Him (Him #1)(2)

Hook-ups with gay guys are potentially more complicated. They might want more. Like commitment. Promises I’m unable to make.

“Wait,” I demand when I register what he’d said before. “What do you mean Em dragged you home?”

Cassel’s jaw tightens. “Exactly what it sounds like. She showed up at the frat house and dragged me out.” His features relax, but only slightly. “She was just worried about me, though. My cell died so I wasn’t answering any of her texts.”

I say nothing. I’ve given up on trying to get Cassel to see the light about that chick.

“I would’ve gotten trashed if she hadn’t shown up. So…uh, yeah, I guess it was cool of her to come get me before I got too wasted.”

I bite my tongue. Nope, not getting involved in the man’s relationship. Just because Emily happens to be the clingiest, bitchiest, craziest chick I’ve ever met doesn’t give me the right to interfere.

“Besides, I know how she feels about me partying. I shouldn’t have gone in the first place—”

“You’re not f*cking married,” I blurt out.

Shit. So much for keeping my mouth shut.

Cassel’s expression goes stricken.

I hastily backpedal. “Sorry. Ah…forget I said that.”

His cheeks hollow, jaw working as if he’s grinding his molars to dust. “No. I mean, shit. You’re right. We’re not married.” He mumbles something I can’t make out.

“What?”

“I said…not yet, anyway.”

“Not yet?” I echo in horror. “For f*ck’s sake, man, please, please tell me you aren’t engaged to that girl.”

“No,” he says quickly. Then he lowers his voice again. “But she keeps saying how she wants me to propose.”

Propose? The thought makes my skin crawl. Goddamn it, I’m gonna be the best man at their wedding, I just know it.

Is it possible to make a wedding toast without acknowledging the bride?

Luckily, Coach O’Connor marches into the room before this insane conversation with Cassel can make my mind spin any harder.

The room falls silent at his entrance. Coach is…commanding. Nah. Make that terrifying. Six-five, perpetual scowl, and a head he shaves not because he’s balding, but because he just likes looking like a scary motherf*cker.

He starts off the meeting by reminding us—one by one—what each of us did wrong in practice yesterday. Which is completely unnecessary, because yesterday’s criticism still burns in my gut. I screwed up one of the faceoff drills, dropped passes I had no business dropping, missed on goal when I had an easy shot. It was just one of those crappy practices where nothing goes right, and I’ve already vowed to get my shit together when we hit the ice tomorrow.

The post-season is down to just two fateful games, which means I need to stay sharp. I need to be focused. Northern Mass hasn’t won a Frozen Four championship in fifteen years, and as the leading scorer, I’m determined to seal this victory before I graduate.

“All right, let’s get to it,” Coach announces after he’s finished telling us how much we suck. “We’re starting with this Rainier-Seattle game from last week.”

As a frozen image of a college arena fills the huge screen, one of our left wings wrinkles his forehead. “Why are we starting with Rainier? We’re playing North Dakota in the first round.”

“We’ll focus on North Dakota next time. Rainier is the one that worries me.”

Coach touches the laptop on the desk and the image on the big screen unfreezes, the sound of the crowd echoing in the viewing room.

“If we meet these guys in the final, we’re in for a world of hurt,” Coach says grimly. “I want you to watch this goalie. The kid’s sharp as a hawk. We need to find his weakness and exploit it.”

My gaze focuses on the game in progress, resting on the black-and-orange uniformed goaltender manning the crease. He’s sharp, all right. Steady eyes assessing the field of play, his glove snapping shut as he stops the first goal slapped in his direction. He’s fast. Alert.

“Watch the way he controls this rebound,” Coach orders as the opposing team takes another shot at goal. “Fluid. Controlled.”

The longer I watch, the more uneasy I get. I can’t explain it. I have no clue why the hairs on the back of my neck are tingling. But something about the goalie makes my instincts hum.

“He angles his body perfectly.” Coach sounds thoughtful, impressed almost.

I’m impressed, too. I haven’t followed any of the west coast teams this season. I was too busy concentrating on the ones in our conference, studying the game tapes to find a way to beat them. But now that post-season is underway, it’s time to assess the teams we might face in the championship if we make it to the final round.

I keep watching. Keep studying. Damn it, I like the way he plays.

No, I know the way he plays.

Recognition dawns on me at the same moment Coach says, “Kid’s name is—”

Jamie Canning.

“—Jamie Canning. He’s a senior.”

Holy shit.

Holy f*cking shit.

My body is no longer humming, but trembling. I’ve known for a while that Canning goes to Rainier, but when I checked up on him last season I found out he’d been relegated to backup goalie, replaced by some hotshot sophomore who was rumored to be unstoppable.