Page 54 of Shots on Net

He finishes with his shirt and walks over to where I’m seated on the end of his bed. Planting his hands on either side of my hips, he leans down and kisses me. Reaching up, I put my hands on either side of his face and hold him at my level. He makes a small, pleased sound and presses his lips more firmly against mine. I really think I could die happy if I had nothing but a future of kissing Carter in front of me. I cannot fathom how sex of any kind could be better than this.

“I’ve got to go,” he murmurs, mouth close enough to mine that I can feel his breath on my lips. “Bus leaves in thirty minutes.”

“Alright. Go win your hockey contest. I’ll be here when you get back.”

He kisses me again, once, and then twice. Sighing, he leans back enough to place a kiss to my forehead, too. I want to grab him and hold on; keep him here instead of watching him leave for the game. Instead, I watch as he goes and then head into my own room to get to work on homework. I make sure to have the livestream of Carter’s game up on my laptop; I’m proud of the fact that I haven’t missed a single one of his games, whether I go in person or watch the livestream. Every time I tell him that I watched, I can tell how happy this makes Carter. I have no intention of missing a game.

The game goes into overtime, but nobody scores. Groaning, I watch as the teams prepare to do a shootout; I hate shootouts. I can’t imagine how Carter must feel, being the only one standing between his team and a loss.

“Yes,” I whisper to the screen, as he saves the first one. He stops the second shot as well, and it must have been impressive because the announcers are going crazy. Pulling my notebook toward me, I write down ‘poke-check’ as a reminder to Google it later. Turning back to the screen, I whisper encouragement to Carter as the next skater comes forward.

“Ha!” I shout, when he blocks it. Vas is the next shooter that has to go on our team, and I cross my fingers for him. The opposing goalie stops it, which means Carter has to take another shot. Really, shootouts are a torture device. I’m not sure who thought this was a good idea, but my nerves have a bone to pick with them.

It takes another two rounds before SCU scores and wins the game. I cheer into the empty house, arms held aloft. It’ll still be a few hours until Carter gets home, but he shouldn’t be too late. Deciding to wait for him in his room, I change into pajamas and grab a book. By the time I’m settled in on his mattress, he’s texted me.

Carter: Hey, no need to wait up, I’ll be back late.

I laugh at this, shaking my head. I always wait up for him, or at least set an alarm to be awake when he gets home. It’s another thing I’ve noticed about him: how much he appreciates someone caring about whether he made it home safe.

Zeke: I’ll be awake. I’m going to read in your room. Good game! You killed that shootout. Why does that seem to happen so often? I hate them.

Carter: Shootouts blow. Did you see Max’s goal? Fucking FIRE.

Zeke: I did see, and yes it was impressive. Not as impressive as you stopping 27 shots on goal, but that’s okay. We can’t all be Carter Morgan III.

Carter: Oh my god. Thanks for watching. I’ll see you soon.

Soon comes a lot faster than I thought it would. In what feels like only minutes after we talked, Carter is here, hand on my shoulder, and a small smile on his face. I must have fallen asleep.

“Oh, shoot, did I fall asleep?” I sit up and my book falls to the floor with a thunk.

“You did,” Carter confirms. He’s half undressed—dress shirt untucked and unbuttoned, hanging open over a white undershirt. His pants are undone and I can see the dark fabric of his boxers. Carter, either unbothered by my staring at his crotch, or unaware, turns away from the bed and begins to strip in earnest. “I’m exhausted. That was a tough game.”

Bending down over the side of the bed, I pluck up my book and put it on his nightstand. Leaning back against the wall, I watch him undress and put on pajamas. Feeling my eyes on him, Carter looks at me.

“What?” He asks, and then rubs a hand over the bottom half of his face as though checking to see if he has food on his chin.

“Nothing, I’m just exercising my sacred right as your boyfriend to watch you undress.”

He laughs, startled, and shakes his head. Pulling on pajama pants, but leaving his chest bare, he walks over to the doorway and turns off the light. The room is plunged into darkness for a few moments before a lamp clicks on on the other side of the bed from where I’m sitting. Carter tugs on the comforter.

“Move for a second so I can pull this back,” he says, and I slide off the bed.

“I’ll go back to my—."

“Oh, no, don’t leave,” Carter cuts in, climbing under the sheets and patting my recently vacated spot.

I hesitate. He just told me he’s exhausted, so the likelihood of him wanting to have sex is probably low. Cautiously, I slide into the bed beside him. He’s angled toward me, eyes soft and mouth in a frownless neutral zone. There is a faint bruise coming up on his neck. Leaning over, I reach gentle fingers over to touch it.

“Please tell me you didn’t get hit in the neck with a puck,” I say, grimacing. I didn’t see that happen while I was watching, but the game moves so fast it’s possible I missed it.

“No,” he says, but doesn’t explain how he did get hit there. I’m grateful. I don’t need to have nightmares of Carter getting seriously injured. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”

I stare at him, fingers clenched in the soft comforter. I do want to stay here tonight. I want to fall asleep to the sound of his breathing, and be kept warm by his body heat. Does his hair get messed up when he sleeps? Does he drool or snore? I badly want to know.

“Oh, well, yes, I could do that. Stay here,” I stutter, blushing.

“Just to sleep, if that’s okay,” he says, kindly giving me an out. “Maybe a little snuggling, if you’re up for it.”

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