Him (Him #1)(23)

The rest of the scrimmage lasts about a decade. When we finally break for lunch, Jamie catches up to me on the way to the locker rooms. “Science has proven?” He chuckles.

“I do science on the side.”

“Uh-huh. I’m thinking of skipping the dining hall today and grabbing a burger at the pub in town. You down?”

“Fuck yeah,” I answer. Then I wince and glance around to make sure none of the kids are lurking around. I don’t know if I’m cut out to be an authority figure. I’ve spent four years surrounded by Northern Mass hockey players who drop F-bombs in every sentence, and I keep forgetting I need to censor myself while I’m at Elites. The teenagers here swear like sailors—at least when Pat and the other coaches aren’t around—but I refuse to corrupt the younger ones with my filthy mouth.

“Fudge yeah,” I correct.

Canning gestures at the emptiness around us. “We’re the only ones here. You can say f*ck, dumbass. You can say anything, really.” With a grin, he unleashes a string of expletives. “Fuck, shit, cock, *—”

“For the love of Christ!” a loud voice booms from behind us. “Do I need to wash your mouth out with soap, Canning?”

I choke down my laughter as Pat appears. He shakes his head in disbelief as he stares at Jamie, then narrows his eyes and turns to me. “Actually, what am I saying? Canning wouldn’t even know those words if it weren’t for you, Wesley. Shame on you.”

I flash Pat an innocent smile. “I’m pure as the driven snow, Coach. Canning was the one who corrupted me.”

They both snort. Pat claps me on the shoulder and stalks past us. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that, kid,” he says over his shoulder. “And both of you, watch your mouths around the campers or I’ll kick your motherf*cking asses.”

Jamie and I are still laughing as we duck into the locker room to ditch our skates and change into our sneakers. When we exit the building a few minutes later, I feel like I’ve just left an icy pool and stepped into a sauna. The humidity in the air is stifling, causing sweat to roll down my back. My T-shirt sticks to my chest like plastic wrap.

Shrugging, I yank it over my head and tuck the fabric in the waistband of my gym shorts. The atmosphere in Lake Placid is as casual as it gets—nobody’s gonna care if I walk through town rocking a bare chest.

Canning keeps his shirt on. I think I might prefer it that way, because his shirt is paper-thin and doing the same clinging thing mine had done, which gives me a decadent view of every hard ripple on his broad chest. Fuck, I’m yet again jealous of his shirt. I want to be the one plastered to his chest, and the ache I feel for him brings a spark of guilt.

We’re good now. We’re friends again. So why can’t my traitorous body just be cool with it? Why can’t I look at him without imagining all the dirty, dirty things I want to do to him?

“So what’s the deal with you and that girl?” I hear myself ask. I don’t particularly want to hear the answer, but I need the wake-up call it’ll bring, the reminder that lusting over this guy is a disaster waiting to happen.

“Holly?” He shrugs. “Nothing, really. We just hook up. Or rather, we used to hook up. I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of her now that we’ve graduated.”

I arch a brow. “Just a hook-up? Since when are you into a friends-with-bennies arrangement?”

Another shrug. “It was convenient. Fun. I don’t know. I’m just not looking to settle down with anyone right now. Holly understood that.” His voice takes on a note of challenge. “What, you disapprove?”

“Nah, I’m all about f*ck buddies.”

We pass the toy store and duck out of the way of two moms pushing strollers. Both women swivel their heads in my direction and stare at my tats. Not with contempt, but intrigue. It happens again on the next block when a group of teenage girls stop in their tracks at the sight of me. The words “tattooed hottie” tickle our backs as we walk past.

Jamie chuckles. “You sure you don’t want to go the bisexual path? ’Cause I’m pretty sure you won’t have any trouble in the chick department.”

“S’all good. Wouldn’t be fair to the straight guys if I threw my hat in the * ring. They wouldn’t stand a chance.”

His expression turns thoughtful. “I’ve seen you fool around with girls before. You seemed interested.”

I know he’s thinking about all those nights we snuck into town and flirted with the locals. But we were fifteen, maybe sixteen then, and I was still experimenting, figuring things out.

“Were you just pretending to enjoy it?” he asks curiously.

“Not so much pretending as trying to enjoy it,” I admit. “And it wasn’t awful. I didn’t go home afterward and scour my skin off in the shower. Making out with those girls was… I don’t know…it just was. I did it, it was all right, but it’s not like I was dying to rip their clothes off and get inside them.”

The way I’m dying to rip your clothes off and get inside you.

I clench my teeth, annoyed with myself. Christ, enough. It’s not going to happen with Canning. I need to stop this.

“Got it.” He nods, then tips his head. “Who does it for you, then? Like, what’s your type, looks-wise?”