fixating on the door, and my stomach sinks.

He’s worried that someone could see us.

I open my mouth again, but before I can say anything, Nate turns and bolts from the kitchen. The door swings wildly, and I hear someone shout about almost being hit. Then it slowly shuts again.

Snakes are writhing in my stomach, the taste of pumpkin beer suddenly sour where it’s lingering in my mouth.

“Shit,” I bury my head in my hands, slumping over the counter. I’d run after him if I thought it would help, but I’m pretty sure that I’m the last person he wants to see right now.

I don’t know if I want to see him either. Definitely not while I can still feel an echo of his body pressing against my own, the tingle of his mouth against my neck, the sting of his teeth on my lip.

“Fuck!” I curse, kicking the counter. Glass crunches under my shoes, and I heave a sigh, staying buried in my own arms.