Page 36 of The Pucking Fake Marriage

I take a deep breath. And then another. I’m trying to calm my trembling fingers, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

What if tonight ends with sex? What then? Would Igraduate to spending every night in his bed? Let him have his fun until he has to go out of town again and finds someone else?

“Charlie? You in there?”

I pause. He sounds casual enough.

Nothing screams “I’ll fuck your brains out tonight” in his voice.

I walk to the door as slowly as I can manage. Soon enough, I’m twisting the handle and pulling it open. For one wild second, I assume Ken will be fully naked. Or wearing only a towel.

But no. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. The top is half-wet and clings to his skin in a way that makes me squeeze my thighs together.

“Good. You’re here.” He grins at me, and I’m almost disappointed to note that he’s still wearing the casual gaze from the last few days. “Got a notification on my phone about someone walking into my house. Wanted to make sure it was you and not one of the guys.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah, it’s me.” Taking a bold stab at a conversation, I ask, “How was practice?”

Ken runs his fingers through his wet hair, slicked backward so the sharp angles of his face are more prominent. “I swear the coaches are trying to kill us. I just tried to drown my sorrows in an hour-long bath.”

My stomach buckles. Now, we’re firmly in the roommate territory, talking about work and showers.

Why can’t I convince myself this is a good thing?

His eyes suddenly pop with realization. “Damnit, I forgot there’s no bath in your room. That’s the bathroom you’re using, isn’t it? My bad, my ensuite bathroom isn’t big enough to fit a jacuzzi in, so I use the guest one when I need it. You know, after an awful practice.”

“That bad, huh?” If he’s going to keep talking to me in this way, I’ve got to find some better rejoinders.

He clamps his right palm on his left shoulder. “It’s killing me, Charles. And you know the hockey massage therapists do their job like they’re trying to kill us or something.”

“I could give you a massage.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I feel the color drain from my cheeks. Did I reallyjust say that?

I take a deep breath and think back on my words. Am I so fogged by my sexual desire that I am willing to literally massage Ken in order to get close to him?

No,I realize a second later. I didn’t offer a massage to Ken because I am turned on by him.

I did it because he talked about his training in exhaustive detail.Andcalled me Charles. Just like he did when we were kids.

And just like that, I’m offering him a massage. The way I used to.

Guess who’s still living in the past.

I raise my gaze to him, mortified. But if Ken is surprised by my offer, he doesn’t show it. He merely shakes his head. “You’re too tired. I’ll get over it.”

I surprise myself by shaking my head too. “I’m not. I’ll do it. Do you have massage oil?”

Now I’m actually offering to do it wholeheartedly. First, because I know from our childhood just how brutally sore his muscles could be. Second, because I kind of like that we’re easing back into friendship territory.

Maybe seeing Ken in this light is exactly what I need to get over him.

In five minutes, I’m standing behind Ken seated on hiscouch. Some sports show is on the TV. I’m grateful for the noise that cloaks the awkward silence as Ken strips off his T-shirt. I pour some of the coconut oil he gave me onto my palm and rub fervently. A strong feeling of déjà vu overcomes me as I place both palms on either of his shoulders. His skin is warm, muscles rippling underneath as he moves his arms.

“Damn,” he mutters, as I start to knead the muscles gently. “That feels amazing.”

A smile tugs on my lips. Something about visiting the past this way isn’t nearly so bad. I continue to massage him, spreading oil over his skin and working it in. His muscles stiffen as I reach a particular spot on his shoulder.

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