18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Elliott didn’t know how he’d feel, going back to statistics class after he’d taken Dr. Howard’s test. He hadn’t heard anything from either her or Dr. Bricker—or from Dr. Prosser herself, but he was still surprised when he walked into the lecture hall and she wasn’t there.

Instead, it was Dr. Bricker setting up his laptop at the front of the room.

“Dr. Bricker, hey,” Elliott said, approaching him.

He met his eyes and stood up to his full height. “Oh, Elliott, I’m glad I saw you. I was hoping I would.”

“Dr. Prosser’s not here,” he said. He frowned.

“No. No, and she won’t be, again.” Dr. Bricker sighed. “Dr. Howard didn’t tell you, yet?”

“No,” Elliott said uncertainly. He’d told Dr. Howard that he didn’t want her overly punished.

“Well, it’s complicated, and I probably shouldn’t tell you all the details—but frankly, you were the one who lost out here, so I think you deserve to know. Essentially, Dr. Prosser ended up in debt to the wrong kind of people.” He pulled his glasses off, cleaning them. Elliott had a feeling he was trying to pick his words carefully. “She thought she could take the house in an illegal gambling ring. She needed money for a sick relative, and it spiraled out of control—and then to settle the debt, they wanted her to take you out of the equation.”

“Me?” Elliott couldn’t believe this. He was just . . .well, him .

“Elliott, you might not realize this, but you’re the highest scorer on your team. The second highest scorer in the whole conference. Taking you off the board? That would change everything. And for bookies? That’s power.”

“So she didn’t hate me? Because I was an athlete?” Elliott hadn’t realized how much this was bothering him, until he realized that it hadn’t mattered. That she hadn’t targeted just him.

Dr. Bricker’s face softened even more. “Not even close, Elliott. In fact, when Dr. Howard and I spoke to her, she cried. She felt terrible about what she did to you, but she felt like she had no other choice. Some bad people were leaning on her very hard.”

Elliott felt terrible, too. “She didn’t feel like she had a choice, so did you really have to fire her? Even after she told you how much she needed the money?”

“We’re working on it, but she is most definitely not teaching this class for the rest of the semester. I can’t say anything else, but there is a major investigation going on. I don’t know if we’ll need you to give a statement. But possibly yes. And not only for us, either.”

“The cops?”

Dr. Bricker didn’t react, but it was clear that the police were now involved.

“Well, I hope you nail those bastards to the wall,” Elliott said in a hard voice. “And not Dr. Prosser. She got taken advantage of.”

Patting him on the arm supportively, Dr. Bricker nodded. “We’ll see. But I’m just glad to see you in class so I could tell you that it wasn’t you at all.”

“Guess I should’ve been a shittier hockey player,” Elliott said, shrugging.

“I know at least I’m glad that you aren’t, and I’m sure that Malcolm is, too.”

Elliott grinned. “Definitely.”

“Alright, I’ve got to get started, but don’t think I’ll be taking it easy on you, Jones.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”

Elliott barely made it to his seat before pulling out his phone.

You’re not going to believe what I just heard from Dr. Bricker about why Dr. Prosser targeted me , he texted to Mal.

Are you texting in class again?

You gonna spank me, finally?

Mal didn’t answer right away, and Elliott had actually just slipped his phone back in his pocket, when he felt it buzz again.

Trust me, you ask for it, I’m not gonna deny you a single goddamn thing. Lunch? I want to hear what happened with Dr. Prosser.

Lunch? Does that mean I have to wait for my spanking? Elliott sent a pouty face.

You figured it out. Lunch. Now go pay attention.

Dr. Bricker had a different style than Dr. Prosser, and it also helped Elliott to focus—he’d gotten scared enough of what could happen if he didn’t pay attention to just blow any class off again—and to his surprise he found that he almost enjoyed the lecture.

Or maybe it was just the thought of Mal bending him over his knee and spanking him.

Still, he was surprised to hear when Dr. Bricker announced that class was over.

When he exited the building, Mal was standing at the stairs, waiting for him.

“Hey,” Elliott said. Looking forward to the weekend, when he and Mal had agreed they’d tell the rest of the team. After that, they could kiss whenever they wanted. Elliott was really looking forward to that day.

“Hey, so what’s going on?” Mal asked eagerly. Probably, unfortunately not eager to go spank Elliott, and instead eager to find out what had happened to Dr. Prosser.

Disappointing.

“Apparently she got into an illegal gambling ring to raise money! For a sick relative!” Elliott whispered-exclaimed.

“ What ? Are you serious? You’re actually serious.” Mal looked shocked. “I thought she just didn’t like athletes.” He paused. “Okay, just you as an athlete, maybe. But I guess this makes more sense.”

“If only we were in an awesome drama movie. If we were, I’d totally be attacked next by the illegal bookies, trying to get me out of the way using any method they could. And then you’d have to protect me.” Elliott beamed up at Mal.

Mal just rolled his eyes. “I’m a hockey player, not a bodyguard.”

“But you could be both! Defend me with your hockey stick and your bulging muscles,” Elliott teased. “Sounds like a good time. Almost as good of a time as the spanking.”

Mal flushed and then chuckled. “God, you and your one-track mind. Lunch first, then we can go back to my place. Alright?”

“Not like I’m twisting your arm, big manly protector,” Elliott said, batting his eyelashes.

“Never,” Mal said, grinning at him.

“Are you worried at all?” Mal asked as he and Elliott walked down the street towards Darcelle’s. It was mid-morning on a Sunday and Elliott had already complained twice that they could have spent a long, lazy morning in bed.

Frankly, Mal felt the same. But they’d promised to attend this unofficial team event that Ramsey had put together, and they’d also agreed that it was high time they told the rest of the team what was really going on.

“Everyone still thinks that your version of good taste is avoiding me,” Elliott had reminded Mal, still impossibly sounding delighted by the whole thing. “They need to know what really good taste is.”

Mal had rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t disagree.

They’d told Coach. He knew Elliott had told Ramsey and Ivan.

“No, not worried at all.” Elliott wasn’t, of course. Elliott had flawless confidence even if Mal was sometimes convinced it was more of the “fake it til you make it” variety.

Elliott turned to him, squeezing his hand reassuringly, and continued, “It’s going to be okay, you know?”

“You don’t know that.” And there was the one thing that worried Mal: the unknown. Everything he could control, everything Elliott could control—that would be fine. But their futures weren’t necessarily their own.

“Yeah, I do,” Elliott said. “I love you. You love me. Nothing else matters.”

Mal raised an eyebrow.

“Okay,” Elliott conceded with a wry smile, “ almost nothing. I really wanna play hockey. And I want to play with you.”

Mal squeezed his hand back. “I want to play with you, too.”

“Do you though?” Elliott asked, grinning impudently.

Mal rolled his eyes.

Elliott kept going, because this was Elliott. Mal reminded himself that this was the man he loved. The man he wanted to love for the rest of his life.

“I don’t know, I’m half-expecting you to retire at twenty-three, right when I get to the team.”

“I’m not—I won’t. ”

“Just because your dad wants you to. Because he’d decided that’s the only ‘worthwhile’ hockey-related occupation he can come up with,” Elliott finished.

Mal winced. “I’m considering not doing the internship, okay?”

He was more than considering it. He’d reached out to the team, to his contact at the front office, and expressed some misgivings. He’d said he’d fallen back in love with playing, this season. Slipped in a sentence about how great his line mates were. Didn’t mention Elliott by name, because he was afraid if he did, he would start and not stop—and the front office didn’t need a rhapsodizing treatise on how fucking unbelievable Elliott was.

On and off the ice.

“Good,” Elliott said. “I just want you to be happy.”

He didn’t need to say, I just want you to find and make your own happiness , but he didn’t have to.

Mal understood, anyway.

He pulled open the door to Darcelle’s, set down the street from frat row, and took in the surprisingly light interior.

Ramsey had dragged him here a few times, for a show or a drink, over the years, but he’d never been here during the day, with the heavy candy pink velvet drapes open and the weak sunlight streaming in. The stage was still lit with the strobing stage lights in a rainbow of colors, the gold fringed trim on the black T-shaped stage gleaming.

Their table was obvious, not only because half a dozen guys were sitting there, already, but because it was the biggest one in the small space.

Mal’s hand tightened in Elliott’s as they approached the table.

“Hey, guys,” Ivan said, and a few of their other teammates chimed in.

“Hey, what’s this?” Nate Greene asked, gesturing to their intertwined hands. “You slummin’ it, Jones?”

Mal hadn’t known how this would play out. He had faith that ultimately it would be fine, but he hadn’t been exactly sure how they’d get there.

He didn’t expect Elliott to pull himself up to his full height, shoot Mal a look full of love and affection and say, proudly, without a single tremor of anxiety, “Actually, the opposite. Turns out Mal is the greatest guy.” He grinned. “Joke’s on me, guys, because he didn’t just become my tutor or my friend, but I fell head over heels for him.”

Mal was never going to be one for PDA. He’d spent too many years avoiding it. Avoiding anyone’s touch, really. Now in private, he felt like a glutton, getting as much of Elliott as he could.

But today was an exception.

What else was Malcolm supposed to do after his man had said all that but pull Elliott to him? Kiss him with every bit of the love surging through him?

“Wow,” Mal thought he heard someone say. “I guess they really are fucking now.”

Someone else chimed in that apparently Mal wasn’t a robot after all—was it Finn? Mal discovered he didn’t even care.

He sure felt flesh and blood enough with Elliott in his arms.

Like he’d never been warmer.

There was a fierce catcall behind him, and it was what finally got his attention enough to lift his mouth from Elliott’s. Elliott’s green eyes were hot and dreamy, filled with affection.

Filled with lust.

Mal wanted to lose himself in them again.

But he couldn’t. Not here.

Later, he promised himself.

“Look at you two,” that light, smooth voice cooed, and Mal glanced over Elliott’s shoulder to see one of the drag queens, hand on her black tulle tutu, hip popped, and with a delighted expression on her face. Her bright pink bob wig matched her lips. “Aw, and they blush too! I can barely make my man blush like that anymore.”

“That’s ’cause your man’s too used to your saucy ways,” an older queen said, sliding in and patting Mal on the shoulder. “Don’t you mind Sassy over here. She dropped in from bum-fuck Nebraska to do an extra show or two while her man’s on the road, and she always gets extra sassy when she’s missing him.”

“Sassy Solo at your service,” she said, shooting the pair of them another flirtatious smile. “And you two big hunks are?”

Elliott recovered his voice first. “I’m Elliott. This is Mal.”

“Well, you make sure you stick around to see the show. Then you might see how sassy I really get,” she teased, flipping her hair and sauntering off with a graceful sway.

“This is awesome,” Elliott said excitedly, sliding into a seat next to Ivan. Mal sat down next to him. “I haven’t been to a show here in ages.”

“What?” Mal squawked, even though he knew Elliott had a fake ID in his wallet. Knew and pretended it wasn’t there, because if he thought about it too hard, he’d probably slip back into old habits. Into old, cold, unforgiving habits. And he didn’t want to be that man anymore.

Upright, honorable, loyal, yes .

But the rest, no.

Not now that he’d seen a new way, not since Elliott had shown him that he could be the best parts of himself, without the rest.

Elliott grinned. “You know I’ve been here. I know you’ve been here. And don’t say you were twenty-one when you were.”

He put a pair of fingers over Mal’s mouth, and he tried desperately not to think of when Elliott had done that before. Just last night. Elliott had been riding him slow and relentless, dragging out both their orgasms after forbidding Mal to touch his cock. So Mal had grabbed his hand and sucked his fingers down, pretending they were his cock.

Tried and failed .

Mal shifted uncomfortably in the chair, hoping the table would hide the worst of his erection.

“So, you finally decided to tell everyone, huh?” Ramsey said, sliding into the chair at the head of the table. Like he was their benevolent ruler—or their father.

“Can’t keep a secret as good as this one,” Mal said. Maybe it wasn’t the speech Elliott had given, but Elliott leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek like it was actually even better.

Ramsey nodded his approval. “It’s about time.”

“Agreed,” Ivan said.

“You two are gonna tear up the NHL,” Brody said, leaning in.

“That’s the plan.” Elliott still sounded so confident. Mal loved that about him. That his confidence seemed to permeate Mal’s own brain, like he was sharing half his hope.

Ivan raised his glass. “To the two best line mates a guy could hope for. Glad you two finally got your heads out of your asses.”

“I don’t know about that,” Ramsey said slyly and the whole table erupted in laughter. “Now who wants a mimosa?”

Their breakfast demolished, two rounds of mimosas and the first half of the show later, Elliott watched as during the intermission, Finn ducked outside.

He didn’t want to leave the warm camaraderie of the table—or the warm circle of Mal’s arm, wrapped around his shoulder—but he’d been noticing how Finn’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

He could tell Brody or Ramsey—or he could intervene himself.

The answer ended up being a fairly easy one. He gently shrugged off Mal’s arm, gave a slight nod towards the door when Mal gave him a questioning look, and took off to follow Finn.

He was standing right outside the door, prowling back and forth.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Elliott asked, as the door swung shut behind him. “Everything okay?”

Finn’s gaze was bleak, his gray eyes full of a worry that Elliott couldn’t say he’d ever personally experienced. But even if he hadn’t, maybe he could sympathize. After all, he’d been a good shoulder for Mal to lean on, hadn’t he?

“No,” Finn said shortly.

“What happened?” Elliott took a step closer. Put a hand on Finn’s shoulder. He hated how discouraged he looked. Finn was a great goalie and would be even better if he could stop worrying about—and stop comparing himself to—his famous father.

“Dad saw the score from last night and just texted.”

Elliott had seen a few of Morgan Reynolds’ texts over the last few months. They weren’t terrible, honestly. Morgan didn’t expect Finn to be a replica. Always told him to be his own man. To make his own success.

But Morgan didn’t seem to understand how every supportive comment he made still managed to poke and prod at his son in a sensitive spot he apparently didn’t even know existed.

How he could be so completely fucking unaware, Elliott didn’t know, but he’d decided Morgan’s obliviousness made him partially complicit in Finn’s insecurities.

“What did he say?” Elliott asked.

“Oh, just a comment about how lucky I am that I have such a great offense behind me, ready to bail me out every time,” Finn said morosely, staring at his sneakers.

“Is that really what he said?” Elliott would be surprised if that was the case. Morgan wasn’t typically that direct.

Finn pulled his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it, and handed it over.

Sure enough. Finn had repeated the text nearly word for word. Which Elliott knew was bad. Finn didn’t need to be memorizing his father’s passive-aggressive bullshit.

Of course, he hadn’t said “bail” but it didn’t matter if he’d said “support” instead, because the meaning was clear enough and Finn had taken it to heart.

“Finn,” Elliott said as kindly as he could, “you gotta stop letting him matter.”

“Oh? That’s all I should do? Just tell myself he doesn’t matter? That Morgan Reynolds doesn’t matter? And I’ll be alright? God, why didn’t I think of that before?”

Elliott winced. “I know it’s not easy.”

“Damn straight it’s not easy,” Finn retorted. “What if someone had told you to just leave Mal alone? Would you have? Oh wait, I know you wouldn’t have, because we all said it. We all told you to stop harassing him, but you didn’t. You kept at him. Because you wanted him and you weren’t willing to settle for less.”

“I might’ve,” Elliott protested, but he knew his position wasn’t exactly strong if Finn actually wanted to debate this concept.

Because he had persisted and he had gotten everything he’d wanted.

The guy, and very possibly the hopeful future together, too.

“You did what it took to get his attention. It was a little insane, and we all knew it. You even knew it, but you did it anyway. And it fucking worked.” Finn was back to pacing, and he seemed to be saying this more to himself than to Elliott.

Elliott tried to tamp down the worry spiking, but it didn’t really work. “What are you thinking of doing, Finn?”

Finn’s gaze swung his direction, and it was impossible to read. “Nothing,” he said, but Elliott wasn’t sure he believed him.

“Don’t do something stupid or insane because I did, and it worked,” Elliott said.

“You still don’t have a fucking leg to stand on here,” Finn retorted.

“I know,” Elliott said persuasively. “But there was every chance it wouldn’t work. It still might not. We might end up on separate coasts, doing this whole long-distance thing.”

“And you’ll still be in love,” Finn said.

“Well, yeah,” Elliott said. He wasn’t ever going to be not in love with Malcolm.

“Exactly.” Finn’s voice was resolute. “Are you really going to stand here and tell me not to fight like hell for what I want? What I deserve ?”

What Elliott wanted to tell him was that his relationship with Mal wasn’t the same as a future in professional hockey.

But he didn’t, because he could see the pain in Finn’s eyes. So he just nodded. “Yeah. I mean . . . yeah. You want something? Don’t let anything stop you.”

“Or anybody,” Finn said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m glad for you and Mal, I am. But I gotta go, okay? Tell Ramsey I’ll see him tomorrow, at practice.”

“Are you sure—”

But Finn waved off his attempt to stop him. “Seriously. I’ll be fine. Go inside. Enjoy your boyfriend.”

Elliott didn’t. He watched Finn walk away, and he was almost out of view when the door opened behind him.

“Everything alright?” Mal wondered. “You didn’t come back.” Mal didn’t touch him, but he didn’t need to. His gaze was as good as a touch, concern written clearly in his blue eyes.

“Now, yeah,” Elliott said. He sighed. “Finn’s just going through a tough time, but I think he’ll get through it.”

“With you as a friend? It’s guaranteed,” Mal said firmly. “We’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”

“Yeah,” Elliott said, agreeing. “We take care of our own here.”

“You wanna go back in?” Mal said.

What Elliott really wanted to do was curl up in bed with Mal wrapped around him, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said.

It was easy—too easy, maybe—to hide away from the world with the man he loved. Facing reality and its sometimes harsh turns was part of life. It gave and it took away, but either way, he’d always have Malcolm by his side. That was the one thing Elliott knew he could always rely on.

Mal reached down and took his hand, squeezing it firmly, and Elliott knew he was thinking the exact same thing.

They’d have each other. Always.