Page 50 of Shots on Net

“Mm. But you don’t have to say anything at this stage, right? You can talk to your coach and put feelers out for an agent, but continue going to school and playing for the team like you already are. I don’t see that anything needs to really change at this point, right?”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“Can I ask you something, though?” He asks, carefully. I nod. “Why are you so convinced that they’ll cut you off? I’m sure they’ll be disappointed, and maybe a little angry…but to take away your tuition? That seems a little extreme.”

I laugh under my breath. I wish I could adequately explain my family in a way that would help him understand. My family isn’t a safe space for me. It’s guilt and the soul crushing weight of unattainable expectations. It’s never fitting in, and feeling uncomfortable in a world you’re expected to live in. It’s the exact opposite of the love and acceptance he gets from his grandmother.

“Listen, I’m an only child, and my parents have always hated the hockey thing. They never wanted me to play in the first place; it’s always been a distraction from school, for them. It would never factor into their thinking that I love it. To them, school is for getting my degree, not wasting time playing a game.”

Zeke sits up straighter and looks affronted. “But you’re so good! And it’s not just a game, you’re still learning things even if it isn’t the things they teach in class. You’re learning dedication and perseverance; you’re learning how to work with others as a group and not as an individual. You’re…why are you laughing?” He kicks me lightly with a socked foot.

“Sorry. Please continue to expand on all the things hockey is teaching me. Like teamwork.”

“Stop it,” he points at me with his free hand. “I’m just making the point that playing a sport in college isn’t a waste of time in any sense, even if you’re not planning on going pro. But, Carter, I think you do want to try and go pro, and you shouldn’t let your family dictate whether you do that or not. Otherwise, what? You’re going to spend your life working in a job you hate?”

“Isn’t that what most people do?”

“Sure, but nobody chooses that. Nobody looks at their best and worst option and chooses the latter. If you’re lucky enough to have the choice, you should choose the one that will make you happy.”

“You’re right,” I say, quietly, toying with the tips of his fingers. When I swipe my thumb across his palm, his breathing changes; I do it again, because this is the only skin I’ve been given access to and I want to memorize each millimeter.

“Yes, I am right,” he says, nodding resolutely. “So, you should schedule a meeting with Coach Mackenzie as soon as you can. That way you don’t miss out on anyone looking for a foxy goalie this year.”

Closing my eyes I groan dramatically, and Zeke giggles. “Foxy? Seriously?”

“You are,” he says. “Very foxy. The foxiest.”

“I mean…there were so many other words to choose. How about sexy? Debonaire? Handsome?”

“Hunky!” Zeke shouts. “Delicious. A tall drink of thrice-distilled, spring fed water.”

Firming my grip on his hand, I stand and pull him to his feet. He’s still laughing when I tug him into a hug. I have to let go of his hand in order to hold him properly, but it’s worth it when he wraps his arms around my middle. His cheek is against my chest and his hands are on my back, warm even through the fabric of my shirt. I slide my own hand up his spine until I can feel the strands of his hair teasing my fingertips. The back of his neck is so fucking soft; I want to put my lips there.

“I like this,” he mumbles from where his face is pressed against my chest, and tightens his arms. Me too. Me fucking too.

We stand there a long time—or not long enough, if you ask me—before Zeke’s arms loosen and he steps back. He doesn’t go far; leaving his hands on my waist he stands less than an arm’s distance away and looks up at me.

“You know what?” He asks.

“What?”

“You’re so damn tall that if I want to kiss you, I’ll have to get a stepstool. Or yank your face down, I guess,” his voice sounds like a smile when he says this, and he looks at where his hands are touching my hips. Almost as though wanting to see what reaction it might induce, he sneaks his fingers under the hem of my shirt and swipes his thumbs across my skin. “Or you could come down to me.”

You have to breathe to talk, and it takes a moment to remind myself how that’s done. Zeke’s no longer watching his hands, but looking at my face. It’s very hard to concentrate with his fingers moving like that.

“Is that what you want me to do?” I ask, and hope that the answer is yes. If not, I’m going to be taking a very long, very cold shower just as soon as I leave this room.

“Yes, please,” he says, politely, and then rises up on his tiptoes because apparently, he hasn’t killed off enough of my brain cells yet.

I catch his face in my hands and lean down. Remember to breathe, I remind myself, and then I kiss him. All jokes about ravishing aside, that is not my goal here. I want to go slowly—not ask for or take too much too fast. But if he keeps making noises like that, my control isn’t going to last long. Zeke moans, low in the back of his throat, and slides his hands up my sides until every inch of his hands are touching me. My skin zings at the contact, and if I wasn’t enjoying the way holding his face feels, I might do a little exploring of my own.

Angling my head to the right, he makes a soft sound of surprise. He’s moved his hands up so far, they’re now cupping my ribs; my shirt is pulled up along his forearms, the cool air on my stomach providing a direct contrast to the heat of the moment. It’s laughable that Zeke was worried he’d be bad at sex; all he’s going to have to do is kiss me like this and make soft, adorable noises as he does it—I’ve never been so worked up in my life.

He drops back down so he’s no longer standing on tiptoes, which breaks our mouths apart. I’m still touching his face, but loosely enough that I’m not holding him back from pulling away. I notice for the first time how hard he’s breathing; there is a flush across his cheeks and his eyes are bright. It’s probably the visual I’m going to be jacking off to in the shower tonight, while I think about the way he tastes.

He drops his forehead down against my chest and inhales, long and deep. Moving one hand up into his hair, I tangle my fingers loosely in the dirty blonde strands. I hope he’s just catching his breath and not thinking up ways to let me down easy. If he breaks up with me after that kiss, I’m not sure I could survive it.

“Zeke,” I murmur, when I can no longer stand the silence. Funny, really, since he’s the one who usually can’t shut up.

---