Page 125 of Cold as Ice

“What’s this?” Elliott asked innocently. “Internship?”

“Just a discussion we had when I was drafted,” Mal said, willing him to not ask any more questions.

“Mal is going to be doing something more with his life,” Anthony said and the frigid certainty in him—the rigidness that Mal had never known whether he should emulate or avoid, entirely—made it clear that he didn’t want to answer any more questions about this.

And maybe, Mal thought, that was a good thing.

The right thing.

Elliott had thoughtMalwas a tough nut to crack, an impenetrable block of ice.

But hisfather?

He was so much colder.

He tried not to stare at Anthony McCoy as he neatly cut his meatloaf in half, then in quarters and then eighths, then carefully spread the tomato topping evenly across each piece before spearing the first one in his mouth.

Elliott had wondered, of course, even with the offhand comments Mal had made, how Mal had turned into the man he had.

Now, there was no question how that had happened.

Anthony McCoy was unemotional and singularly focused, and Elliott could only imagine how he’d pressed and pushed and maneuvered Malcolm into doing what he wanted him to do.

Speaking of that . . .he was clearlystilltrying to get Mal to conform tohisexpectations.

“How’s your sandwich?” Elliott asked, because an uncomfortable silence had fallen over the table after Anthonyhad brought up all the additional obligations that Mal apparently had to conform to.

“Really good.” Even Mal, who’d been more relaxed in his company than he’d been for years, basically, had tensed up.

Elliott could feel it, in every line of Mal’s body pressed against his.

“What are you planning to do with your . . .literature degree?” Anthony paused for the briefest second, which made it abundantly clear—though it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he didn’t approve—that he wasn’t a fan of Elliott’s choices.

Elliott supposed he could play the nice boyfriend. It wasn’t a mantle that fit comfortably on him, but this was Mal’s father, after all. And he loved Mal. Wanted to make him happy.

Or he could also givethisMcCoy a taste of his own medicine.

“Oh, I won’t have a degree,” Elliott said gravely. “I’m sure after I’m drafted I’ll head right to the AHL or maybe if I’m really lucky, start in the NHL right away. I just take the lit classes ’cause I enjoy reading so much.”

Impossibly, Malcolm tensed up even more next to him, but Elliott decided this was the best time he’d had since sitting down in Jimmy’s, so he kept going.

“I’m sure after this, I’ll only need to read to review my multi-million dollar contracts,” Elliott said breezily.

A vein started pulsing in Anthony’s forehead, and he’d gone an unnatural shade of puce.

This was nearly as fun as working up the younger McCoy, except that when he did that, Mal usually tackled him to the bed and ripped all his clothes off.

“You’re not going to graduate?” Anthony asked, enunciating every single word like he was now convinced his son’s boyfriend was a complete idiot.

“Who needs a piece of paper?” Elliott retorted, keeping his tone cheerful—and okay, maybe a little bit dumb.

Next to him, Mal let out a sigh that even he could hear.

Had he figured him out?

Possibly, yes. But that didn’t make this any less enjoyable.

“You don’t think you’d like to better prepare yourself for the future? How do your parents feel about that?”

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