Page 57 of Shots on Net

Carter stretches beneath me, his skin sliding against mine deliciously. My face is still resting on his heart, so he can’t see my expression and I can’t see his. It’s this, more than anything, that gives me the courage to speak.

“When I was in the library yesterday, I was doing research on how to have anal sex properly because I’ve never done it before.”

He’s silent for a long moment. His hands are splayed on my back, the fingers of one hand feathered across my shoulder blade. It dawns on me that he was probably wise to request that we continue to take things slow. I got carried away, which is ironic seeing as I was worried about him getting carried away.

“I didn’t realize there was a library book for that,” he says. Laughing, I turn my face and kiss the center of his chest.

“There’s a library book for everything. No, I was on my computer.”

“You know we don’t have to do that, right? There are other things.”

“No, I know,” I say, quickly. “But I want to do it. That’s why I was researching. I didn’t want to let you down. You’re a lot more experienced than I am.”

“Sweetheart,” Carter says, and rubs a hand over my back. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I know it’s stupid, you don’t have to tell me. But I feel better when I have all the information, and relationships are an area where I don’t have a lot of first-hand knowledge.”

“You should have just asked me. Not about the relationship stuff, but I could have helped you with the anal. Lube and fingers, that’s all there is to it,” he says, completely without inflection. I laugh, turning my face into his chest which is rising and falling with his own silent laughs. It takes us a long time to calm down, both of us breathing heavy as we try to tame the hilarity.

“Lube and fingers. I can’t believe you just said that,” I hiccup. “Lube and fingers, that’s all there is to it. You are so ridiculous.”

Chuckling, he leans down and kisses the top of my head. “It’s true. I’ll show you, sometime.”

“Deal.” Lifting my head, I wiggle my way upward until my face is hovering over Carter’s. He groans, adjusting his hips. “Now. How about we make out some more?”

Carter

Coach Mackenzie is in his office, keyboard clacking audibly through the open doorway. He never closes his door, unless he’s in a meeting; he always tells us we can come to him at any time, for anything. Yet here I am, standing in the hallway out of sight, nervous for some incomprehensible reason. Taking a deep breath and thinking about Zeke, I step into the open doorway.

“Hey, Coach,” I say, rapping my knuckles lightly on the frame. He looks up, squinting at me across the room. There is a slight worry line between his eyebrows, like whatever he was looking at is displeasing him.

“Carter. Come in.” He waves me forward, sitting up in his chair and resting his hands on the desk in front of him. This is one of my favorite things about Coach Mackenzie: he gives you his undivided attention no matter how important the work you’re interrupting was.

I take a seat. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Yes,” he says, quickly. I nod, reaching down and pulling my English notebook out of my backpack. Shuffling back through the pages, I find the notes Zeke and I had written down earlier.

“Uhm, I wanted to talk to you about…” I look down at the list we’d made. I’m so nervous I can’t remember a single fucking thing I wanted to say. “I wanted to get your opinion about me being a free agent, and if you think I’m good enough to sign with a team in the NHL, and if you could help me find an agent, and—."

“Carter,” he interrupts me. I look up at him. “Breathe.”

I take a deep inhale without thinking about it. I’m a little lightheaded, and my fingers are clenched so tightly around the notebook they hurt. Coach pushes back his chair, standing and sliding carefully between the two desks. He perches on the edge of his, legs straight and ankles crossed; he holds a hand out.

“May I?”

Wordlessly, I hand him my English notebook. I’m grateful that Zeke is the one who did the writing—my own handwriting is atrocious and barely legible. Coach stares down at the list, reading in silence. I sit there, equally silent, and try not to fidget. Eventually, he rests the notebook down on his thighs and looks at me.

“Zeke helped me with that,” I tell him, for no reason whatsoever.

“Things are going well?”

“Yeah. Great.”

“You’re happy?” He asks, and I gape at him. When was the last time an adult in my life asked me that question?

“Yeah. I’m really happy. This has been the best year I’ve had since starting school here.”

This earns me the smallest of smiles. Coach Mackenzie once told me that he and I were alike. He’d meant it as a warning—a cautionary tale of what not to be. But I took it as the highest of compliments. He’s the best role model I’ve ever had; I want to be like him.

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