Page 28 of Shots on Net

As promised, Carter flings open the door a moment later. It bangs against the opposite wall and I hear a few voices call out a complaint from inside. He’s scowling until he sees us standing in the hallway; his eyes widen and his lips part slightly, surprised.

“Zeke,” he says, stepping out and letting the door close behind himself. He doesn’t sound displeased.

I take a good look at him, my own eyes widening for a different reason. He’s half undressed, sporting padded shorts that are held up by a pair of suspenders over his shoulders. He’s wearing the sort of skin-tight shirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination; it’s short sleeved, showing off the flow of ink down his arms. He’s so sweaty, the hallway lights reflect off his damp neck and face. I swallow, audibly. I believe I understand why hockey players are considered sexy.

Probably noticing that I’ve lost the ability to form coherent sentences, Jefferson speaks up. “Good game!”

“Thanks,” Carter grunts, glancing at him and then back to me. His eyes skate over my face, uncertainly. I’ve been staring at him blankly, but quickly put a smile on. He relaxes, visibly. “Did you have fun?”

“We had a blast,” I tell him. Before I can second guess myself, I step forward and wrap my arms around his middle.

He jolts, and I have a moment of panic when I think he won’t return the hug before his arms come around me. It’s a gentle hug—one of his hands cups my shoulder and the other rests safely on my midback. I can feel him inhale, his chest expanding against my cheek before he lets it out slow. He is disgustingly sweaty and very large.

“You stink,” I tell him, loosening my arms. He drops his own so quickly, it makes me wonder if he’s uncomfortable. I step back far enough to see his face and grin up at him. He scowls.

“Yeah, sorry, I just played sixty minutes of hockey so I might have sweated a little bit.” He nudges me to let me know he’s playing around. I want to hug him again. “Glad you came.”

He clears his throat when he says this, voice gruff with embarrassment. “Me, too.”

“Me, too,” Jefferson says, making me jump. I’d forgotten he was still standing there. Judging by Carter’s expression, so had he. Jefferson notices, and eyes us with a sardonic twist to his mouth. “I’ll head out, leave you guys to it.”

“Oh, you don’t have to go—." My ears burn in embarrassment. Did you really just forget your best friend was standing right there? “I can…”

I trail off, looking at Carter. Jefferson laughs, softly, and shakes his head. “I’ve got some homework I need to get done. Will you be okay to get a ride home?”

He looks between Carter and I. I open my mouth to answer but Carter cuts me off, running a hand over his sweaty head.

“Give me fifteen minutes to shower and change, okay? I’ll meet you back out here. We can head home together.”

This had obviously been what Jefferson had been trying to engineer, based on the glint in his eye and the smirk on his face. He reaches out a hand to me, placing it on my shoulder and squeezing gently. Looking at Carter, he says: “Thank you for the tickets. It was a good time.”

We watch him stroll off down the hall the way we came. Carter, pawing again at his hair, looks at me when he reaches his other hand back for the door handle.

“Fifteen minutes,” he promises, swinging the door wide so it bounces of the wall. He kicks a foot back to catch it before it can hit him in the back on the rebound. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Nodding, I walk a little way down the hallway and press myself back against the wall. It’s only minutes later that the first of his teammates comes out of the locker room; a pair of guys make their way loudly down the hall, laughing and jostling together, and still obviously enjoying their win. They ignore me completely, as though I were simply a part of the wall. This happens several more times, until a very tall man in a suit stops abruptly and turns to me.

He’s got a severe looking face, which isn’t helped by the addition of a few small scars on his forehead. He looks pissed—an angry furrow indenting his brows and his eyes narrowed in a scowl. I have to crane my neck to look him in the eyes.

“May I help you with something?” He asks, evidently suspicious of a stranger lurking in this hallway.

“Oh, no, thank you,” I mumble, “I’m waiting for Carter. Morgan? I’m waiting for Carter Morgan. The third.”

I tack the last part on obliquely, unsure what the hell his hockey friends use to identify him. The man’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead in surprise and he stops scowling at me quite so fiercely. There is an appraising look to his eyes now, like he’s measuring me.

“I’m Nico Mackenzie, Carter’s coach.” He holds out a hand to me, and I shake it. His fingers are long and thin, and completely engulf my much smaller hand.

“Oh, hi!” I suddenly remember Carter’s story about his aunt meeting his coach, and the excitement with which he told it. “Zeke Cassidy, Carter’s roommate.”

“Are you,” he says, in a way that is less a question and more of a musing. “I’m glad to hear he found someone. How are things working out?”

“Great,” I say, and smile at him. He has his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his dress pants and is listening to me so intently, I can’t help but keep talking. “We always hang out on Sundays. We did mini golf one weekend, and then axe throwing the next; we’ve also gone to the zoo, which was really fun. I’m not sure what the plan is for this weekend, since it’s Carter’s turn to decide. Probably something crazy, like archery from horseback, or something.”

Coach Mackenzie listens to this word vomit without once changing his expression until I mention that last part—his lips pull up in a small smile, and his face looks only half as frightening as before. Before he can reply, the locker room door opens and Carter steps into the hallway. He looks both ways, searching for me. When he sees me standing with his coach, his face breaks open into what I can only describe as happiness: a softening of his mouth and brow, and a widening of his eyes. He walks toward us, quickly.

“I’ve just been chatting with your friend,” Coach Mackenzie says, when he stops next to me. His eyes travel between the two of us, consideringly. “Sounds as though the pair of you have been enjoying yourselves.”

“Yeah. I know all sorts of shit about animals now, so if you ever have a need…” Carter trails off, tapping his temple and winking. The effect is slightly threatening, since he’s back to his usual sour expression—like being winked at by an executioner.

---