12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

The game was well into the second period when Elliott lost it.

There’d been a defender riding their asses the whole fucking game. He’d annoyed Elliott plenty, but Elliott was quicker and could dart out of his reach, but Malcolm, while being a fast skater, a strong skater, didn’t have the elusiveness of someone with a slighter, shorter build. Elliott knew he’d been taking the brunt of it most of the night.

Ivan had spent the whole game complaining about it, but Mal’s pissed-off face made Ivan look downright happy about the situation.

“Goddamn.” Mal exhaled sharply as they returned to the bench, his body thumping down onto it next to Elliott. “Are the refs fucking blind out there?”

“That bad?” Elliott tried to commiserate.

“He was up my fucking ass, which you know, ’cause you saw it.” Mal thumped his stick against the rubber padding.

“Yeah.”

He had been, and it had annoyed Elliott plenty, but nowhere near how much it was annoying Malcolm now.

“You’re gonna get more attention,” Zach soothed, from behind them. “You’re one of the best scoring lines in the conference. It’s gonna happen.”

“He plays dirty .” And yeah, he had been dealing Elliott some of that shit, little surreptitious punches and elbows and jabs with his stick. But clearly, he’d been giving Mal more. Or maybe Mal, with his rigid sense of honor, would hate it even more.

“Everyone plays dirty,” Ivan said under his breath, and Mal shot him a glare.

“Not like this,” Mal said. He sighed. “Maybe if I can monopolize his attention, one of you can slip a shot in.”

“Believe me, we’re trying,” Elliott said, grinding his teeth together.

He hadn’t been exactly happy about the situation before this, but Mal’s burning righteousness was infecting him. How had that happened?

The next time their line stepped on the ice and Elliott took the puck, that guy was right fucking there , slamming Elliott into the boards, elbow practically in his throat, the refs apparently looking every direction other than where Elliott was currently being attacked.

Frustration boiled over.

Elliott pushed back with all his strength and took off like a shot, around the goal, skating fast and watching out of the corner of his eye as Mal flipped himself around, getting positioned.

He was fucking done being acted on . He was ready to do some acting of his own.

Mal seemed to get that he was riding right on the edge there, because he wove between Brody and Ramsey, getting even closer.

Elliott passed him the puck, and he grabbed it, before the defender could change direction. And then instead of taking the shot himself, he flicked it right over to Ramsey, who shot it in.

“Fuck yes!” Elliott shouted, pumping his fist as the team closed around Ramsey, congratulating him.

“That was fucking unreal,” Ivan said, as they worked their way back towards the bench. “I’m not even gonna ask if you practiced that, ’cause I know you didn’t. But Mal—”

“Mal is right here,” Mal said bluntly as he settled down next to Elliott.

“I just . . .” Ivan trailed off, shaking his head.

He didn’t need to say he’d played with Malcolm for years now, and he’d never seen Mal do that kind of thing. They were all thinking it.

“PFM,” Elliott said, exchanging a glance with Mal.

He’d calmed down some, but his blue eyes were still blazing with emotion.

Elliott couldn’t remember a time when he’d thought this man was frigid.

“Well, break me off some of that,” Ivan muttered.

“It’s yours, next time,” Elliott said, patting their line mate on his helmet.

“Decided to go after them, huh?” Mal said, as the game restarted.

“I was tired of it.”

Mal shot him a look.

“Okay. I was tired of it. And also tired of you bitching about it.”

Mal didn’t say anything else, but Elliott didn’t miss his sharp grin.

And the next time they took the ice, there was an aggression in Mal’s play too. Like he didn’t give a flying fuck anymore, and Elliott couldn’t deny he loved watching him like this.

Like he was in the middle of breaking all those walls that kept the real Mal battened down and suddenly he just said fuck it and kicked the remainder out.

It was an uncharacteristic emotion from him, and Elliott loved it.

After the game, which they’d won 1-0 on that sweet goal of Ramsey’s, Elliott checked his phone before he headed to the shower and wasn’t surprised to see a bunch of messages on the screen from the sister chat.

From Macey: more PFM!!!!!

Then Nina responded: does it count as PFM if Mal didn’t score?

Connie chimed in next. It sure does, more so because Mal knew he couldn’t take the shot himself, before that asshole got to him, so he shot it to Ramsey. A+ choice of a selfless boytoy, bro.

Elliott chuckled under his breath. Typed out his response. He’s not my boytoy.

Connie’s text back was nearly instantaneous. But he SHOULD be.

Nina: I’m with Ell on this one. He’s not a boy. He’s ALL MAN. Congrats, baby bro.

Elliott hadn’t told them anything had happened yet. He hadn’t known how . Or what to even say. He was so afraid to spook Mal, only for him to raise all those walls again, that he was just trying to live in the moment.

Macey responded last. Speaking of all man, when are you going to give Ramsey my number?

Elliott chuckled. Never, that’s when.

I don’t need a commitment. I just want to tackle all that for at least one night.

Ew gross, Nina texted. Save your weird football flavored fantasies for your other group chats.

“What’s so funny?”

Elliott glanced up and Mal was there, hair slicked back, towel around his waist. He’d already finished showering. Elliott felt his heart stutter.

“I was just talking to the sister chat.” Elliott glanced over at where Ramsey was re-enacting the goal with Brody cheering him on. “My sister wants me to give Ramsey her number.”

Mal looked unimpressed. “Does she know what he’s like?”

“Oh, yeah. Doesn’t care. She’s . . .uh . . .well, she’s a bit like me, I guess.” Mal frowned, then, and Elliott quickly regrouped. “Like I was .”

“Oh.”

“What I mean is that she wouldn’t give a shit if it was . . .uh . . .temporary.”

Mal’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand that.”

Mal wouldn’t.

“Well, I understand both points of view. If you get my drift.” Elliott really hoped that he did. Because he did not want to fuck this up, and all because Macey wanted to bed Ramsey.

Mal gave a single nod. “You gonna go get cleaned up?” he asked.

“I was planning on it, just got derailed by the sister chat,” Elliott said.

“Good.” Mal paused. Lowered his voice. “I was thinking we could . . .” Cleared his throat.

Elliott took pity on the guy. Though it was hardly pity when he was going to get at least one—and more like two—spectacular orgasms out of the situation. “We could go back to my place?” he suggested.

“Actually, I was thinking we could go out first.” Mal rubbed the back of his neck, and Elliott realized his skin wasn’t just flushed pink from the heat of the shower. “Maybe to Jimmy’s? Or the arcade, again? You seemed to like going there.”

Elliott was amused. And touched. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes.”

Trust Malcolm to be direct when it mattered.

“Yeah, we can do that,” Elliott said, shooting Mal the brightest smile he could. “You’d want to go back to the arcade?”

“Like I said, you seemed to enjoy that a lot. And it’ll be quiet. Ramsey was talking about some big party.”

On a Friday night, students would have a lot of other things to do. Like visit Ramsey’s Gamma Sigma party. Or study for the upcoming midterms.

“Alright then. Let me go get showered.”

“Don’t take too long,” Mal said seriously, and then he turned away to get dressed.

Elliott picked up his phone.

Actually—I think Nina might be right. Mal just asked me on a date.

Macey sent a whole row of exclamation points.

Connie texted: You get it, baby bro.

And Nina finished with: Be safe. Wear a condom.

Elliott flushed and set his phone in his locker, going off to get showered and then dressed.

God, a date . With Malcolm .

Malcolm had never been on a real date before, but he knew if he liked Elliott more than just in bed—which he did , to his shock and astonishment—he needed to show him.

On Halloween, Elliott had confessed that he’d liked him from the very beginning, and Mal knew it was time for him to do some reciprocating. And not just orgasms stolen away from time studying.

He didn’t know where this was going—or if it could go anywhere, with his impending graduation and Elliott’s upcoming draft—but he’d lectured himself firmly on enjoying the moment. That was not his normal kind of thing, at all, but he could still do it, if it was important.

And Mal knew this was important.

That Elliott was important.

He lingered in the locker room as the rest of the team slowly filed out, looking for Friday night amusements. Zach approached him. “Good game,” he said.

“Thanks,” Mal said.

“You and Elliott are playing a whole other game out there,” Zach said.

For a second, Mal froze. Worried that he knew exactly what Zach was saying, and the game he was referring to had nothing to do with hockey.

“Yeah,” Mal said, because that wasn’t really an admission of anything. Would Coach Blackburn and Zach be upset if they knew what was happening? Probably, but then Coach B was a bit of a different breed than all the other coaches he’d had in his years playing.

“Keep up the good work,” Zach said, patting him on the back. “Coach B and I are impressed. You two keep getting even better.”

“Ah yeah. Well. He’s good. Makes it easy out there.”

Zach laughed. “That’s not what you said only a few months ago.”

It was true. At the beginning of the season, Mal had registered a hopeless complaint that he didn’t want to be on the same line as him. Even though Elliott was by and away the best offensive player on the team.

Mal tried to retreat. “He’s great on the ice. You were right about that.”

Zach shot him a knowing glance. “That all it is?”

“What else could it be?”

Zach shrugged and then changed the subject. “You know, there was some scouts in the crowd tonight.”

That wasn’t entirely unexpected. There were rumors Elliott was going to be taken in the first round of the draft, if he kept playing like this. Malcolm couldn’t deny he deserved it, but if he was being really honest, he tried not to think about how many teams were going to want Elliott.

How they were on very different trajectories.

“Yeah, not surprising,” Mal said.

“No,” Zach said, “but it’s good for you guys—and for this team.”

“Agreed,” Mal said, nodding.

“Did you know Toronto’s been at every single game we’ve played this year?”

Mal’s jaw dropped. “No. No. They didn’t tell me.” The scouts rarely discussed anything with him though. He was always talking to the developmental guys, who he assumed were watching tape of the games. Not getting direct reports from scouts who were here, in freaking person.

“And they’re not here for you. I gotta tell you, there’s a lot of talk about Elliott.”

Mal felt his jaw drop again . Or maybe it just dropped even farther?

“ They’re talking about Elliott? Toronto is talking about Elliott?”

Zach nodded. “Yep. And this is still developing, so don’t mention it to him.” He grinned. “Not that I think you would. But I did want to mention . . .this could be a great opportunity for both of you.”

It was. Of course, Zach had no idea why that was. He didn’t know that they had moved from actively disliking each other to sleeping together to liking each other and maybe even more.

And if Elliott actually ended up in Toronto . . .

Mal tried to tamp down his excitement.

“Yeah, it could be,” he agreed. Trying to stay casual about it.

“I mean, you guys are freaking dynamite on the ice. Imagine not having to learn how to play with all new guys? It could be something.”

“Something, yeah,” Mal said.

“But . . .” Zach patted him on the shoulder. “You gotta tone down the bickering, yeah? Show you’re good teammates.”

“Teammates,” Mal echoed.

Zach had no idea they were way more than teammates, but the reminder hit hard. Would Toronto want to draft Elliott and pair him with Mal again if they knew the truth?

He hadn’t been particularly worried about people finding out about them, once he and Elliott figured out what it was, exactly, that they were doing, but suddenly he understood the need for caution.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Coach B disappear down the hallway towards his office and he’d known Zach saw it too, because his gaze followed him.

“Hey—I gotta go, but great talk,” Zach said, shooting him a smile.

As he walked away, Mal was acutely aware that while he hadn’t exactly lied to his friend and the assistant coach of the team, he hadn’t been honest, either.

As the guy walked away, Mal considered the conundrum.

Coach Blackburn was unpredictable in a way that Mal wasn’t sure he really liked, but appreciated nonetheless. Especially if his unorthodox style meant that he wouldn’t get pissed when he found out two of his best scoring players, the foundation of his starting line, were fucking.

No , Mal corrected, we’re not just fucking. We’re involved.

How would Toronto react?

And on top of that, he didn’t even know what Elliott wanted. Would he even want a boyfriend? If he could even have him that way, would Elliott be okay with it?

Elliott hadn’t had a boyfriend, not since he’d come to Portland U.

Maybe he didn’t even want one.

Maybe for Ell, like meant the easy way they kept falling into bed and enjoying each other’s company.

Don’t be ridiculous. That’s a boyfriend.

Well, he didn’t need to convince himself , Mal supposed. He just needed to convince Elliott.

No big deal, Mal thought sarcastically.

When had anyone—even him— been able to convince Elliott to do something he didn’t want to?

“You’re frowning.”

Mal looked up and Elliott was standing there. He was in jeans and an Evergreens hooded sweatshirt that brought out that sharp green of his eyes, and he’d done something with his hair that made Mal want to touch it. Mal’s heart beat a little faster.

“Everything alright?” Elliott walked closer, but didn’t touch him. Even though Mal thought he could see the desire in his expression to reach out.

“Yeah. Just . . .uh . . .thinking.”

Elliott grinned. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“You’re an ass,” Mal retorted, but he could hear the fondness, the undeniable affection in his own voice. Like he enjoyed that Elliott was an ass, sometimes.

That was something Mal was still getting used to. That Elliott could drive him crazy and also drive him crazy.

“Yeah, but you love it,” Elliott teased, and this time Malcolm couldn’t even deny it.

“Yeah, I kinda do,” Mal admitted.

Mal was rewarded with one of Elliott’s brightest smiles. A smile that he seemed to save just for him—at least in the last month.

“Well, should we go?” Elliott asked, gesturing towards the door.

They left out the front of the athletic complex, and to Mal’s relief, the courtyard around it seemed nearly empty of students and there were no other players to be seen.

As they headed towards the arcade, Mal wondered if he should reach out and take Elliott’s hand. It was right there, swinging at his side. That felt like it might be a date thing to do—but would it also be a boyfriend thing to do? Mal was suddenly horribly sure that he didn’t understand the difference between the two.

It had been Mal’s idea that they should go out and do something—something that had nothing to do with sex or statistics, but now that it was happening, he felt incredibly out of his depth.

He didn’t know how to date.

He had no fucking clue how to convince Elliott to be his boyfriend—or if he even wanted Elliott to be his boyfriend?

Mal glanced over at him. And okay, yes , he did. He wanted Elliott for his own. Even if he couldn’t keep him forever.

But how to go about it?

He wished he’d asked Jane some advice about what he should be doing on this date. But she’d been busy and distant, wrapped up in her feelings—and not wanting to feel them—for the guest choreographer, Ben.

The idea had been to not be so insensitive by shoving his burgeoning relationship into her face, but now he realized just how dumb that was. Especially when he thought about how completely out of his fucking depth he was.

“I hear you thinking very hard over there,” Elliott said in a teasing voice. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He hadn’t asked if Mal still wanted to do this, but Mal heard it anyway, even though it was unsaid.

The last thing he wanted Elliott to think was that he didn’t want this. Because he did, badly .

“I’m not going to be very good at this, so . . .uh . . .temper your expectations. Kind of like the sex,” Mal said under his breath.

Elliott’s smile softened, and it was he who reached for Mal’s hand, squeezing it firmly. “I told you, you don’t have to worry about that. Plus, we’ve been on dates, before, haven’t we?”

“Have we?”

“All those study sessions? Even a few at Sammy’s. Once you bought my dinner and then I bought yours.”

“Those were study sessions ,” Mal emphasized.

“If you want to think so?” Elliott shrugged. “I like to think of them as study dates .”

Mal had not considered them that way. Or when Elliott had brought it up, during one of them, he’d deliberately shoved that thought away. He’d still been living under extreme denial then, perpetrating the delusion that he didn’t really like Elliott at all.

“Of course, that doesn’t mean you can whip out a textbook tonight and deflect,” Elliott joked, nudging him.

“I . . .I wouldn’t. I don’t want to.” Mal took a deep breath. “I want to do this right.”

“We having fun?”

“Well—”

Elliott laughed. “Wrong question. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I can have fun,” Mal insisted, not just for Elliott’s benefit, but maybe for his own, too.

“Alright, you can. Question’s still on the floor, though.”

That was another reason he liked Elliott so much. He wasn’t a pushover. He had a strong spine and he didn’t break, only occasionally bent. And even more, he’d never let that strength control him. Change him.

“Are you there? Then, yeah. I’m having a good time.” It was hard to be so honest. To bare his truths like this, but how could he do anything else when Elliott had already done it on Halloween?

“Good.” Elliott pulled the door to Star Signs open and ushered him inside. “What do you want to do?”

“Food, and then we can uh . . .play some games?”

Mal had never really played games. Anthony McCoy hadn’t thought they were a good use of time, and even the hockey Mal loved had been turned into something more. A college scholarship. Then even more—a stepping stone to an even more prestigious future.

“Sounds good.”

They ordered nachos and hot dogs from the little snack stand, and as Mal helped to carry their food to one of the tables, Elliott joked, “Now I know why you wanted to come here. You couldn’t wait to see me put some sausage in my mouth.”

“Why would I, when I could have the real thing?” Mal knew he was a shitty flirt, but he could be honest.

“Now, that wasn’t too hard, was it?” Elliott sat down and fluttered his eyelashes. Now he was a fantastic flirt. Mal had hated it, at first.

No, you just hated it when it wasn’t directed solely at you.

It was annoying how his subconscious wouldn’t even let him lie to himself.

“Harder than you’d think,” Mal admitted.

“Well, don’t sprain anything.” Elliott dipped a tortilla chip into the bright yellow fake cheese. “Now what’s your game? You like the video games? The car ones? Foosball, like Ramsey and Finn? Pinball, maybe?”

“I . . .uh . . .don’t know,” Mal admitted.

Elliott raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t play a lot of games, growing up. Didn’t have video games or anything like that. Dad thought it was a waste of my time.” It was more than he’d probably have told anyone else. Anyone else, he’d have changed the subject.

Maybe Mal was clueless about dating, but he did know he couldn’t possibly expect Elliott to want to be with him, for real, if he couldn’t say at least some of his truths.

“Are you serious?” Elliott stared at him. “Nothing? No games at all?”

“Well, obviously I played hockey.” Mal finished his hot dog in three bites, and moved on to the next one, squirting mustard from the little packet along its length.

“But nothing else? No Xbox? No PlayStation? No arcades? Not even a little Monopoly?”

“No,” Mal said.

Elliott flopped back in his chair. “Fuck, no wonder you don’t know how to have fun.”

“I know how to have fun.” But did he? Mal suddenly wondered if that was just another of his delusions that Elliott was slowly breaking down.

Elliott shot him a look full of skepticism. “Do you though?”

“Well—maybe not. But I have a feeling you’re going to do your part to correct that,” Mal said.

“Oh, you know it, honey,” Elliott joked. He leaned forward. “Eat up. I’m gonna challenge you to a pinball battle. Anyone can play pinball.”

Mal didn’t know if that was true. But he finished his second hot dog, split the nachos with Elliott, and ten minutes later, he was being led to the bank of machines along one side of the arcade.

“Here, this is a good one,” Elliott said, gesturing towards one with a Star Wars theme. “I don’t know if you’re into—” He stopped abruptly, then flushed.

“I’m into what?”

“Uh, Kylo Ren? Adam Driver? But then you wouldn’t be—not like me.” Elliott chuckled self-consciously.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Mal knew there was something he was supposed to be picking up on, but he couldn’t find it.

Elliott rubbed his neck. Looked everywhere but at Mal, which made Mal pretty sure that somehow, tangentially, this Adam Driver guy, wearing a ridiculous mask on the pinball machine, had something to do with it. “Well, uh. The truth is, he reminds me a bit of you.”

Mal leaned in, looking more intently at the artwork. “I wear a silly looking mask and run around in a black cloak?”

Elliott laughed. “No, no, just . . .your hair is a bit longer and dark. And you’re tall. Like him. It’s very stupid.”

“You’re not the only one with a celebrity crush,” Mal admitted. “Do you want to know how many times I’ve watched Barbie , only for Ryan Gosling?”

“You? Watched Barbie? ”

“It’s not that surprising.” It was Mal’s turn to be self-conscious. But Elliott had made a confession, so he’d felt obligated to reciprocate.

“It’s really, really surprising, but that only makes it seem legit.” Elliott grinned. “Who would’ve thought you’d be a Ken fan?”

“Who isn’t a Ken fan?” Mal retorted.

“Fair point. Sorry, I don’t think there’s a Barbie themed pinball machine here. Sorry. But I think we can find one . . .” Elliott trailed off, glancing around.

“It’s alright. I’ll try this one if you think it’ll be good,” Mal said.

“I’ll be just over here,” Elliott said, shooting him a soft smile.

Mal popped his quarter in and familiarized himself with the controls before he started the game. How hard could this be? He had good instincts and even better aim. He was one of the most accurate passers and players in the Evergreens’ conference, instincts he’d honed over the last four years. Maybe he hadn’t started out as one of the best, but he’d made himself into that through determination and a hell of a lot of hard work.

But it turned out that pinball was very different and harder than he’d imagined.

He flicked the bottom paddle a second too late and his first ball went right down into the bowels of the machine.

“Just your first try, that’s all,” Mal told himself under his breath. He looked over, watched as Elliott seemingly controlled his play effortlessly.

But he does this all the time.

Mal shot the second ball. This one lasted even less time than the first one.

“Damn it,” Mal ground out. Didn’t bother getting himself prepped for the third shot, just hit the button and hoped that maybe instinct would take over, and he’d miraculously be good.

But just like when he’d been fifteen and trying to adjust to his new taller frame, figuring out how to put the puck in the net again, instinct wasn’t as helpful as it should have been.

Back then, he’d ended up doing constant drills, on and off the ice. Re-honing his skills.

Mal reminded himself that if he took his time, he’d figure this out. He was smart. He was good at these kind of things. He’d get there if he approached with a deliberate, cautious attitude.

Three quarters and nine balls later, Mal muttered an oath and pushed away from the machine.

Even masked, Kylo Ren felt like he was laughing at his complete ineptitude.

“What’s wrong?” Elliott asked as he sauntered over.

“This machine sucks,” Mal said. I suck .

“Aw,” Elliott said, patting him on the arm. “Is it that bad?”

“It’s that bad,” Mal said, ignoring the voice in his head that insisted that you didn’t show your insecurities or your total fucking incompetence during a date. During a date, you were supposed to be impressive.

“Here, let me help you,” Elliott cajoled. “Come on. Try it again.”

Mal shot him a dubious look but slid in another quarter, and when he took his spot in front of the machine, Elliott moved right behind him, his touch light on Mal’s hands.

“Pinball’s a little like hockey, but also not,” Elliott murmured.

He was at least a few inches shorter than Mal, but he felt huge behind him. Hot and firm. Mal’s brain scrambled, and he struggled to flick the ball with his paddles, even with Elliott’s touch reminding him to move them.

“Mostly not,” Mal said wryly as he missed the ball and the game made a sorry, better luck next time noise.

Mal kind of hated that noise, at this point.

“You’ve got this,” Elliott said encouragingly. “Here . . .let me.” Now his touch wasn’t quite as gentle, fingers closing over Mal’s fingers and moving them when they needed to be moved.

“There, yeah, that’s better,” Elliott said.

Mal realized that Ell was moving faster than he’d thought he needed to. “You gotta realize,” he added, “that you’ve got another layer in between you and the stick. It’s not as quick as you are.”

“So I’ve got to be quicker,” Mal realized.

Elliott hummed his agreement under his breath. “You got it.”

Mal played two more balls with Elliott pressed up behind him, and it took all his self-control to stay focused on the play in front of him, but focus was something he’d always been good at.

The only one who’d ever frayed it was Elliott. And they’d spent enough time on the ice together that he was mostly good at tuning him out now.

Of course, when he tuned him out usually, Elliott’s body wasn’t plastered against Mal’s own, his breath warm on Mal’s neck, murmuring encouragements and praise in that sexy-soft voice of his.

“There. You got it. Not a high score, but still really respectable,” Elliott said as Mal finally missed a last ditch shot to save his final ball.

“Yeah?” Mal turned around and Elliott was grinning at him. He hadn’t moved away and it was really easy to just lean down and press their lips together.

Elliott swayed closer and for a second, his tongue was licking into Mal’s mouth, making his whole body shudder with repressed desire.

“See?” Elliott said impudently. “That was fun, right?”

“It was something,” Mal said.

“Couple more games and we’ll go back to my place,” Elliott promised.

“I . . .uh . . .it’s . . .how did you know?” Mal finally confessed the truth.

“How did I know? You mean . . .how did you not know I’m going out of my mind? That I’m dying to get you into bed?” Elliott grinned. “That’s a great fucking question.”

Mal didn’t care who was watching. He snagged Elliott’s hip and dragged him up against him. Kissed him again. Deep and long, until his head swam.

“Yeah, it is,” Mal said, voice rough when he finally let Elliott go.

“We could . . .uh . . .get out of here now ?”

Mal just laughed. There was no question he wanted to. Knew that Elliott could feel that desire, pressing into his hip. But he’d wanted to give him a good time. To have fun , Elliott would’ve said, if he was thinking straight.

But he’s not. All because of you.

And that was an intoxicating realization. So intoxicating, that Mal nearly said, fuck it , and dragged Elliott out of the arcade.

He didn’t. “Let’s play a little longer,” he said, instead, pressing one last kiss to Elliott’s mouth. “Show me how it’s done, okay?”

He’d worried for a stupid moment that Elliott might be disappointed, but if anything, his smile brightened even more. Like he knew what Mal was picking—for now, anyway—and he was on the exact same page.

“Well, I’ll be honest. I’m kind of killing it on this one,” Elliott said, gesturing to one of the machines, the one he’d gravitated towards after suggesting the Star Wars machine for Mal.

“Show me?”

Elliott flushed, clearly even more pleased. “Of course.”