Page 75 of Melting the Ice

“It’s not that hard to tell,” Ramsey said bluntly. “You’re all up your own ass lately, more broody than usual.”

Brody wanted to tell Ramsey his assessment was not only totally unfair, but totally fucking wrong, but well . . .it wasn’t really either of those things, was it?

“Do you think everybody knows?” Brody asked in a soft voice as he flipped the shower on. Ramsey took the one next to him and shook his head.

“Everyone else is all up theirownass, trying to impress Coach B. Elliott’s trying to lone wolf it out. Finn’s a mess, one goal away from breaking down. Mal’s trying to keep it all together. Ivan’s just trying to stay out of it.”

“And you?”

Ramsey’s pale blue eyes were intent on Brody. “You know I don’t miss a thing, Faulkner.”

He knew it.

Ramsey patted him on the arm. “You’re gonna be fine.”

“No admonitions that I’m going to eventually pick the right thing, AKA hockey?”

But Ramsey didn’t say anything. Just stared at him.

It was frustratingly both a non-answer and an answer, at the same time.

“Yeah, thanks,” Brody muttered and shoved his head under the spray.

The party was in full swing, people spilling out of the frat house not only onto the Gamma Sigma lawn but all of them, up and down frat row.

There’d been a home football game today,andthe hockey game, and with both Evergreens teams winning, the students of Portland U were ready to celebrate.

“There’s Dean,” Ramsey said, gesturing to where Dean stood in the corner of the living room, in a T-shirt and worn jeans, fitting him like a fucking glove. “You gonna go jump in his arms?”

Brody smacked him in the chest. “Don’t be an ass.”

Ramsey just grinned. “But that’s my natural state.”

“Exactly.”

But it turned out that Dean walked over tohim, ditching the guys he’d been talking to. They looked like football players, too, but thennobodylooked the part as much as Dean Scott did.

Brody’s throat went a little dry as he tilted his head back, taking in Dean’s impressive body.

He knew what that body felt like. Maybe tonight, he’d discover what it tasted like.

“Hey,” Dean said. They didn’t touch or hug—and definitely they didn’t kiss—even though Brody wanted to. Instead he shoved his hands into his jean pockets to help him better resist the urge.

“Hey. Heard you guys won today.”

“By two touchdowns,” Dean said, nodding. “And you guys won, too.”

“Yeah,” Brody said. He wanted to say,though I’m not sure I had anything to do with that.But he didn’t. This was a party. He didn’t need to be a depressed sad sack, angsting, like Ramsey said, about all these things he couldn’t change.

“Come on, let’s get a beer,” Dean said, and even though he didn’t reach out and touch Brody, Brody swore he could feel his hand ghosting across the small of his back as they walked towards the back of the house.

Even though neither of them was publicly out—Brody didn’t even know what he’d label himself, honestly, only that helikedDean—he wanted him to do it anyway, damn the consequences.

He didn’t know what that said about him, except that he was down bad to the man behind him.

Ramsey had already found his way behind the bar and was eyeing the two of them with interest. “You guys want shots?” he asked. “Or something else?”

“I’m just gonna grab us some beers,” Dean said, reaching into the cooler and pulling two out with only one of his big hands. He popped the tops off and handed one to Brody.

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