Page 17 of Square to the Puck

He pads off toward the living room, adjusting the lighting so it’s low but not completely dark. I watch him go, nearly salivating over how good he looks in a shapeless hoodie and baggy grey sweatpants. And he really thought I was going to want to date other people? Fucking madness.

I clean up quickly, wiping down the counters and making sure everything looks as spotless as it does every time I come over. I pull open one of the cupboards and find coffee mugs.Nope, not what I’m looking for.

“Hey, Corwin?” I call, raising my voice to be heard in the living room. “You got any microwave popcorn?”

“In the pantry, left side of the refrigerator.” I hear him yell back.

I find the popcorn quicker than it takes me to find a bowl. I fill it with two bags of popcorn, and then nuke some butter to add in as well, figuring if we’re going to break the diet plan, we might as well go all in. Tucking two bottles of Gatorade under my arms, I head into the living room; Corwin looks over the back of the couch when he sees me approach.

“That’s a salad bowl.” He tells me.

“Dude, I can’t believe you even had microwave popcorn. I had you pegged for stovetop, all the way.”

“Too much work just for popcorn.”

I snort, rounding the couch and placing the bowl onto the coffee table. He already has the game pulled up on the TV. “Too much work, says the guy who makes everything harder than it needs to be.”

He rolls his eyes, but I see a partial smile try and peek through. He’s reclined back against the arm rest of the couch, legs stretched in front of him. After I set the Gatorade down on a pair of coasters, I pick up the bowl and hand it to him; he swings his feet off the couch and onto the floor, making room for me next to him.

I settle in, leaving a foot of distance between us, and then reach down, hooking his ankles with my hands and bringing them back up and onto my lap. Leaving his socks on so he doesn’t get cold, I rub a thumb over the ball of his foot and he flinches; I pause, looking over at him. He’s watching me, wide eyed and wary—not ticklish, I realize, just distrustful of the gesture. I start again, working my thumbs into his foot, gently at first, before adding more pressure. It’s a full minute, at least, before he speaks.

“What are you doing?”

“Foot massage.”

I glance over. He blinks at me over the massive bowl of popcorn that’s balanced on his lap. “Why?”

“Because I want to touch you. Because you’re a professional athlete and hockey is hell on the ankles. Because you made me dinner.” I shrug, running my thumb from his ankle up his calve. “How many reasons do you need?”

I pause, reaching over and grabbing some popcorn before continuing. He looks so fucking cute, I don’t think I’m going to be paying too much attention to the game. So far, I’ve kept my ministrations over his clothes, but his sweatpants are pretty thick and it’s hard to get at his muscles through the fabric. Which gives me a convenient excuse to reach up to his knees and tug the pants up his legs until a strip of skin is visible above his socks.

I hold one foot in place with a hand while I use the thumb on the other to massage deep circles into the side of his heel, below the ankle bone. Every time I move my hands I start slow and work up to a deeper pressure, not wanting to hurt him. I glance up at him again, but his eyes are on where my hand is now touching the bare skin of his ankle. He flinches again, very slightly, when I slide that hand up to start kneading his calf, inside the leg of his pants.

“Sorry.” He says, immediately.

I’m barely pressing, thumb rubbing idle circles on his leg. His skin is so warm it feels like he has a fever. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Please don’t.” His eyes are wide, and he’s watching with the focus of someone who is going to be quizzed later.

“The point is for you to relax.” He nods and I feel his legs fall heavier into my lap, proving just how tense he’d been before. Smiling, I go back to what I was doing, enjoying the scrape of his leg hair against my fingers.

I keep at it for a while, working his calf right up to his knee until his sweats are rucked up along my forearm. When I stop and pull my arm back, I slide my hand along the back of his leg, maintaining contact as long as possible. I reach for some popcorn, which he holds out to me. Neither of us are paying any bit of attention to the game. I tug his pant leg back down, setting it to rights before I move over to his other foot and start the whole process over.

He’s far more relaxed on this side, and when I dig my fingers into a particularly large knot in his calf, he actually groans. I take a deep breath—if he makes any more sounds like that, I’m going to be sporting a semi before this is over. When I look at his face, checking to make sure he’s not freaking out, his eyes are closed and his face is relaxed.I did that, I think, smiling; I keep my eyes on his face without stopping the motion of my hands, enjoying the peaceful expression.

I finish this side, regretfully removing my hands from inside his sweats and pulling the cuff back down. He opens his eyes when I rest my hands over the tops of his legs, and sighs, shaking his head at me. “I almost fell asleep.” He tells me.

“I noticed.” I say, smiling.

He leans over toward the table, placing the popcorn down so he can swing his legs off of me and onto the floor. I am just starting to feel disappointed when he scoots over until he’s right next to me, thigh pressed against mine. Without thinking, I lift my arm and drape it loosely over his shoulder, hand on the back of the couch. We’re both facing the TV, the light illuminating the sharp angles of his face. The half of his mouth I can see is pulled up into a smile.

Corwin

I’m pretending to watch the game, but it’s hard to focus on anything other than where Nigel’s body is in contact with mine. I’m cursing whatever idiocy compelled me to put on so much thick clothing earlier. He’s got his arm over the tops of my shoulders, and when I inch a little closer against him, he drops his hand from the back of the couch and rests it over my hip. My heart ratchets up, beating furiously, and a burn of anxiety pools in my stomach.

I don’t know what to do with my hands, which are currently in my lap. His leg is right there, pressed up against mine, black sweats contrasting with my grey. I take a couple fortifying breaths and carefully slide my hand onto his thigh, midway between his knee and his groin, which I have deemed to be a safe space. He jolts, and I snatch my hand back like it was burned—fuck.

“No, sorry. You’re okay, I just wasn’t expecting that.” He tightens the arm he has around me, like he’s giving me a half hug. With his other hand he reaches across himself and wraps his fingers around my wrist, gently pulling my hand back to his leg. Before he lets go, he swipes his thumb over the inside of my wrist in a way that sends heat skittering up my arm.

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