Page 30 of Shots on Net

I feel ridiculously pleased to find another point of similarity between me and Troy Nichols. I’ve begun thinking of Coach Mackenzie’s connection with Tony and the rest of the guys as my own; every time I hear their names in the media, or watch their games, it feels like I’m hearing about my friends. A therapist would probably have a few things to say about me creating imaginary friendships, I suppose, but it’s nobody else’s business what happens in my own head.

Clearing my throat, I lean back and Zeke puts his phone back down. “Yeah, like me,” I agree.

“They look so happy,” he notes, glancing once more at the photograph before closing down the web browser. I’d just thought the same thing.

“Yeah.” I feel sad, all of a sudden. Troy and Sam’s happiness holding a mirror up to my own and making me realize that the only time I really, truly feel joyful is when I’m on the ice or with Zeke. “Thanks again, for coming to the game tonight. I uh…it was… Jesus, never mind. Thanks—that’s all I’m trying to say.”

What I’m trying to say is that I can count on one hand the number of people who have come to a game with the express purpose of watching me play. I’m trying to tell him that I thought about him the entire game, and felt like a better player because of it. It’s different, winning for someone other than yourself. I want him to know a lot of things that I’m incapable of putting into words.

“Of course, Carter. I’ll be at all of the home games,” he plucks at the front of my hoodie, “as long as I can keep this for a little bit longer.”

“You can keep it,” I tell him, practically salivating over the thought. I really need to tone it down with the crushing-on-Zeke thing.

“Yeah?” He brightens, eyes glinting silver in the artificial light of the restaurant.

“It’s all yours,” I respond. He grins, shaking out the sleeves so that his hands are free to pick up his burrito and take a bite. It’s the smallest piece of clothing I own, yet still far too big on him. I like that fact far, far more than I should.

We finish eating and make our way out of the restaurant. True to the promise we made to Coach Mackenzie, we head straight home. It’s dark, and by the time we get there I’ve lost any remaining adrenaline from the game. I’m exhausted, and ready for bed. Unfortunately, I have yet another stupid ass book to read for class, and if I don’t start it tonight, I’ll never finish it in time. I want to ask Zeke if he’d mind reading a little bit to me, but am afraid he’ll say no.

When we get upstairs, I peel off toward my room and immediately start changing into something comfortable. I hear a throat clear, from the doorway, and glance over to see Zeke standing there. Unbuttoning my shirt, I maintain firm eye contact with him; I do not check him out. Not that there is much of him to check out, with his body swimming in my hoodie.

“What are we reading, tonight?” He asks, with a nod to the book face down on my bed.

Groaning, I pull my undershirt over my head and toss it to the floor. Grabbing a hoodie and sweatpants from the closet, I step into the bathroom to change since Zeke is in my room. I shout so he can still hear me from the bathroom. “I don’t know, 1748 or some shit.”

“Uhm,” he pauses, and I can tell he’s moved farther into the room by the way his voice is louder, “do you mean 1984? By George Orwell?”

“That sounds right.” I pull my pants up and shove open the bathroom door. Zeke is seated on the edge of my bed with the book in his lap. When I enter the room, he smiles and moves back to the head of the bed, stopping when his back hits the wall.

“Well, come on then,” he coaxes, patting the bed.

I heave a sigh of relief, and climb up next to him. I lay down close enough that my arm touches his leg, and hold my breath, hoping he won’t move away. When he starts reading without moving, I bite my lip to keep from smiling in triumph. I have to keep my eyes open as he goes, or this time I really am liable to fall asleep. I’m just so fucking tired.

He reads for a solid fifteen minutes before he takes a break. Keeping his place with his thumb, he slides down until he’s lying next to me. He’s no longer pressed against me, but this change of position is a definite improvement. I have to take several deep breaths through my nose, trying to keep from getting a hard-on. My body can only focus on the simple fact of Zeke lying next to me in bed, no matter how platonic the gesture really is.

He holds the book above his face and continues reading. I want to turn on my side and face him, watch his mouth as he speaks. I want to inch close enough to smell him, maybe drape an arm over his middle so I can feel the rise and fall of his stomach. Instead, I remain flat on my back, miserable with my thoughts of all the things I know I can’t have.

???

I wake up and blink into the bright light. Lying on my side, I spend a few fraught moments trying to figure out where I am before I recognize I’m in my bedroom. Realizing I must have fallen asleep while Zeke was reading, I roll over to the other side and just barely stop myself from bumping into the sleeping form next to me.

Zeke is flat on his back, head turned toward me and mouth parted slightly. 1984 is resting on his stomach, as though he put it down with the intent to rest his eyes for a second. His dirty blonde hair is fanned out across the pillow, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as he sleeps. Propped up on my elbow, I gaze down at him. White hot desire floods my system; the wanting is so strong, I can hardly breathe around it. Deciding that the best course of action will be to sneak out and let him sleep in my bed, I inch toward the edge of the mattress.

I’m almost off the bed when Zeke’s eyes open and he makes a soft, sleepy sound. It takes him a second to focus on my face, and I tense, waiting for the moment when he realizes he fell asleep in my bed. He doesn’t sit up in shock, but rubs a hand across his eyes and rolls onto his side to face me.

“I fell asleep,” he says.

“We both did,” I whisper back, and he smiles. “You can stay here, though. Go back to sleep.”

I climb all the way off of the bed and pad softly over to the door, meaning to hit the lights on my way out of the room. Zeke’s voice calls me back. I turn to find him pushed up on his elbow, watching me. He’s replaced the book onto the nightstand.

“Where are you going?” He asks, blearily.

“I’ll go downstairs and sleep on the couch.” He blinks at me, owlishly. “You can stay here, go back to sleep.”

Before I can move, he brings me back again. “Carter. This is your room; I’m not kicking you out of your own room. You come back to bed and I’ll go to my room, don’t be ridiculous.”

He grumbles something about sleeping on the couch, and sits up fully. Watching from my vantage point at the door, my stomach sinks. I don’t want him to go back to his own room. He slides out of the bed, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. Leaning forward, he pulls back the covers for me; my throat tightens painfully, and I’m grateful that I can’t speak around it or I might beg him to stay. He passes me on the way out the door, not looking the least bit embarrassed to have fallen asleep in my bed. Probably because, to him, we are nothing more than friends.

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