Page 17 of Save the Game

I slam my way into the house I share with four other guys and stomp my way to my basement room. It feels good—like throwing a little fit—and I already feel marginally calmer. Maybe toddlers are on to something. By the time I’ve climbed out of the shower and am toweling off, I’m no longer mad at all. No matter how tightly I try to hold on to grudges, I just can’t; it’s not who I am. Marcos was just trying to be a good friend, I reason, and forgive him for being an ass in the process.

I’m whistling cheerfully by the time a timid knock comes at the front door; I pull it open to find Max on the doorstep, looking fresh and lovely, and smelling like peppermint. He’s wearing a shirt that fits, for once—accentuating his muscular chest and arms, and slim waist. I want to touch him.

“Hello, you,” I greet him, and he smiles. Wars have been fought for less than a smile like Max Kuemper’s.

“Hi, Luke.” He hesitates, steeling himself. I can literally see him square his shoulders before he steps forward and kisses me; it’s so quick, I might have imagined it. I grab him before he can move back.

“Oh, I think we can do better than that,” I tell him, and cup my hand around the back of his neck the same way I’ve seen him do a dozen times.

He doesn’t resist when I bring his mouth back to mine, but I feel a hitch in his breathing when our lips meet. He wavers for only a moment before I feel the tip of his tongue teasing the seam of my mouth; I open for him, gladly, and he makes a small, needful noise as he kisses me deeper. Holy shit, the man can kiss, is my last coherent thought before all of my brain cells are kissed to death.

“Fuckin’ a Kelly, get a room,” one of my roommates calls from where he’s playing Call of Duty in the living room.

I nip gently at Max’s bottom lip before pulling away. I’ve got a hand in his hair, somehow, and take a moment to appreciate how soft it is. I make a show of ruffling it a little, and grin at him.

“There. You’re properly mussed up now, just the way I like you.”

He laughs, color high in his cheeks and more joy in his eyes than I’ve seen yet. “Let’s take my car. Yours looks like something as minor as a pothole would leave us stranded.”

“Hey, now,” I say, climbing into the passenger seat of his car, “don’t knock it. It’s an antique.”

“That’s not a good thing, when you’re talking about cars.”

He drives carefully, never pushing beyond the speed limit and taking a full stop at every stop sign. There are no opportunities for me to hold his hand—his never leave the ten and two position. When we get to the restaurant, he backs into a space.

“We made it,” he tells me, which is so fucking charming I can’t help but lean over and kiss him again. It startles him, the unexpected contact, and he jolts before leaning into it.

Now that his hands are no longer occupied with safe driving, I slide my fingers between his as we walk toward the restaurant. He smiles, shy and a little uncertain, but he also tightens his grip and steps closer to me. I gesture my free hand toward the line of people waiting to go inside.

“Have you ever been here before?” I ask.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. I reach forward for the door, holding it open for him and following close behind. I’m unwilling to let go of his hand just yet.

We bypass everyone waiting in the sitting area. The hostess smiles at me as we approach and I return it, easily. “Table for two, miss. Luke Kelly.”

“Follow me,” she says, and we do, amid many grumbles from the people who didn’t think to make a reservation.

Dinner is fun. We talk about everything and nothing at all. I learn all about hockey, and the ins-and-outs of the draft; I watch his eyes light up when he talks about a road trip he took with Marcos. He talks with his hands when he gets excited, long fingers dancing and arms gesturing. He laughs when I tell jokes, even if they’re stupid. Halfway through dinner he bridges the distance below the table and presses his leg to mine. I ask him to tell me a secret and nearly laugh myself to tears when he admits to sleeping in SpongeBob pajama pants.

“They’re soft,” he says, which sends me over the edge.

The waitress comes over to fill my water glass, probably seeing my uncontrollable laughter as a choking hazard. I wipe my eyes, shaking my head. Max is watching me, grinning.

“They’re really soft,” he says again.

“Stop it,” I tell him.

“Your turn,” he says, and I try to think of something as innocent and adorable as childish pajamas.

“Okay, keeping with the sleep theme here: I can’t sleep alone.”

He cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“Just that. I can’t sleep if I’m alone. I have a body pillow for nights when there’s not, you know, an actual body.”

He doesn’t laugh at me, but continues to maintain eye contact as he thinks through what I said. I’ve never told anybody that before, and I’m unsure of what madness possessed me to do so right now.

“I think I’d be the opposite. I think it might…freak me out to wake up in the middle of the night and have somebody in my bed,” he says, finally.

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