Page 65 of Breakneck Hockey

I tug my sweatshirt off and toss it at his head. “Put that on.”

“Aren’t you a fucking gentleman?”

“Just put it on and try not to get whipped cream all over it, eh?”

“I make no promises.”

Why do I want him?Why?All of this should turn me off. But when I see him drowning in my sweatshirt, my dick chubs up. Fucking dammit. I yank him to me, gripping his wrist, and then proceed to suck all the whipped cream and pie crumbs from his fingers.

“Coconut?” I ask.

“Uh-huh. Coconut cream pie. My second favorite pie. Know what my first one is?”

Yeah, because I washed blueberry stains out of everything all damn summer, but I’m not gonna let on that I know. “Mitchell pie.”

He laughs some more. I lace our fingers together again. This time we’re staying this way. He’s warm and I’m cold because I gave him my sweatshirt. It’s his job to heat me up now. His hand’s bruised from hitting my helmet so many times, and he’s got tape around his knuckles.

“How is your name Mitchell? You don’t look like a Mitchell. What’s your middle name? Maybe I’ll call you that instead.”

“Lorenzo.”

“Wow, none of your names suit you. Why those names?”

“Lorenzo for my grandpa on my mom’s side. And …” I take a deep breath. “Mitchell for my dad—it was his middle name.”

“I thought your dad was still … with you?”

“I call Francisco Dad, but he’s technically my stepdad.”

His eyes are on me, processing what I just told him without actually telling him. I don’t know if I can say anymore. Casey’s expression freezes and then his free hand flounders for my left forearm where the tattoo for Dad sits. He squeezes it, putting the two together. Doesn’t say anything. His thumb traces circles where the Roman numerals are inked into my skin as if he’s memorized exactly where they are.

“Losing a parent’s the fucking worst.”

Did he lose a parent too? I don’t even know. I should ask him, but the tone in his voice is telling and I don’t want to bring up a bad memory for him. It might not have been horrific in the way my dad’s death was horrific, but there are varying degrees of horrific. He can tell me when he wants to or not at all. This thing I’m doing is my choice, something I need to do. It might not be the same for him.

I thought I’d get the typical Casey-level of curiosity, but he’s quiet about it, which is the only reason my heart’s able to slow the fuck down.

He releases my wrist, and I let my now free hand crawl up the sweatshirt I made him wear, so I can rest my palm against his warm skin. There’s no lurching nausea, not even buzzing nerves.

My stomach growls.

“Okay, time to feed you, big guy. This is my specialty. I ordered us six different kinds of poutine.”

“What the … Alderchuck. I thought you said you got real food?”

“Compared to pie, it is.”

He drags me from the bed, sits me in a chair at the table, and straddles my lap with a takeout box of poutine in his clutches. “This one is a marriage between the two best food groups on the planet—poutine and mac ‘n’ cheese. Here, you go first.”

“Those are not food groups, Alderchuck.”

He ignores me in favor of attempting to stuff my mouth full of gooey cheese and gravy, but it drops—splat—making a greasy gravy mark on my nice sweatshirt.

“Oops,” he says.

“You’re gonna get your ass beat.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He forks the cheese and stuffs it into his own mouth. “Fuck this is good. Forget it, Sutter. This one’s mine now, and I’m not sharing with the likes of you. You don’t deserve it.”

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