Page 82 of Crossing the Top Line

I turn around fully, my brow furrowed in question. When I glance at Oliver, he doesn’t seem surprised by that answer, which isn’t helpful.

“Both?” I ask hesitantly.

“At last count, there are twenty-three of us in my family, but I have two biological siblings,” Eli replies, eyes fixed on my face.

Of all of the answers I’d been expecting, that certainly wasn’t one of them. I open and close my mouth several times, trying to figure out what to say in response, but my mind refuses to cooperate. Eli laughs, a full belly sound, and I flush, tucking my chin slightly.

“It’s not what you think. My parents are poly, so I have three ‘moms’ and four ‘dads,’” he says, air quoting the words.

Huh. Well, that makes more sense. Spencer asks a follow-up question, but I tune it out. I’m not unfamiliar with polyamory, though I’ve never seen successful polycules larger than five people. But there’s always an exception to prove every rule, I suppose. My family isn’t traditional by any means either, with my mom and dad being bond mates forming a pack with my mom’s brother and his mate. But as far as I know, there’s never been any romantic mixing between the two couples. Though I suppose I might not have noticed if they didn’t want to make it obvious.

I turn my attention back to the conversation before I can dwell on that line of thought, finding the boys talking about how they got into hockey as kids.

“…and when Jean broke his leg, he sort of lost his enthusiasm for hockey. So my dad had just one shot at getting a son into the NHL,” Oliver is saying, ending with an ironic chuckle.

“That’s a lot of pressure,” Spencer comments gently.

“Oh, you bet. But I can’t say I regret his pushing. Got me here, didn’t it?” Oli replies, lifting his plastic cup in a small toast.

Spencer goes quiet for a moment before standing and heading back to the kitchen. A moment later, he returns with an unopened bottle of tequila, plunking it down on the table.

“Who wants to play a game?”

Fuck, I hate taking tequila shots without limes. The burn is like paint stripper sliding down my throat, but I’d rather drink than answer how old I was when I lost my virginity.

Turns out, Spencer’s game was sort of like Truth or Dare, except it was Truth or Drink. Or TruthandDrink. We’ve all had three too many shots to keep track of the rules.

“Très bien, Victoria!” Oliver crows, his French somehow still impeccable despite the amount of liquor he’s consumed this afternoon.

“Where did you get this shit? A gas pump?” I splutter at Spencer, trying to choke it down without a chaser.

“Ask your question,” he says simply.

“Umm…” I start, but nothing comes to mind right away.

“Or I’ve got one for Oliver,” Spencer says, turning attention away from me.

“Do your worst,” his victim cries, lifting his chin proudly.

“When did you and Eli start seeing each other?”

All movement stops in the room, the only sound the crashing thunder outside and the house creaking under the wind. I look at Oliver, and all color has drained from his face, and he swallows hard. Spencer’s expression doesn’t give anything away, but he’s not backing down.

“Three years ago,” Eli answers, sitting up straight.

Oliver still hasn’t moved, and now I recognize the fear in his eyes. I want to reach out, to soothe him somehow, but I don’t know what I could say that could help him.

“Does the team—”

“No. No one knows,” Oliver croaks, his voice trembling slightly.

Spencer nods, pouring himself a shot and taking it without complaint.

“Okay. This is your house, so I know this doesn’t count for much. But you’re obviously serious about each other. Don’t feel like you have to sneak around. Just don’t fuck on my bed,” Spencer says with a light chuckle.

Oliver takes a shot himself, but there’s still a taut string of tension running around the room.

“Who says we haven’t already?” Eli asks slyly.

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