Page 11 of Crossing Lines

“Jonah, stop.” A chair groaned across the tile floor as Archer stood.

I halted and hung my head, tapping my bare toes to the floor. Now what?

Archer walked up next to me and grabbed my wrist, pulling me to face him. “I’m sorry. We don’t mean anything bad by this.” He wrinkled his forehead.

“I know.” Blowing out a breath, I slumped my shoulders. “It’s just…” I glanced at Myles, now face-deep in his open laptop. I could talk to Archer. He’d understand. “It’s not going to happen and all this talk sort of fucks with me.”

His eyes widened. “You really do like him.” He hooked an arm over my shoulders and tugged me into his side, then whispered in my ear, “It’s only a few months until the season ends. Then go for it.” He freed me and locked his gaze on mine. “I’m rooting for ya.”

“Thanks, man.” I patted his back. Except, if things went well,I might be moving away to play for an NHL team. The whole situation was fucked, no matter how I looked at it. I padded through the hallway and into my room. Maybe I should give up and go to bed early.

Friday night,we were beating Michigan one to zero in the middle of the second period and I sat on the bench with Coach Gibson standing right behind me. He’d worn a flashier gray suit with maroon pinstripes, which fit in well with our school colors. He was rocking a clean-shaven, slick-backed hair look that had my dick on high alert. The crowd was insane tonight. We were playing to a full house.

“That’s it, Carlson, get the puck back.” Coach Gibson clapped his hands behind me.

Archer picked off the puck from Michigan’s winger and flew down the ice with it, Tyler following on the other side of the rink.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as a shiver fluttered down my spine and lodged in my balls. This was torturous, having him stand right behind me. I could barely keep my head in the game. Coach Gibson’s face flashed through my mind, his hair a mess of curls, his mouth opening in a long moan. I swiped sweat off my cheek. Fucking hell. I had to quit obsessing over the guy’s Instagram, and I had to stop fantasizing about sucking his dick, or what it looked like, or if he was a top or bottom…or vers?

Davis skated off the ice and hopped over the boards in front of me, a smirk on his face under the shield.

A slap hit my shoulder. “I said go, Boehm. Listen up,” Coach Finley shouted behind me.

Jesus Christ. I’d missed his call. I hopped up, hightailed it over the wall, and let my skates hit the ice, then raced toward Michigan’s defensive zone.

Archer slapped the puck to Tyler, who turned and shot the puck at me.

“Fuck.” I set my stick to the ice, but the puck slipped by.

Michigan’s D-man grabbed it. “Too slow.” With a cackle, he worked it down the ice toward Ace.

Ace crouched, fixating on the puck with the intensity of a leopard stalking an antelope.

“Dude, you okay?” Archer skated by me, then picked up speed.

No. No, I’m not okay.I followed Archer down the ice and scrabbled with Michigan’s D-man by the end boards.

Tyler appeared out of nowhere and slipped the puck away from us both. “Gotcha.”

A player in a white jersey flew at me and rammed me to the boards, throwing me off my skates. My back hit the ice, then my helmet and flashes of light lit up behind my eyes. “Fuck!” That was a dirty hit. I’d already lost the goddamned puck. “Asshole!” I scrambled to get up, and the rink spun a moment. I bent forward, slapping my hands on my knee pads, attempting to clear my head.

“You hurt?” Ace called out, straightening.

The referee blew a whistle and sent the Michigan center who’d boarded me into the sin bin.

“I’m fine.” I skated off toward the guys fighting over the puck in Michigan’s D-zone when movement caught my eye.

Coach Finley signaled for me to get off the ice.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” I huffed and lumbered to the board, then skated through the gate and plopped down on the bench.

“You took quite a hit. We’re going to run a concussion assessment.” Coach Finley waved Mindy, our team trainer, over.

“I’m fine. Just got a little dazed.” I scowled. Fuck, now I looked like a complete idiot in front of Coach Gibson. I got what, fifteen seconds on the ice, and now this?

“It was a hard hit, Boehm.” Coach Gibson leaned over and patted my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll show ’em who’s boss nexttime.” He flashed me a sly grin, then glanced at Coach Finley and backed up.

My heart flickered. Why did he do that? I removed my helmet and glanced back at him, his focus now on the game.

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