14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Elliott had been waiting for this day for weeks now. At first he’d dreaded it, but ever since Mal had started tutoring him, he’d started to find some optimism. He wouldn’t fail this test or get kicked off the team. Not now that he had Mal in his life.

Maybe he’d been a little over cocky when he’d taken that quiz. A little too certain that he knew what he was doing. But on the midterm, he wasn’t going to make that mistake. He’d taken his time. Made sure he wrote the right answers down and made sure he showed every single bit of his work getting to that right answer.

Even Mal had seemed confident.

They’d gone to the fundraiser, and when Mal had asked him how it went, Elliott had said, feeling completely confident that he wasn’t fooling himself, that there was no way he hadn’t passed with flying colors.

Mal had nodded and that was that. They’d skated around the rink a few times, even, not holding hands like Brody and Dean, but Elliott had felt Mal’s warm body next to his own and knew that the rest of the team finding out about them was only a matter of time.

He’d shown up today in Dr. Prosser’s class, almost excited to get their tests back.

The fucking joke was on him, though.

Elliott stared, in complete disbelief, at the bright red D scrawled across the top of the paper.

It didn’t even make sense, but it had to be true, because what else could he believe?

Dread pooled at the base of his stomach, and his throat grew tight.

He’d get kicked off the team. This would guarantee it.

He’d let his team down. He’d let himself down.

And oh God , Mal.

He wouldn’t understand. He’d think Elliott was a fuckboy who hadn’t taken it seriously. Maybe he’d even think he was stupid.

Frankly, maybe he was.

Elliott knew he should stand up and file out of the classroom with the rest of the students, but he couldn’t make his legs work.

If he got up and left, he’d have to tell Mal, who’d texted right before class that he was excited to hear how well he’d scored.

Well, joke was on Mal.

Or on Elliott.

Hard to say which was truer. Or which was worse.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. It was almost definitely Mal, wanting to know how he’d done.

Elliott swallowed his panic and his grief, but somehow that didn’t help.

His whole life, his whole future , was suddenly in shambles.

Off the hockey team, and frankly, probably dumped, because Mal would never understand. Mal would blame him, because who else could he blame?

It was his fucking fault.

At the front of the room, Dr. Prosser was looking anywhere but at him.

He couldn’t even blame her, even though there was part of him that was desperate to.

Finally, he made his legs move and thankfully made it to the door.

Dr. Prosser still wasn’t looking at him. She had to know what this would mean. How this would kill his chances on the hockey team. In the NHL draft.

He wondered if she’d even considered that, or if she’d decided that he’d earned it, just being a stupid athlete who didn’t take her class seriously enough.

But you did.

He sure thought he had.

It was drizzling outside, cold and gray which seemed to fit his mood, as Elliott pushed the main door of the Hood classroom building open.

Then it got worse.

Mal was standing there, hood up in deference to the rain and hands shoved in his pockets, and goddamn , he was smiling.

Like he was so proud of Elliott, even though there was nothing to be proud of.

Elliott’s stomach soured even further.

Nina had told him once that he’d lived a charmed life, easy and carefree. He’d been good at hockey and it had been easy enough to get better. He was good-looking. He was charming without really trying; people generally liked him—of course, not Mal at first, but he’d won him over in the end, hadn’t he?

She’d warned him that at some point, he’d struggle with something.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t believed her. She was smart and perceptive, but Elliott had never imagined that karma would come for him now, or in this particularly fucked up way.

“Hey,” Mal said, approaching him.

Elliott didn’t know what he looked like, but he must’ve somehow hidden the guilt and terror raging through him, because Mal didn’t seem worried.

He should be.

“Hey,” Elliott said.

Mal didn’t lean in and kiss him, but the hand on his arm, squeezing him gently, said it all. He wanted to.

And Elliott kind of wanted to let him, because he wasn’t going to get many more kisses from the guy he was crazy about. Not once he found out the truth.

“So?” Mal asked. “How did you do? A, right? B plus?”

Elliott felt his mask of numb indifference slip. “No,” he said.

“B, then? That should be enough—”

But Elliott couldn’t let him get the rest out. The truth had to be easier than this jovial sweetness that he’d believed for so long wasn’t in Mal’s wheelhouse, but now knew was how he was deep down, underneath. In a place he’d let nobody else see. Just Elliott. “No. I got a D.”

Mal’s jaw dropped. “No. No . You didn’t.” He snatched the paper out of Elliott’s hand. Stared at the scrawled letter for what felt like a hundred minutes, even though it was probably only a single moment.

Elliott turned. He didn’t want to see Mal’s face when he realized how epically he’d fucked this all up.

But Mal’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “There’s no fucking way you got a D,” Mal said, voice hard. “It’s just not possible. You knew the material. You did it right a hundred times.”

“Guess not on attempt hundred and one,” Elliott said, trying for a joke, but feeling it sink hard into the gray drizzle.

“Fuck,” Mal said. “No way. No fucking way.” He reached out and tugged Elliott along, and a minute later, they were ducking under Koffee Klatch’s awning.

Somehow they’d crossed the whole quad, and Elliott had barely realized it was happening.

“No, you didn’t do this, Ell.” Mal’s expression was almost unbearably earnest. “You aced the test. You told me you did.”

“I know,” Elliott said. God, why was Mal making this worse? He needed him to just cut bait now, before Elliott’s heart broke even further.

He didn’t know which was worse, that he wouldn’t have Mal in his bed anymore, or that he’d lose his chance at skating with him.

Mal pulled the door open to the coffee shop and practically dragged him along until they reached an empty table.

“What about your class?” Elliott knew he had a class right now. Mal had probably never even dreamt of ditching, and now he was doing it, without a second thought, for him .

Somehow that felt even worse.

But Mal was dismissive. “Don’t worry about it. Sit. Actually—go get us some coffee, okay? I want to go over this test.”

“I—”

“No,” Mal said inexorably. “Get us some coffee. This doesn’t make sense. It needs to make sense.”

Of course Mal would feel that way.

“It makes sense,” Elliott said, fighting through the lump in his throat. “I didn’t do it. I fucked up. I failed .”

But Mal grabbed his arm and squeezed it, hard. “No, you didn’t. I don’t believe that. I won’t believe that.”

“Don’t make this worse,” Elliott begged.

“I’m going to fix it,” Mal said.

Elliott wanted to tell him it was in shambles, broken beyond repair, and even Malcolm McCoy with all his intense certainty couldn’t right it, but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he found himself walking over to the front counter and actually ordering fucking coffee.

Of course the guy at the register was the guy. The one who’d gotten his number and Elliott had ignored and then subsequently shut down.

Maybe he should make nice, as the guy looked at him with an assessing expression, because this thing with Mal was going to end. Probably sooner rather than later. But the idea of dating anyone—even touching someone—who wasn’t Mal made him feel even more like puking.

He couldn’t do it.

It was Mal or no one.

“Hey,” Elliott said, coming to a stop in front of the register. “Cold brew—”

“Large, with room?” the guy finished. “And what does your boyfriend want?”

The b word sounded more than a little bitter, and Elliott supposed he couldn’t blame him for that. “He’s not my boyfriend,” Elliott said.

Cute Coffee Guy shot him a look full of incredulity. “Someone didn’t tell either of you that, then,” he said. “The way you two look at each other—” He shook his head, looking unexpectedly full of regret.

But Elliott couldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole. Not today.

“Large black coffee, two sugars,” Elliott said instead.

He and Mal had never come to Koffee Klatch together, but somehow he still knew his coffee order. Didn’t even remember when he’d learned it, only that he’d found out one day and his mind had hoarded that knowledge, like it had collected every other little tidbit of Mal he’d discovered.

It’s all you’re gonna have now.

Elliott paid and dutifully picked up their coffee and brought it back to the table.

Damp curly hair fell across Mal’s forehead as he stared at the test and scribbled something down on another piece of paper next to it.

Mal glanced up when Elliott put his coffee cup down.

“This isn’t right,” he said.

“Yes, it is. Black. Two sugars,” Elliott said dully. He wanted to scream. To yell. To tell Mal that he’d ruined him for every other guy—for every other teammate—forever.

But what was the point of saying it now?

“I’m not talking about the coffee,” Mal said. He leaned in as Elliott sat down across from him. “I’m talking about this test. I don’t know what’s going on. Your work’s all right. But the answer’s wrong. Just like your quiz, a few weeks back, but worse. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but this isn’t right, Ell.”

Elliott swallowed his shame and said, not even trying to hide the plea in his voice, “Don’t make it worse, okay? Just . . .just let it go, Mal.”

Mal stared at him with shocked blue eyes. “What? No . This is wrong, Ell. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but somehow Dr. Prosser is trying to fail you.”

“Why would she do that?”

Mal shook his head. “I’ve got no fucking clue, but somehow I think she changed your answers.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Elliott said. “Just face it—I fucked it up.”

“No. Never. I’m never going to believe that.”

Another Elliott—the Elliott of only a few days ago—would have been thrilled at how hard Mal was fighting for him. Would’ve been over the moon at his uncompromising loyalty and his incredible belief in Elliott.

But this Elliott didn’t know how to react to this Mal. Angry and vengeful and full of righteous frustration—and all of it for Elliott.

“I wish you would,” Elliott said morosely.

“Why? God, why are you being this way? You’d fight for me, every day of your life—just for me to fucking pay attention to you, and now, when it really matters, you’re gonna just give up? Roll over and play dead?”

“I . . .” Elliott stared at the tabletop. “I guess so.”

“Fuck that.” Mal reached over and his fingers were firm on his chin as he lifted it. “ Fuck that. You won’t. I won’t let you.”

“It’s not your decision.”

“Did you ever let me wallow in my own shit?” Mal demanded.

No, he had not.

He’d harassed and poked and teased Mal until he smiled or snapped. But either way, he’d gotten out of his own ass, every single goddamn time.

Elliott took a long drink of his coffee. He wasn’t sure what to say.

“No, you fucking didn’t.” Mal answered his question with a resolute expression that told Elliott that he wouldn’t give up. Even if he pushed him away. No matter what he said.

And suddenly it occurred to Elliott that maybe Malcolm felt the same way about him that he felt about Mal.

Because why else would he believe in him this way?

“What do you even want me to do?”

“Just sit there while I look through this test,” Mal said.

Elliott made a face. “What if I don’t?”

“Elliott Archer Jones,” Mal said firmly.

“Fine, fine, fine ,” Elliott retorted.

He pulled out his phone. Found himself navigating to the sister chat without really intending to.

What does it mean when the guy you like wants to fight for you more than you want to fight for yourself? he asked.

Macey was the first to answer. It means you’re crazy about each other, you idiot .

Connie was next. Is this about Mal?

Nina brought in the rear with the question probably all of them were thinking: how did the test go? Is that what this is about?

Come on Nina, Connie texted, with a whole string of concerned emojis behind.

Elliott was pretty sure he was turning into that emoji so he couldn’t really blame her.

Not great. And yes. He doesn’t believe it. Elliott texted back.

Of course he doesn’t. I only met the guy once for like a millisecond, but he doesn’t strike me as the type to let injustice go , Nina responded.

Not you too, Elliott sent.

All of us, Connie said loyally. We got your back, baby bro. And we’re glad someone else does too.

Elliott made a face. Then glanced up from his phone to see Mal staring at him intently.

“What?” he said.

“I was right—but no. Who were you talking to?”

“The sister chat,” Elliott said, groaning. “They approve of you, by the way.”

“Do they?”

Mal didn’t ask why they knew—or if they should know. He just took it matter-of-factly that they did and that it was alright in his book. Of course, his sisters weren’t here. His sisters weren’t Coach Blackburn.

“They like that you’re fighting for me.”

“Did you ask them why you won’t?” Mal questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“No.” Elliott hesitated. “Do you really think that the grade is wrong?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said, all the certainty in the world coalesced into one single word.

Elliott wished he could borrow a little of that.

“But,” Mal continued, “I don’t know how to prove it. We need to get some people on our side. I don’t know if my word is going to count for anything, because we’re—”

“Friends?” Elliott asked, actually finding himself close to smiling.

Mal shot him a look. “We’re not just friends, Ell.”

“No,” Elliott finally had to agree.

“And really, I’m just a student. Your tutor. And your uh . . .” Mal trailed off, apparently now at a loss for words now that he was being forced to actually put a label on it.

“My boyfriend?” Elliott teased gently.

Mal nodded once, with all that ironclad assurance. “Yes. Exactly.”

It was impossible not to smile now, even with all the dread and uncertainty swirling through him. And impossible not to keep smiling when Mal grinned back. Like they were sharing a precious secret, and God , it felt like they were. He knew why it had to be a secret, at least for now, but he hoped it wouldn’t have to stay like this for much longer.

And frankly, considering the way they apparently looked at each other, maybe they couldn’t keep it a secret for much longer.

“I just don’t know how we’re supposed to argue this,” Elliott said, gesturing towards the test.

“I’m going to figure something out. But first, we need to tell Coach Blackburn. Well, you need to tell Coach Blackburn about the test.”

“I’m sure he already knows.” Another sweep of nearly nauseating guilt banished his smile. God, Coach was going to be so fucking disappointed in him.

“No, about the fact that this is bullshit . And I’m sure you’re not going to be the first student who claimed they didn’t fail something a prof says they did. So I’m going with you.”

“Just for that?”

Mal’s expression was soft. Earnest. Supportive. Everything Elliott had never imagined he’d be, especially towards him , two months ago.

“No, not just for that,” he said simply.

Elliott took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“Do you believe me, yet?”

“I want to. I want to believe I didn’t fuck all this up. The team and you and us . But it’s hard. We’re . . .” Elliott took a deep breath. “We’re conditioned to believe that our professors wouldn’t do anything shady. And why would Dr. Prosser even do this to me? ’Cause I’m an athlete? I can’t believe that. Because she didn’t pull this shit with you.”

“No. I don’t know why she would. It seems impossible, I know. But I fucking believe in you, Ell. This work is all right. It can’t lie. And the same thing happened on that quiz you took before. You knew the right answers. You did all the work to prove your answer, and then it was wrong? That didn’t make sense, then, but I chalked it up to you doubting yourself. But this time? You knew that could happen going in and this time you were going to be careful. There’s no way you screwed this up.”

“I . . .” Elliott found himself getting choked up again, and not because of fear or shame or guilt or sadness. But because he hadn’t known he’d needed Mal to believe in him like this, to trust him like this, until he did.

“It’s just logic,” Mal said. But it was clear from the glow in his eyes as he stared at Elliott that it wasn’t only that.

And that made Elliott’s heart unexpectedly full, even as he knew that the convo they were about to have with Coach B was going to really fucking suck.

Elliott perched in the chair opposite Coach B’s desk and tried to keep his breathing steady.

Coach tapped his fingers on the desk.

“I got the report, from your professor, of course,” Coach said. “But I was hoping you’d come see me.”

“That’s what I’m here about,” Elliott said, attempting not to squirm too much.

“What we’re here about,” Mal added.

Coach’s gaze swung towards Malcolm. “I know I asked you to tutor Elliott, but I’m not sure why you’re here now?”

Elliott saw Mal stiffen. “I’m here because it’s not right.”

“I don’t have a lot of choices about this,” Coach said apologetically. “If the grade stands, Elliott cannot continue to play college athletics.”

Mal frowned now. “I know. But it’s not going to stand. When I say it’s not right, I mean it’s not right. Dr. Prosser . . .” He paused, and Elliott knew because he was beginning to know Mal, nearly as well as he knew himself, that he was searching for a way to present the information that Coach wouldn’t just dismiss out of hand as frustration. “Dr. Prosser didn’t grade the test properly.”

Coach tilted his head. “What exactly are you implying?”

Mal turned towards Elliott and gave him an encouraging nod.

And yes, he should be the one speaking up in this meeting. Defending himself. Not just letting Malcolm do it for him.

“I don’t understand what happened,” Elliott said. “I was prepared for the test. Mal and I both made sure of that. I knew how to answer all the questions. Mal’s looked over the work I provided and he says it’s all right. But for some reason my answers are wrong.”

Coach looked astonished. “You’re saying the test results are wrong?”

“I’m saying that somehow . . .” Ugh , Elliott knew exactly how this sounded but they couldn’t beat around the bush with it any longer. “That somehow Dr. Prosser changed my answers. She’d done it once before, we think, on a prior quiz. I had gotten some wrong that I was sure I’d gotten right.”

“Huh.” Coach looked incredulous. “And you believe this, too, Mal?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

That wasn’t the only reason he’d come. Just earlier today he’d told Elliott it was more. But Elliott wasn’t surprised Mal kept his mouth shut about that now. Finding out they were together wasn’t going to improve Coach’s chances of believing they were right about this.

“This is . . .this is a lot,” Coach said, sighing and running his hand through his hair. He stood then and walked over to the door. Poked his head out of it, gesturing to someone out of Elliott’s line of vision.

But Elliott wasn’t surprised at all to see Zach come in, trailing after Coach B.

“Tell him what you just told me,” Coach said, exchanging a look with him as he came to rest against the corner of Coach’s desk.

“Tell me what,” Zach said.

Elliott went over it again, internally wincing at how truly ludicrous it sounded. Why the fuck would Dr. Prosser give enough of a shit about him that she’d be willing to sacrifice her career if this came out?

He supposed maybe she was assuming that it wouldn’t ever. That he’d take the D and accept he was off the team, without fighting back.

That he wouldn’t have a Mal on his side.

“Wow,” Zach said, when he finished.

“It sounds crazy,” Coach B agreed. “But Mal swears that the work is right. That Elliott should have had the right answers. Did you ever have Dr. Prosser?”

“No,” Zach said, shaking his head. “Never.”

“But you did,” Coach said, turning to Mal.

Mal nodded. “It was two years ago, though.”

“But you didn’t observe, back then, any bias against athletes?”

“No,” Mal said reluctantly.

“Mal’s a different creature though,” Zach said with a ghost of a smile.

“He is, but still. I’d have expected some hint of it,” Coach B said. “If it was bias, that is. It could be something else.”

“But what?” Elliott said, more than a little bitterly.

“Coach, under these circumstances isn’t there something you can do about keeping Elliott on the team?” Mal asked.

Coach looked conflicted. Which Elliott supposed was a good thing. Of course this wasn’t going to be easy. They had no proof. Partially why he hadn’t wanted to fight this at all.

“No,” he said slowly. “I can’t flout the rules that say he needs to be removed from official practices and games, once that grade goes final, which is in . . .a few weeks? I think?”

“So he has a few weeks. A few weeks where we can prove Dr. Prosser did this to him,” Mal said staunchly.

“Theoretically, yes. I’ll give you all the time I can. All the help I can,” Coach said, but grimaced apologetically. “Not sure what that is, though.”

“Support,” Mal said firmly. “And not letting Ell beat himself up more than he already is.”

Coach looked surprised. Elliott could see worry flash across Mal’s face, and then he regrouped. “He’s a vital member of this team, sir.”

“That he is,” Coach said, nodding.

“I have some thoughts, on where we can go next,” Mal said.

This was news to Elliott but he didn’t say so. After all, he hadn’t had time to think through what all this could entail. He hadn’t really believed that walking in and telling Coach would fix everything—only that it was the first step.

But trust Mal to already be thinking of the next ones.

“I thought you might,” Coach said, with a glimmer of a smile. He shot Elliott a supportive look. “Anything I can do, just let me know.”

“We will. Thanks for understanding,” Elliott said. Paused. And added, through the lump in his throat. “And I’m sorry, sir, for letting you down. For not passing the class.”

Coach shocked the hell out of him by getting up and intercepting Elliott before he could follow Mal out of the room. “No,” he said firmly, putting his hands on both of Elliott’s shoulders and then pulling him in for a tight, quick hug. “No, it sounds like the school’s failed you .”

Elliott let out a gust of breath as Coach let go. “Thank you,” he said.

Coach patted him on the shoulder, again. “Of course. I mean it. Now go out there and figure out how we’re gonna keep you on this team.”

It hadn’t been that bad, Mal decided as he sat on the bench in front of his locker and got ready for practice.

Ramsey was whining about being out for a game or two, due to the concussion he’d sustained right after the fundraiser. Some asshole driving one of those obnoxious pedicabs had nearly run him over, and he’d only just managed to dodge it—just to end up falling off his bike and hitting his head on the sidewalk.

Mal understood his frustration. He always wanted to be on the ice, too. But he also wanted to yell at how insensitive Ramsey was, because soon, Elliott might not be able to be on the ice at all . And not just for a game or a practice or two, but permanently.

He might lose his chance at that incredibly bright future just because nobody could prove that Elliott hadn’t failed that goddamned test after all.

“Ugh. Fucking protocols,” Ramsey muttered.

“They’re for our own safety,” Malcolm said, agreeing with Brody, who’d just finished telling him the exact same thing.

Mal just hoped he’d stop, before he couldn’t stop himself from snapping. Or before Elliott put two and two together and lashed out.

“Ugh,” Ramsey repeated. “Did you hear that? A fucking parrot in this fucking room.”

“Ramsey,” Brody warned.

Brody couldn’t know about Ell’s situation, but Mal wanted to agree.

“If you want to play, they should just let you play,” Elliott said. Because of course he would think that.

Especially now.

“No way,” Brody said. “If you’re not passing, you need to stay on the bench. Coach wouldn’t put you in, anyway.”

“Believe me, I know that. I practically fucking begged him earlier today.”

Mal tried to tune out Ramsey and Brody bickering. Normally that wasn’t their way. Normally it wasn’t even Brody’s way, but he seemed testy at how insistent Ramsey was that he get back on the ice immediately. If Mal had to guess, Brody was actually worried about the guy.

“Think Brody’s man might have something to say about that,” Elliott chimed in.

Mal glanced over to where Elliott was lounging on the bench, feet stretched out in front of him. He’d said it so casually.

Yeah, they all suspected that Brody was seeing his football playing roommate, Dean, but Brody hadn’t told them yet. Hadn’t even told them that he liked guys.

But Elliott had said it anyway. Thoughtlessly. Without considering the implications or the consequences.

What if he did that with them ? What if he just blurted out that they were together, and the Toronto scouts found out? What if that ruined their chances of playing together? Of being in the same city?

Fear made him snappish in a way that he hadn’t been with Elliott in a long time now.

“Ell, you can’t fucking say that shit,” Mal hissed. Hoping he would shut the fuck up now , before he ruined something before it even began. Now, belatedly, stupidly , he realized he should have told Elliott about the scouts, because he might be more aware of how this could get monumentally fucked—but it was too late for that now.

“Why not?” Elliott shot him a glance full of confusion and with an extra fillip of what the fuck crawled into your ass suddenly? “Aren’t they together? But at the fundraiser—”

Mal tensed and was about five seconds from grabbing his arm and dragging him off. Reminding him that even locker room bullshit could have real life consequences, when Brody said, “Yeah, you’re right. Dean’s my man.”

“I thought so,” Elliott said, shooting Mal a triumphant look that promised his own brand of kind of sexy retribution later.

And maybe under other circumstances, Mal could’ve focused on that. Enjoyed it, for sure. But right now?

With Elliott’s future under fire? With what was looking like his own fucking happiness possibly up in the air?

It glanced right off Mal.

“I didn’t say they weren’t . I only said you couldn’t go around outing people without their permission.” He hoped the look he shot Ell would make it clear that this was a really, really bad time for Elliott to decide he also wanted to be honest.

“Does he look bothered?” Elliott demanded.

“Children,” Brody intervened, sounding over the whole conversation.

“Oh, so you’re finally going to say something to these two, huh? Where you been all year?” Ivan said, rolling his eyes.

“I’ve been here,” Brody muttered, “but I thought they might work it out on their own without interference.”

“We’re not fighting,” Mal said. Which was true. They weren’t. Not anymore. “We’re fine.” They’d be fine, anyway, the moment Mal could find a second to drag Elliott off and tell him to not give away the whole game.

“Uh-huh,” Brody said.

“Maybe you should fuck it out,” Ramsey said.

Fear coalesced into a tight, hard, nauseating ball in Mal’s chest.

He had a feeling Ramsey knew the truth. And Ramsey was Ramsey, so he would not be above letting that truth slip out. Especially right now.

“They should not,” Brody said under his breath.

Well, Brody was wrong, but then, that wouldn’t be the first time that was true, either.

“Agreed,” Zach added.

Mal looked up, deer in the headlights. He hadn’t even realized their assistant coach had just walked in. Players gossiping, that was bad enough. But a coach?

Elliott looked amused and sly, like he was about to blow their minds apart by saying they already had, too late, everyone would just have to deal with it, and Mal panicked.

He straight-up, one hundred and ten percent, lost his goddamn mind and panicked.

“Don’t worry, I have good taste. I wouldn’t ever,” Mal said.

He regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth. He’d fucked it up. What he’d really meant to say was— well , he didn’t even know what he’d meant to say. But not that.

To Mal’s utter shock, though, Elliott didn’t look offended or hurt or even fucking bothered. Here he was, eating his heart out because he’d announced to this whole goddamn team that he wouldn’t touch Elliott because he had good taste, when he fucking loved him.

And Elliott was apparently unbothered by this fact.

Mal didn’t know who he was more frustrated with: himself, for saying it, or Elliott, for not giving a shit.

“I think you’ve got more like non taste, myself,” Elliott said.

If you knew that Mal was a virgin—at least before he’d practically begged Elliott to touch him—that comment made even more sense.

Elliott’s eyes met Mal’s and they were dancing with amusement and mischief. He was actually fucking enjoying this.

Mal wanted to scream.

Cry.

Fall to his knees and beg his forgiveness.

Maybe fall to his knees and do a few other things, too.

He finished dressing for practice, and thank God , Elliott did too, and by another goddamn miracle, by the time they made it to the ice, the opposite end was empty and nobody—hopefully— would notice if Mal lost what was rest of his mind and dragged Elliott over to the boards.

Under what pretext?

Mal didn’t even fucking care anymore about pretext.

“That was fun,” Elliott said, eyes dancing with amusement.

Mal wanted to throttle him. “ I love you ,” he ground out, “and yet I just told our teammates, our friends , that I’d have to have shitty taste to touch you. Why does that not bother you?”

Elliott’s smile was luminous and that was the moment Mal realized what he’d said.

Damn it. He’d meant to be smoother about this. Sweet. Romantic, maybe.

Not with chocolates or roses or a metric ton of candy hearts, but he’d meant to make his confession heartfelt. Maybe when they were lying together in bed, and Mal could feel their hearts beating with the same goddamn rhythm. He’d tell Elliott, I’ve never been so happy in my whole life. You make me the happiest. Nobody’s ever done that for me before—and I don’t want anyone else to do it. Just you. Only you.

But instead, they were on the ice, in their practice gear that still carried a whiff of locker room, and Mal couldn’t even touch him. Make sure Ell knew he was serious.

“It doesn’t bother me because you love me,” Elliott said. “And it didn’t bother me before this, because I could practically see you melting down over the whole thing. You thought after I said something about Brody’s guy, I was going to announce to the whole locker room that we were together.”

Mal wanted to deny it but he didn’t.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I was definitely worried you were going to tell everyone.”

“We said we weren’t going to tell anyone, and that hasn’t changed, though I will admit, I was thinking I did want to proclaim, at some point , that you’re mine and I love you, too. But . . .I get it. Not great timing.”

Mal had hoped that was true. That Elliott wanted to tell people because he loved him. Not because he wanted to brag. That didn’t sound anything like the Elliott he’d discovered underneath his party-hard, fun-loving persona.

“No,” Mal agreed. Hesitated. “You really—”

“I love you, you big dumb lunk,” Elliott said, smiling. He reached up and patted him on the cheek. “After practice, I’ll be very happy to show you just how much.”

“Yeah?”

“Or maybe you could even make it up to me,” Elliott teased. “Prove just how unbelievably exceptional your taste actually is.”

And that, Mal thought, was absolutely something he could do.