2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

A year later

October

“Are you fucking kidding me? Where the fuck is he?”

Ivan glanced over at Mal, apparently unconcerned by Mal’s anger as he stomped around the locker room. “It’s still early, Mal. He’ll be here.”

“I told him to be here early. I even texted him to remind him.” Mal’s temper was usually firmly under control. Except, of course, when it came to Elliott Jones.

Elliott always seemed to make him lose control. Even when he was determined to keep himself locked down tight.

Last year had been difficult enough. The guy bent every rule, though never breaking them, never enough to get into serious trouble. And then there was the way he sauntered around campus, like he was every inch the hot shit hockey player Elliott believed he was. The worst of it was that everyone else seemed to agree, like he was the heir apparent to Ramsey’s bullshit.

But Ramsey’s bullshit had never bothered Malcolm. Not like Elliott’s did.

But this year had been even worse—at least the first few months of the season had been.

Last year Elliott had been relegated to the second line.

But this year, Coach Blackburn, newly returned to Portland U, decided that Elliott had improved enough that he’d ended up on the first line with Mal.

It was intolerable. Made even worse by his deliberate flouting of even the most minor instruction by Mal.

Elliott wanted to play by feel. He didn’t want to practice. He didn’t want to come early or stay late or work on their play formations and liked to skate free and easy, coming up with shit on the fly.

And the worst was that it worked!

Mal had only tolerated it at first because he’d believed Coach would quickly figure out that it was a terrible idea to let Elliott do whatever the fuck he wanted.

Their goals would go way down, and the line—and the team—would suffer, and Coach would shift things around again, removing Elliott from the first line and reducing the thorn in Mal’s side.

That had not happened.

Elliott had another speed during a game and an instinct for the puck that Mal hated but couldn’t deny could be effective. Their line had scored lots of goals already and seemed to get better every week.

Of course he’d never actually admit that out loud.

“Hey, guys.” A pause and Mal looked up and there he was. No trace of guilt or shame on his face. A hickey on his neck and what looked to be beard burn disappearing under the collar of his T-shirt. “Malcolm.”

His voice was pointed. Insolent.

Like he was rubbing his face in the fact that he’d just had sex.

He doesn’t know. He can’t know. Nobody knows.

But Mal knew, and as much as he tried to pretend it didn’t matter, it was eating him up from the inside out.

“Where have you been?” Mal demanded even though he really didn’t want to know.

Elliott dumped his bag in front of his locker and pulled off his T-shirt.

“Here and there. Doing some stuff,” Elliott said, shooting Mal a glance that, if he’d given it to anyone else, Mal would believe was flirtatious.

But it wasn’t. It was a taunt. Not a flirtation.

There had been no overt flirtations, not after the first time he’d shut Elliott down, which only proved that he’d been right about him.

Mal forced himself to look at Elliott’s face. Not the undeniable flush of beard burn leading all the way down his bare chest.

“Oh, yeah,” Brody said, laughing behind Mal. “Doing some stuff , huh?”

It was possible Elliott’s deliberate taunting was for his benefit, because this was Elliott , but why would he? Mal had just been one of dozens—maybe even hundreds at this point—of guys Elliott had hit on during his time at Portland.

He hardly seemed to be carrying a torch for him, and besides that would be ridiculous.

They’d had one almost-civil conversation and hundreds of non-civil ones.

Doesn’t stop you from looking at him .

No, it did not. But that was just an unfortunate accident of genetics which made Elliott so goddamn attractive Malcolm found it almost impossible to ignore the heat burning inside him every time he saw the guy.

“The stuff was pretty hot stuff, actually,” Elliott murmured.

He was looking at Mal again, like he was trying to get a rise out of him, and Mal looked away, feeling his temper spark inside him again.

“Next time,” he said, slapping his hand against Elliott’s bare chest. Ignoring, as much as he could, the firmness of it and the way his muscles tensed at his touch and the sparks that shot up his arm, “ignore the hot stuff and be on fucking time, okay?”

He stomped off towards the ice, pulling on his glove and wishing away the feel of Elliott’s skin.

Behind him, he heard Elliott say, “Who shit on his cornflakes this time?”

A round of laughter.

“You, always,” Brody said wryly.

Mal pushed himself hard, before practice even began, skating in hard lines back and forth on the ice, and by the time Elliott arrived with the team, his hair was damp and his face streaked with sweat.

“Trying to make the rest of us look bad?” Elliott commented between drills, wiping face down.

“No. Just trying to be a damn good hockey player.” And he was . It bothered him more than he liked to admit that Elliott’s free and easy play, all instinct and no preparation, made him doubt if that was true, sometimes.

His dad had always told him if he was going to play games for a living, he’d better be damn good at it.

“You’d be better if you’d stop worrying about doing it by the book every goddamn time and let your instincts guide you occasionally,” Elliott muttered.

“So we can all be random and do whatever the fuck we feel like? I don’t think so. This is an organized sport, Jones. Play like it.”

Elliott flipped him off and Coach Blackburn sent them a warning look before calling out the next set of drills.

By the time practice ended, Malcolm was exhausted—too exhausted even to respond to Elliott’s blatant stare as he stripped down for his shower.

He was just about finished, enjoying even the weak stream of lukewarm water, when Elliott stepped in front of him.

Mal worked hard to not look down. To never, ever let his gaze drift below Elliott’s chest, even when he was pretty sure Elliott looked his fill of Mal’s body.

“What do you want?” Mal demanded. “To insult me some more? To call me a stodgy old man?”

Elliott shrugged, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a smile. “If the label fits . . .”

Mal knew he could be too serious, though it wasn’t like he had the bandwidth or even the ability to change. He was twenty-two and too set in his ways, though frankly that had happened long before this.

Maybe he’d never had a chance to be that carefree guy, even if he’d wanted to be.

Which he did not .

You’re happy just the way you are.

Even if Elliott is an idiot and doesn’t like you.

“You’d think after all this time you’d at least get creative with your insults,” Malcolm retorted, flipping the water off and grabbing his towel.

“Creative,” Elliott scoffed. “Like you’d ever know what creative is.”

Malcolm’s skin burned as Elliott’s gaze drifted down his chest, like he was tracing the path of every single rivulet of water.

“Did you need something?”

Elliott’s gaze didn’t return to Mal’s face quickly. He took his damn ass time.

Mal knew his body was fit. He’d always considered it a tool. To help him skate better and faster and longer than anyone else.

But in the last few years, he’d begun to wonder what else it could be used for.

And Elliott definitely didn’t factor into that wondering.

Nope. Not even a little. Not even if Elliott had made it clear he’d know all the ways it could be used.

“Coach wants to see you. Wants to see both of us,” Elliott added.

Mal felt a terrible foreboding. Yes, he and Elliott bickered. Loudly. At length. Their center, Ivan, spent a lot of his time refereeing them. But they were five and one this year. Coach Nichols, who’d left at the end of last season for a more prestigious job at an east coast school, had just let them fight it out, though the fighting had been more minimal last year. If only because they hadn’t had a reason to interact as much.

But now with them on the same line, it was a different story entirely.

Was Coach Blackburn going to read them the riot act?

Shame crawled up Mal’s spine.

“Fine,” Mal snapped. The self-reproach echoing through him made his tone even harsher than normal.

“Bet you’re so picture perfect, all tight corners and straight A’s, you never get in trouble,” Elliott sneered back.

And yes, that was true.

Before Elliott, he’d only snapped once before.

And well . . .he was not going to consider why it was that Elliott was now the second to add to the list.

What the two situations had in common.

“You say that like it’s something to be ashamed of,” Mal said as they headed towards the locker room to get dressed. “It’s something to be proud of.”

“Never unbending? Never having a bit of fun? Never flouting the rules, not once? Sounds fucking boring to me.” Elliott’s tone was flippant and Mal found himself glaring at his bare back as he pulled on boxer briefs and then sweatpants.

So what if he was “fucking boring.”

He wasn’t trying to appeal to Elliott Jones.

Not even a little.

Elliott was sweating, a trickle of it working its way down his back and making his T-shirt stick to his skin, even as he tried to pretend that everything was fine.

Mal looked pissed off, though that wasn’t really anything new, but what was new was that he looked worried, probably because he didn’t know why Coach wanted to see them.

But Elliott knew why—or at least he strongly suspected.

No doubt Malcolm believed it was over the near-constant battle of words they exchanged, but he’d heard Coach B tell Zach, the new assistant coach, that he didn’t mind because, “they’re pushing each other harder and faster.”

At the time, that had pissed Elliott off because he sure fucking wasn’t skating better than he ever had because of Malcolm , but right now he was grateful for it because that meant there was one less thing Coach B could be pissed at him about.

Leaving the one, very big thing.

Mal shot him a worried look, even though he was definitely trying not to get caught doing it, as they sat next to each other in chairs opposite Coach B’s desk, waiting for him to walk in.

Zach was leaning against the back wall, arms crossed over his chest, his expression difficult to read.

But Elliott’s subconscious screamed theories at him.

He was pissed off.

He was frustrated.

Even worse, he was disappointed.

Elliott liked Zach a lot. In the future, he’d like to be Zach, though maybe with a few more years in the NHL before he retired. But still, he was worth emulating, and now Elliott had fucked this all up.

Coach B walked in and next to him, Elliott felt Malcolm stiffen in his chair.

No doubt he was preparing himself for the hammer to come down on him for some imagined slight.

Elliott supposed he could have told Mal what he was almost certain the summons was about, but he hadn’t been able to get the words out of his uncooperative throat.

He wasn’t sure he could live through a Malcolm McCoy I told you so .

It had been hard enough to live through a Malcolm McCoy total rejection.

Today’s hookup had had dark, wavy hair just like Mal’s and for a second, when he’d been blowing Elliott on his knees, he’d been able to imagine that it was Mal’s mouth around his cock, Mal’s hands on him, Mal pleading with him to come.

His orgasm had been a notch better than lackluster for the first time in what felt like months.

Fifteen months specifically. Ever since Mal dismissed you like you were just another guy.

“Elliott, you know I didn’t want to have this conversation,” Coach B said, settling into his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. “I hoped we wouldn’t have to.”

Elliott had hoped so, too.

But it turned out that grades weren’t really up to him. Ironically, even when he tried, even when he tried to turn the backslide around, it hadn’t helped.

Maybe statistics just wasn’t his thing.

Okay. It really wasn’t his thing.

“Me too, sir,” Elliott said.

“What is this about?” Malcolm asked.

“Elliott didn’t tell you?” Coach looked surprised, and of course, Mal’s accusatory gaze swung in his direction. Those dark blue eyes were full of demanding questions.

“I’m failing statistics.”

Turned out it was easier to say it than to sit back and listen to Coach B say it.

Malcolm frowned. “Don’t you study? Did you blow off all your classes again? You can’t fucking skip classes, Jones. You know that you can’t do it and pass and when—”

“That’s enough.” Coach B’s voice was mild but he raised a hand and cut Mal off mid-lecture.

Elliott would be relieved, but he had a feeling he was going to get it from Coach regardless. Just delivered in slightly nicer packaging.

“But—”

“Malcolm. I didn’t call you for a lecture,” Coach B said, still mild. “I called you in here because I thought you could actually help Elliott.”

“Help?”

“What?”

They said it at almost the same time. Then their gazes met in the space between them. Mal looked horrified, and Elliott had a feeling his expression was similar.

“Malcolm has excellent grades. It’s in his best interest to keep you on the team. On your line, to be specific.”

“Are you sure that’s true, sir?” Elliott asked skeptically.

Because he didn’t think Malcolm McCoy would spare a second or a second glance if he got kicked off the team. He’d only be relieved that the pebble in his shoe was finally gone.

“I’m not that bad,” Malcolm said dryly.

“You’d throw a parade if I got kicked off this team,” Elliott retorted. Then added, “Oh wait, a parade would be fun so maybe not a parade. A funeral procession, maybe, with a nice sedate dirge accompanying it?”

Mal’s eyes flashed hard. “If you know what dirge is, and you know how to use it in a sentence, correctly, why the fuck are you failing statistics?”

“Because I like to read but I fucking hate math, okay?”

“Zach,” Coach said, his voice a plea. “Separate these two, please.”

Zach chuckled under his breath, then pinned them both with a hard look. “Kids. Behave.”

Mal opened his mouth but Zach was too quick. “I know you’re too old to be behaving like this, McCoy.”

It was true. Malcolm was a twenty-two-year-old senior. A man . A grown ass man you’d like to fuck you into next year, still , Elliott’s uncooperative brain—or his dick—added.

Only Elliott made him into a whining petulant child.

A fact he was almost proud of.

“It’s not my fault, Zach. He’s . . .” Mal huffed out a frustrated breath. “He makes light of everything , even failing a class, which could lose him a spot on this team and his scholarship.” And , Elliott noticed Mal did not add, his shot at being drafted into the NHL in the spring.

He didn’t have to say it, because Elliott already knew it.

“Elliott, we need you to take this seriously.”

“I have been trying,” Elliott argued. It was true. Maybe he hadn’t gotten anywhere, but he had tried. He’d gone to class. Done the reading. The homework. And it had still been fucking incomprehensible. At least that was the conclusion he came to when his tests and quizzes kept coming back to him with D’s and F’s.

“I’ve talked to Dr. Prosser. There’s an end of unit test coming up, in two weeks. If Elliott can get a B plus or better on the test, it’ll improve his grade enough that he should be safe, at least conditionally. He’ll need to continue to do well for the rest of the semester to truly solidify his grade and his position on this team.” Coach B turned to Malcolm. “And you’ll be helping him do that. You got an A in this class. I checked.”

Malcolm let out a gust of breath. “And if I say no?”

Elliott couldn’t say he was all that surprised. Why would Mal ever want to help him ? But Coach looked incensed.

“Mal, see fucking sense.” Zach was the one who answered. “You don’t want to doom this kid’s future—his bright future, which I know you can see, even if you’re trying to pretend it doesn’t exist—just because you’re pissed off.”

Elliott wanted to argue again that he wasn’t a kid. He was nineteen , but he kept his mouth shut, because he could tell, probably better than anyone, when Mal was about to blow.

“I’m not—” Mal huffed out a hard breath. “I’m worried we’re going to kill each other. He doesn’t take anything seriously.”

“He does, actually.” Coach B, shocking Elliott, chimed in to defend him. “Just because he takes things seriously differently than you—”

“Yeah, just because I don’t act like a freaking monk,” Elliott inserted, and Coach’s stare swung his way. Pinning him to the chair. Coach pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Zach, please remind me again why I thought this was a good idea,” he said mildly, but his frustration was clear.

“Because it is a good idea?” Zach was smirking now.

“Not if they kill each other. Not if I kill them first.” Coach shot Elliott another stern look. “Elliott, I am trying to help you out here. Let me do it.”

“Yes, sir,” Elliott said.

Maybe he was failing statistics, but he wasn’t stupid.

“And McCoy, stop fucking pulling his pigtails just because you can.”

Mal looked confused. “What? What does that mean?”

Because he didn’t even understand basic pop culture references. Elliott only didn’t say so out loud, because as galling as it was, he did need help. Mal’s help, specifically.

Coach rolled his eyes. “Nevermind. Just . . .try to get along. I know that’s asking for a lot.”

“A lot,” Zach added emphatically.

“Hey, we get it,” Elliott said.

“And that’s the best I can do. Ask for you to put aside your many, many differences, because you both want this team to win, and this team is better equipped to do that if Elliott’s on it.”

Malcolm sighed, like this was the biggest imposition of his whole life. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll tutor him. But only because you’re right, and this team is better with him on it than off it.”

Coach nodded. “Now get out of here before you give me a worse headache than I already have.”

Zach gave them both a look as they stood that said, if you do give him that headache, I’ll knock your heads together myself.

Mal stopped just outside Coach’s office, in the hallway. Just out of earshot of Coach and Zach. Elliott didn’t miss that. Truthfully, he didn’t miss much, despite Malcolm’s constant accusations that he just floated through life, unconcerned and unobservant.

“This is how this is going to go,” Mal said in an annoyingly officious tone.

But Elliott had behaved in Coach’s office and while he was grateful Mal had agreed, he wasn’t about to let Mal lecture him until he died from boredom.

“Did that hurt?” Elliott interrupted.

Mal frowned. “Did what hurt? That massive asshole shoving me into the boards in the last game? You checked me out earlier, didn’t you? I’d have thought you’d have seen the bruise.”

So he’d caught that. Well, Elliott had never pretended that Malcolm wasn’t delicious, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“Noticed that, did you—”

“Do not ask me if I liked it,” Mal said between clenched teeth.

“Must’ve loved it, then,” Elliott teased.

Mal rolled his eyes.

“I meant, did it hurt admitting that the team’s better off with me on it?”

Mal froze. “No,” he said stiffly, finally. “It’s just the truth. You know how good you are. You don’t need me to say it. What you do need is for me to push you to not just skate by on your natural skill. Skill improves when you improve it. Do you want to be just good? Or do you want to be great ?”

“I want you to stop fucking lecturing me,” Elliott muttered.

But he did want to be great, sure. Didn’t everyone?

What he didn’t know was if Mal’s tactics were the magic key for him being great.

“Well, that’s never going to stop happening now,” Mal said, and was that a smile ?

Of course, only Malcolm would smile at the thought of lecturing Elliott until he was blue in the face.

“I’m sure it won’t.”

“ Now ,” Mal repeated, “this is how this is going to go. I’ll set the times. You won’t just be on time, you will be early .”

“Sounds like a great time,” Elliott retorted sarcastically.

“We want to make it through this unscathed? This is how we’re gonna do it,” Mal said. “This is how we have to do it.”

“Fine.”

“And we’re gonna meet three times a week.” Malcolm paused. “Starting tomorrow. The library. Eight PM. I’ll reserve a private room.”

Elliott wanted to argue, because Thursday night was poker night at the Gamma Sigma house and he had a standing invite, but he had a feeling that if he did, Malcolm would freak out. Claim he cared more about parties than his grades. Cared more about having fun than playing hockey.

It had never bothered him before that Malcolm might feel that way, but Elliott realized that he didn’t want Mal to think any of those lies were actually true.

So he just nodded. “Sure, I can do that.”

Mal squinted at him. “No bitching? Complaining? Whining?”

“I don’t do those things,” Elliott protested, wincing inside.

No wonder Mal hadn’t wanted to hook up with him, ever, if this was what he felt about Elliott. A bitchy, whiny kid who couldn’t stop complaining.

If he’d needed to get his ego in line enough to get him to accept Mal’s help, that would probably do it.

Mal shot him a look. “Sure you don’t,” he retorted.

Ouch.

“Okay. So rule one. Gotta be on time.”

“Early,” Mal inserted.

Elliott rolled his eyes. “Early. Rule two, three times a week. Any other rules?”

“I’m sure I’ll think of a few.”

“Probably more than a few, knowing you and your love affair with rules,” Elliott muttered.

“Cute,” Mal drawled. Leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. His T-shirt sleeves hugged his biceps, his pecs, outlining his abs in the thin cotton. Elliott pushed away the reminder of just how attractive he was.

“I guess . . .” Elliott swallowed hard. Really, really resenting how viscerally aware of Mal’s body he was. Mal’s very presence. All that icy sternness should’ve turned him off. Given him frostbite. But it didn’t. It never had. It just made Elliott more determined than ever to burn it down.

You’re never going to get that chance.

“I got homework to do,” Malcolm said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Eight PM. Library,” Elliott parroted back at him.

Mal shot him one last hard look. “Early, Jones. Early .”