Page 26 of Phantom Faceoff
“Mal? How long has it been since you’ve been with someone?”
I lean back on my hands, counting the specks of dirt on the ceiling. “Like sex or …?”
I can feel his stare, the silent reply.
“There hasn’t been anyone since Mack.”
Julian abandons the computer to wrap his arms around me.
“Oh and I’m the sap?”
But it feels nice. Being held. Knowing that no matter how fucked up I am at times, I’ll always have Jules.
I don’t know how I ended up getting dragged into a party at Zander and Micky’s student housing unit, but here I am sitting in a circle of very few familiar faces playing Never Have I Ever.
Seriously.
There are beers sloshing about, bags of chips ripped open and haphazardly tossed onto tables and cushions.
Julian sits across from me with Zander’s arm around his shoulder, laughing into the crook of the other man’s neck. Micky is lounging with his phone in his face—a video call to his boyfriend I’m told—while his friend, Tessa, sits with his legs in her lap munching from a bowl of M&Ms.
There’s a few other hockey players in the circle. No one I recognize. Some stoners in heavy make up having a drag. It’s not populated enough for me to call it a party, but the diversity feels like a Netflix production.
“You’re up, Moody.” Tessa holds out her hand, and I open mine to accept the candy she drops in my palm.
I sigh and toss a few in my mouth. “Never have I ever … slept with anyone in this room.”
Julian gives me the face of perfect fucking innocence as he tips back his shot. And so does every single person in the circle. Some grumble and groan. Some laugh.
Micky takes the smallest sip of his beer. “Y’all are nasty.” He lifts his phone and pans it around the room. “I’ve got Parks. You can have each other.”
The room explodes into laughter and chitchat. I take a couple sips of my own beer, but soon lose interest in the bustle.
Being hockey players, they have one of the nicer student housing units: two stories with a large living room and kitchen at the bottom and a slew of bedrooms up top.
I wander into the kitchen to procure a glass of water—more accurately a solo cup filled from the tap—to ease the slight buzzing in my head. The lights are off, and this corner of the house is quiet compared to the living room, so I savor the moment with my head resting on my folded arms propped on the counter.
I’ve done enough parties and mixers over the years. More often than not at old barns or abandoned buildings. Places with more colorful crowds.
That’s not to say I wasn’t pleasantly surprised to find that several of the NH Ravens fall under the queer umbrella, but their interests all still scream “Single-Minded Jock”.
Something brushes my side, and I instinctively bolt up and jam my elbow back into something soft and firm.
“Fuck!”
I twist around to find a person behind me bent over gripping their side. As they straighten, the light from the living room catches on their blond hair creating an image of a golden nest. Hazel eyes beam down at me.
“What the hell, Blanchard?” Zander still rubs at his side, brows pinched and lips tucked into a tight line.
“Anyone ever tell you it’s a bad idea to sneak up on people in the dark?”
“I wasn’t sneaking.” He rolls his eyes hard. “I was reaching around you. There’s snack cakes literally above your head.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know either of those things?”
He drags a hand over his eyes and presses his fingers to his temples. “There is not enough alcohol in my system to deal with you.”
His tone strikes me as odd. I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation where he sounds outright hostile.
