Page 48 of Melting the Ice

But he kept his mouth shut, because they were trying to be friends, and Dean had always believed there was no room in friendship for jealousy or resentment.

“And that’s the worst of it,” Brody said wryly. “He wasn’t wrong, not even a little. I hate it when Ramsey’s right.”

“He right that much?” They’d come here supposedly to study, and Deandidhave pages to read, but neither of them had made any move to actuallyopentheir books.

“All the fucking time.”

Itwasweird that while Dean hadn’t grown up in foster care—though maybe he’d actually have had abetterchildhood if he had—he’d turned out like this: insanely dedicated to one goaland one goal only. To make sure he never worried about money or security ever again.

But unlike him, Ramsey seemed unconcerned about almost everything.

Hockey seemed to be the one exception. Brody had mentioned he’d been drafted a few years back, in the mid-rounds, and after he graduated, he’d likely move into pro hockey. But other than that, he seemed to not care about much. Relationships or school or his future position in life.

Dean couldn’t really understand it, but then he supposed to even try, he’d have had to be a psychology major.

“He seems like an interesting guy,” Dean said.

Brody just shrugged though. “I guess you could say that. He’s like a duck, you know how they have those slick feathers on their back, and water just slides right off? That’s Ramsey. Everything just slides off him. He’s one of my best friends and sometimes I don’t think I know him at all.”

“Huh.” Dean didn’t know what to say. Even the few friends he had he wouldn’t have said for sure heknew. There was Wes, of course, but he always felt like more the exception than the rule—and even then, Dean didn’t know if he’d say that he and Weskneweach other, the way Brody seemed to take for granted.

“Just saying, he’s like. . .opaque and all that shit.”

“Opaque.Fucking hell. Maybe I shouldn’t be calling you rich boy or pretty boy, but smart boy.” Dean said it without thinking and then regretted it because of the flush blooming across Brody’s cheeks.

“Brody!” a voice called out. “Your order’s ready!”

“I . . .uh . . .I’ll go grab it,” Brody said as he slid out of the booth. Like he couldn’t get away fast enough from the sudden awkwardness between them.

Dean hadn’tmeantto say pretty boy. Not when Brody had made it so clear they were going to be friends—and nothing else.

Shit. He was gonna need to get his head on straight.

With that in mind, he pulled out his own textbook and opened it up to the place he’d marked with a scrap of paper earlier.

When Brody returned with their sandwich, wrapped in its brown paper, and their two smoothies, Dean was attempting to read the first paragraph.

Of course, just because his eyes were reading, didn’t mean his brain was comprehending. No, it was stuck on the way Brody leaned over, depositing his half of the sandwich next to Dean’s textbook.

“Biology?” Brody asked, raising an eyebrow as he took in the page Dean was attempting to read.

“Well, yeah, physical education isn’t all pushups and the rules of tag,” Dean retorted.

“I guess maybe we should start callingyousmart boy,” Brody teased, and suddenly they were both grinning at each other and it felt, at least to Dean, like maybe he’d imagined the heat suddenly blooming between them when he’d called Brodypretty boy.

Yep, it was all in your own head, so get out of it, and be cool with what you’ve got now. It’s better than what you might’ve imagined.

But the problem was that it wasn’tallDean had imagined.

Chapter Eight

It was third quarterin the game against USC, sun beating down on the team in the Coliseum, still hot in southern California even in the fall, when Wes brought the smiling up.

Dean told himself before the game that he’d smile more on the sidelines, even if they were losing—which they were not, not even close—and he was doing his best to remember, when Wes sidled over, already pulled from the game because they were up twenty-one points and said, “Why do you keep grimacing over here?”

“Grimacing?What?” Dean couldn’t help his exclamation.

“Yeah.” Wes pushed back his sweat-damp hair. “Every time I looked over here, you were standing on the edge of the sideline, like you always do, and you were making fucking faces. I thought it was the way I was playing—”

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