Page 51 of Melting the Ice

A roar went up, and then silence, and he had a feeling the Evergreens’ offense had just punched the ball in for seven points.

Sure, he’d made that possible. But those seven points weren’thisseven points. Not his touchdown, on his stat line.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Wes exclaimed. He knelt in front of Dean, hand warm and reassuring on his knee. “Fuck, that was unbelievable. I didn’t know you could run like that.”

Dean’s laugh was rusty. He squeezed more liquid down his gravelly throat. “I didn’t know I could either.”

“Shit, seriously. You don’t gotta do it all yourself, you know?”

So everyone kept saying, but in the end, when everything went down, who was left? It was only Dean. Only ever Dean.

Maybe he shouldn’t have dedicated himself so entirely to ateamsport. But then, football was what he was good at.

Brody knew it would be late before Dean came home.

Too late.

But he stayed up anyway, ESPN still playing on the TV, but the sound turned down low, as Sportscenter showed Dean’s unbelievable fumble return over and over again.

He hadn’t reallymeantto turn the Evergreens’ football game on, but his hand had picked up the remote anyway and navigated to the channel before he’d been able to totally talk himself out of it.

He’d watched the whole game while working on a lab report for his microbiology class, but by the time the third quarter rolled around and the Evergreens were up twenty-one points, he’d sort of tuned the game out.

Then the announcers had gotten very,veryexcited—shouting, nearly—and Brody had nearly fallen off the couch when he realized why.

Dean had the ball and he was running, faster than Brody had ever imagined a guy of his size could run, towards the Evergreens’ end zone.

He hadn’t gotten there, but the effort had been undeniable, and Brody had felt a thrill of both pride—heknewthis guy, he watched him stumble out of the bedroom, sleepy-eyed, his hair sticking up on one side, with pillow creases across his face—and something else he was not entirely comfortable identifying.

Especially when Dean pulled his helmet off on the sideline, hair shiny with sweat, and Brody couldn’t help but think of what his neck, just as damp, might taste like if he leaned in and licked.

You aren’t licking him. Now or anytime, Brody reminded himself firmly. Dean had finallymostlyrelaxed, when Brody had returned them to the friend zone they’d just started to explore pre-drunken experiment.

He’d never said they wouldn’t be doing it again, not explicitly, but he didn’t need to. His awkwardness and avoidance right after had made that clear enough, and Brody had decided that there was no point in pushing him into something he clearly wasn’t comfortable with.

Would it be easier if, every once in awhile, he didn’t catch Dean staring at him like he could barely believe he existed? Yes, it sure would.

But Brody had dragged them across that line the first time, and fuck if he was going to do it again.

If Dean wanted it, he was going to have to say so. Maybe even lean in, one of these nights, and press his mouth—

“Goddamnit,” Brody said with a sharp exhale, glancing down at his hardening cock.

The cock that, before the experiment, had seemed perfectly content with whatever crumbs Brody decided to throw it.

No longer.

He was just debating going into his bedroom to take care of it when Brody heard a key in the door lock turn, and he froze.

A second later, Dean filled the doorway and Brody had only a minute to yank a pillow over his crotch and try to look like he hadn’t just been contemplating coming his brains out thinking of the guy in front of him.

Smooth, you idiot. Real smooth.

“Hey,” Dean said, looking surprised to see him.

Or maybe he was surprised to see the pillow.

Dean dumped his bag on the floor by the door but didn’t make a move to immediately leave. Instead he hovered, like what he really wanted was to join Brody on the couch—he just didn’t know if he was invited or not.

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