4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Elliott’s decision held firm all day.

He woke up and silenced the quiet voice that claimed he was just a fucking coward, and set out for his morning of classes with optimistic determination.

This was the right call.

He and Mal didn’t need to fuck this out.

They could just . . .agree to disagree.

People did that all the time. Disagreements didn’t always have to end in fucking or fighting.

He gave his number to the cute new barista at the Koffee Klatch when he stopped by to grab a cold brew just after lunch.

Told himself he’d go out with the guy when he inevitably texted.

But he already worried, that voice in the back of his head growing louder, that he wouldn’t.

That he wouldn’t want to. That he couldn’t, not until he figured out this thing with Mal.

You did figure it out. You’re going to let it go.

But had he?

Elliott was sure he had, at least that was what he kept insisting to himself, until he walked into the locker room and there was Malcolm, back to him, stripped down to the waist, and his body froze.

But instead of going up to him, instead of saying something that would inevitably make him turn around, make Malcolm talk to him, even if it wasn’t positive, Elliott went quietly to his locker and began his game prep.

He didn’t need to prod the beast. Not if he wasn’t going to take advantage of it.

A few minutes later Ramsey wandered in, glanced over at Mal, and then much to Elliott’s frustration, sauntered over to where he was stretching.

“I took you for a lot of things,” Ramsey said under his breath, “but not someone who bows out before they even try.”

“I’m allowed to decide it’s not worth it,” Elliott muttered.

Ramsey raised an eyebrow. “And since when has he not been worth it to you?”

“Since I realized it’s just sex. He’s just another guy.” Elliott paused. “Thought you’d be happy to know it’s not going to end in fucking or fighting.”

“What? That it’s just going to end ? Peacefully? Amicably?” Ramsey rolled his eyes and smacked Elliott on the shoulder. “We both know it can’t. It won’t.”

“It’s going to end how I say it’s going to end,” Elliott said.

“What’s going to end?”

He looked up, and Mal was standing there, that all-too-familiar arrogant blankness on his face. It made Elliott want to smack him. It made Elliott want to kiss it off him.

But he took a deep breath and didn’t do either one.

He just said, “Nothing. Ramsey and I are having a pointless philosophic discussion that he’s losing.”

“Pointless but it still matters that I’m losing, huh?” Ramsey teased.

Elliott shrugged. “It’s a waste of effort when I’m trying to get ready for this game.”

Mal looked surprised. And for a second, like he might actually smile, but he didn’t, and Elliott told himself firmly that he wasn’t disappointed.

This wasn’t a tactic. As far as Elliott was concerned, this was the new norm.

He watched as Mal and Ramsey exchanged confused glances.

Hesitantly, even though Malcolm McCoy had probably never hesitated to speak the truth in his whole goddamn life, he said, “You know Bend has that really aggressive defender. We need to make sure we’re staying on-play. Don’t let him bust it up.”

“I saw the film,” Elliott said steadily, not retorting wildly, the way he wanted to, that he wasn’t stupid, that he’d been playing hockey for a hell of a long time too, and that he didn’t need Malcolm’s advice.

“Then you know—”

“That he’s going to want to play one-on-one? Close? I know.”

Mal exchanged another glance with Ramsey and nodded. “Okay, then. You know the game plan.”

“We’ve got this,” Elliott said firmly. Confidently. But not over- confidently, in the way that typically pissed Mal off.

“Uh, yeah. We do.”

Mal slunk off to his side of the locker room without another word.

Ramsey turned to him again. “What the fuck was that?” he demanded.

“What?” Elliott asked even though he knew exactly why Ramsey was incredulous. That kind of exchange would’ve usually fueled a pre-game bickering session that might’ve even lasted all the way through warmups and sometimes even into the first period.

Elliott pissed off that Mal felt he needed to be reminded of basic facts and in response, picking and pecking at all the soft spots in Mal’s usually tough armor.

Ramsey just shook his head. “I can’t fucking believe after all this bullshit that you’ve put all us through you’re just going to slink off with your tail between your legs and not even try .”

“That’s—”

“Enjoy fucking your way through the boys of Portland U. Save the men for me,” Ramsey said, and after tossing that last bomb, strode off.

“Fuck him,” Elliott muttered to himself.

But the thought remained with him through warmups.

Did he always go for the easiest hookups? The guys most like him who didn’t really give a shit if he said yes or no? Who’d just move onto the next if he wasn’t interested?

Was he afraid of a challenge?

No, he fucking was not.

He’d not be on this hockey team, playing on the first line as a sophomore if he was afraid of hard work. Of getting his hands dirty.

But even that anger at Ramsey seemed to fizzle out almost immediately after their first face-off.

Mal handled it, as the senior guy on the team, and flicked the puck his way, as the enormous giant who would probably be shadowing him the whole time he was on the goddamn ice practically blanketed him.

But Elliott was faster. Quicker. Much more agile.

He skated around the defender, shifting the puck with his stick, keeping it away from the giant.

The moment his body was angled right, the guy shoved a gloved fist into his side, away from the view of the ref. Elliott grunted but took the hit in stride because he’d known it was coming. He skated around the back of the goal, looking for his opening with the goalie. Didn’t see anything he liked the look of, so did another one. Still with the giant hot on his ass. He was annoying, sure, but it was extra annoying how Mal kept moving into his field of view, frustration etched on his face.

Like he wanted Elliott to take the shot, even if it was a bad one.

There was a flurry of excitement just out of his periphery, and that was all the giant needed to steal the puck.

Elliott glanced over to the bench and Zach nodded to him, indicating a line change. He skated over, vaulting over the wall and settling down on the hard wooden bench, breath coming in short gasps as he wasn’t quite warmed up fully yet.

“What the fuck was that?” Mal spit out as he dropped next to him. “You had a shot.”

“Eh, it wasn’t a shot,” Elliott said, reaching for water. Shooting it into his mouth, between the metal bars of his face mask.

“When have you ever not been tempted to take a half-ass shot?” Mal demanded. “Usually I have to stop you from taking wild shit that’s never going to go anywhere.”

“It just wasn’t right.”

But Elliott could admit that he hadn’t felt that intense urgency he sometimes did. Okay that he always did. He usually was desperate by the time they got onto the ice, needing to show Malcolm that he wasn’t some idiot who couldn’t score to save their fucking life.

He hadn’t felt that way today. He hadn’t . . .well, he’d been trying not to care. But now Malcolm was kind of pissing him off again.

“Next time, let me have the fucking puck,” Mal muttered.

“Kids, it’s fine,” Ivan inserted. “Ell controlled that gigantic defender. He can do that the whole game. Distract him. While he slips one between his legs. What is he, six foot fucking ten?”

“Big enough,” Mal bit off.

Normally, Elliott might say something else to piss him off.

Something like, I bet he’s got a bigger dick than you, McCoy.

Which would both annoy and disgust the guy.

But this time Elliott swallowed down the comment.

He was fine. Everything was fine.

But as the first period ticked down, it didn’t appear that everything was fine.

Coach ducked down at three-quarters through the first period, reminding them that they missed one hundred percent of the shots they didn’t take.

Elliott didn’t have to look at the board to know their usual shots were way down, and it wasn’t because of the giant who kept dogging his skates.

When the period ended and they tromped down towards the locker room, Mal caught his arm.

Pulled him into one of the nooks in the hallway. “What are you doing ?” Mal hissed.

He’d taken off his helmet, and his dark hair was sweat-soaked, falling over his forehead. He shoved it back, eyes blazing.

Elliott felt that same thrum he always did—an inescapable awareness that he normally reveled in, but had lately begun to resent, because what was it for if they weren’t ever going to act on it?

Or Malcolm wasn’t ever going to let them act on it?

“What am I doing? What am I doing?” Elliott retorted in a hard voice. It was easy to let some of that frustration bleed into his voice because at this point he wasn’t sure he could keep it out anymore.

He was trying to let this go. Let go of their stupid fighting. All the pigtail pulling. All the endless unsuccessful attempts to get into Mal’s pants. And instead of just letting him, Mal was here, in his face.

“Yes, what are you doing? You fucked around with the puck for ages. You could’ve taken at least five shots and you just didn’t . If you’re trying to piss me off—”

Elliott’s jaw dropped. “Trying to piss you off?” he interrupted. “Are you fucking kidding me? I would never do that. I would never fuck up a game just to get a rise out of you. No matter how satisfying it is.”

Mal just stared at him.

Elliott poked him in the chest and hoped he felt it, even through his chest pad. “Is that really what you think of me? That I’d fuck up a game?”

Finally, Mal broke. Grabbed his arm. Elliott ignored the thrill that shook him at his touch, even through God knew how many layers of padding and cloth. “No. No. God. No.” Mal shook his head, like he could barely believe he’d made the accusation. “I just . . .what is up with you? Why are you not taking the shot?”

“I . . .I don’t know,” Elliott confessed. He hadn’t felt any different. Only calmer. Less like he was playing to piss Malcolm off. The first game they’d played together on the same line, late last year after an injury to the normal right winger, he’d scored two goals and played fearlessly, pushing hard as if he wanted to prove to the guy that he belonged. So he’d stop looking down his nose at him.

But of course that hadn’t happened. Mal had kept doing it. Kept lecturing him. Kept being a patronizing ass. Now, Elliott could look back and see that this was just how Mal was. Of course even after that realization, it hadn’t helped him like it.

Mal’s attitude, even if he couldn’t help it, still pissed Elliott off.

“Are you hurt? Is there a problem?” Mal demanded to know.

“I . . .” The only problem—the only difference— was that he’d made the decision pre-game not to be pissed off.

Not to let Malcolm get to him any longer.

He’d gone out there on the ice without that chip on his shoulder.

Had that made the difference?

“For fuck’s sake,” Malcolm muttered. He gripped his arm harder, making Elliott realize he’d never let go of it. They’d drifted closer together as they’d argued, Mal’s body practically blanketing Elliott’s, the heat of him inescapable.

Elliott’s pulse accelerated.

“I was trying not to be angry at you. You know, like always. You piss me off practically by breathing,” Elliott finally admitted.

Mal looked floored. “That’s why you . . .” He took a short, deep breath. “Don’t answer that question. Just . . .”

“Just what ,” Elliott retorted.

“Just . . .fucking get your head in the game. I don’t care what it takes. You’re making us look bad. Our whole fucking line. I hate it.”

Elliott felt that familiar fire catch inside him. “You mean I’m making you look bad.”

Mal paused, so briefly that Elliott almost missed it. But he was looking for it. Knew what Mal was doing now. “Yeah. Yeah, you are. Get it fucking together, Jones.”

He had a choice. He could ignore it. Or he could let that admonition eat away at him the way he always did.

In the end, it was inevitable. They couldn’t be nothing . They were this .

Elliott let the frustration he’d been holding back wash over him.

Didn’t try to fight it. Embraced it, instead.

He shoved Mal back. “Fuck you,” he said, “you could take the shot.”

“Maybe I will,” Malcolm countered. “Maybe I’ll take the shots you won’t.”

“I dare you to fucking try,” Elliott said, elbowing him back even farther. “I dare you to fucking try .”

Satisfaction ghosted over Mal’s features.

Elliott knew he’d been played but he let that annoyance fuel him even further.

Malcolm wanted to piss him off? Well, he’d be good and pissed off then.

It had been a calculated risk.

Mal still couldn’t believe that Elliott’s weird first period play had been because he’d been . . .well, not angry at him?

Trying to pretend like everything was fine?

Why would he even do that?

Coach had never gotten up their asses about fighting, or bickering, even, and it had never occurred to Malcolm that Elliott wanted to stop fighting.

If that was true, maybe he shouldn’t have pushed him again.

But Elliott had clearly not minded, because he was currently tearing through the Bend’s defense like it was butter and he was a hot knife. Carving them up, taking shot after shot, most of them good, some of them even brilliant.

He’d scored one goal since the first period and assisted Ivan on another.

But regardless of the score on the board, it was his attitude that was back.

That fuck you chip was back on his shoulder, and every time he took a shot, he’d look right over at Mal.

On the last one, he’d shot him a triumphant smile that was no doubt calculated precisely to piss Malcolm off.

And it did , but it had another unexpected effect, too.

It made him nearly stop in his tracks.

He knew Elliott was attractive, sure. He had been pretty fucking good at keeping that particular fact buried deep.

But the hallway had loosened it, and now that smile had unearthed it, big time.

Elliott feeling himself made Mal want to feel himself .

He skated to a halt, sending a shower of ice against the boards as the final horn of the game sounded.

The Evergreens had won four to one, and it felt damn good.

“Great play today, McCoy,” Zach said to him as he walked through the doorway towards the locker room. “Aggressive. I like it.”

“Better than the first period, for sure,” Ivan retorted, pulling up next to them.

“Yeah, what the hell, guys?” Brody wondered. “But you turned it around.”

“Wasn’t me,” Mal said, even though it kind of had been him.

“It sure fucking wasn’t,” Elliott retorted as he dropped down next to Ivan. “I wasn’t waiting around for you old men to get your shit together.”

Mal chuckled darkly. Hated, a little, how Elliott insulting him somehow felt better than Elliott saying nothing.

“I’ll show you old,” Ivan muttered.

“Nobody’s old,” Brody said, forever the peacemaker.

“I like to think of myself as well-seasoned,” Ramsey added with a smirk. “In all the best kinds of ways.”

Mal rolled his eyes as he began to strip his equipment off. “You would think that.”

“Hey, I’m a real catch,” Ramsey insisted.

Maybe he was.

But Mal had never been tempted by his looks. Same as he’d never been tempted by Brody or any of the other guys on their team.

Only one guy had ever caught his eye, despite him despising the fact that it was him , of all fucking people.

He was on the other side of Mal now, pulling off his gear, wiping down his damp chest with his shirt.

Malcolm averted his eyes. He told himself it was out of respect that he didn’t look—and certainly he’d never been as blatant about it as Elliott himself—but he was beginning to wonder if it was actually something else.

He didn’t know why Elliott snapped at him, other than the obvious. Or why he’d stopped.

But he was worried he was starting to understand why he sometimes started it.

Why he antagonized the guy, when everyone else’s bullshit had always slid off his shoulders, effortlessly.

Jane hadn’t been the only one to suggest it was because he secretly wanted Elliott and didn’t believe he could have him.

But Jane’s theories, no matter how wild, were more difficult to ignore when that throb of desire that had lit in his belly seemed to just pulse harder the more he was around the guy.

He’d just gotten back from the shower and pulled a T-shirt and his boxer briefs on when a hand fell onto his shoulder.

Mal looked over and was surprised to see Elliott there.

He pulled his hand back, almost immediately, and Malcolm was reminded why they didn’t touch all that frequently, despite that this team was generally a pretty touchy-feely bunch.

He always felt every single bit of every single touch, deep down, in a place he wanted to pretend didn’t exist.

But it existed, and he was feeling it, inevitably, now.

“What?” Mal barked, some of his edginess no doubt a result of that unfulfilled desire—not just his frustration with the guy in general.

“You fucking baited me,” Elliott said under his breath.

The team was beginning to slowly filter out of the locker room. There were only a handful of guys left. Mal pulled on sweatpants, then his sneakers. Ignoring the insidious voice that said it was easier to deal with Elliott when he had more layers of armor on.

“You needed it,” Mal reminded him. “You came out in the first period like you were out for a Sunday stroll, not a hockey game.”

“I was biding my time,” Elliott argued.

“I did what needed to be done.” Mal hesitated. “About tutoring—”

“You gonna give me what I need there too?” Elliott interrupted with one of those sly grins that Mal told himself firmly that he did not like.

Oh, I wish you’d give me exactly what I need.

Mal pushed that thought away, hard.

“I’m going to help you pass statistics,” he said coldly. “Keeping you on this team and on the fucking ice.”

“God, you are an asshole,” Elliott said. But his voice didn’t sound particularly angry. More amused. Affectionate. Like he liked knowing exactly what the score was. And bickering with each other was the score.

“Being focused and serious about what we’re doing here doesn’t make me an asshole.”

But he could be an asshole about it. Didn’t know how else to be , based on the examples he’d been shown, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see it, sometimes.

Jane told him sometimes that he was too unforgiving, that he had no give , and it wasn’t like Malcolm didn’t know that. He did. But he’d been created, more than raised, by a tough, no-nonsense father. His dad had never met a gray area he didn’t hate, and if Malcolm was the same? Well. That happened.

“The way you bludgeon all of us with it does,” Elliott muttered. But then, to Mal’s shock he added, “When are we meeting next?”

Malcolm had certainly had no intention of quitting the tutoring. Not when Elliott’s contributions to the Evergreens were annoyingly vital, but also because he’d given his word to Coach Blackburn.

Another thing his dad had always imparted was that your word was solid. Ironclad. And that was something Mal was never going to apologize for.

“We can do it tomorrow,” Mal said. “Tomorrow night. After the game?”

Their game was slightly earlier, a five PM puck drop instead of seven, in deference to the weekend.

“Not the library this time. Sammy’s.”

Mal frowned. “If you’re looking for a way to distract yourself . . .”

“I’m looking for dinner , you idiot,” Elliott said and smacked him in the shoulder.

Even Elliott hitting him affected him.

Imagine if he touched you and it was purposeful and sweet and hot . . .

Mal jerked his attention back to the conversation. “Uh, okay. Yeah. We can do that. Sammy’s makes a good sub.”

“So you are human, after all,” Elliott teased. “You even eat, like a real boy!”

Mal glowered. “Not everything has to be a joke.”

“But it’s fun when it is,” Elliott said, nudging him again.

He still wasn’t wearing a shirt and even though Malcolm was now, he still felt the imprint of Elliott’s heat, even after he shrugged on a hoody and stepped out in the cold, rainy Oregon fall.

“Hey,” Ramsey said, calling out to him as he headed towards his apartment. “Wait up.”

“Are you going to guilt me into going to another party?” Yes, it was a Friday night, but Mal didn’t feel like faking a smile and watching as Elliott Jones took home yet another unsuspecting, completely thrilled guy.

He’d seen plenty of that, over the last year and a half.

Ramsey grinned. Slung an arm around Mal’s shoulders, and to Mal’s annoyance, he could still feel that last touch of Elliott’s.

“Would I do that?” Ramsey asked earnestly, the corner of his mouth turning up into a very Ramsey-like smirk.

Here was the thing: he could tell Ramsey the truth about his virginity. Ramsey wouldn’t laugh, wouldn’t even joke about it. Would probably, in a serious, Ramsey-like way, offer to alleviate that concern for him. Maybe Malcolm would even enjoy it— oh, his dick cried, you’d enjoy it— but it would fuck everything up, and while Mal might feel a little desperate, he was not that stupid.

At this point, maybe sex might not mean something, not like flowers and chocolates and Valentine’s Day kisses, but he wanted it to be more than just scratching an itch.

“You absolutely fucking would,” Mal said.

“Maybe I might’ve done it a few times, but you had a good time.” Ramsey paused. “Okay, a decent time. If you’d get out of your comfort zone, have a beer, relax a little—”

“No,” Malcolm said, with finality. “ No .”

“Alright, alright. No beers, no relaxation. I get it. You’re primed. And well . . .” Ramsey shrugged, wincing a little. “You’re a little primed, buddy.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Mal was afraid he understood, though, a little too well.

He was feeling a little edgier than normal. Yes, it was par for the course for Elliott to churn him up, but today’s bullshit had done more than just churn up the normal kind of annoyances. He felt different . . .aching and desperate in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely.

“You bit my head off a few times.”

“That was just the frustration of the game. The first period—”

“Yeah,” Ramsey said. “About that. Let’s talk about the first period.”

They turned down Washington Avenue, and Malcolm realized, belatedly, that Ramsey had actually walked way farther than he needed to—if his destination was the Gamma Sigma house—only to keep talking to him.

And here was the thing about Ramsey. He appeared congenial and friendly and non-threatening. But Ramsey was actually so much more than that. A master planner in innocent sheep’s clothing. He worked everyone, effortlessly and easily, and barely anybody even realized.

But Malcolm knew. He just preferred it when Ramsey’s superpowers were not turned on him—and he was afraid that right now, he was dead in Ramsey’s sights.

“What about the first period?” Mal asked testily. Worried what Ramsey might say. Worried about what Ramsey wasn’t saying.

“We all noticed that you and Ell were being weirder than normal,” Ramsey pointed out.

“Elliott’s the one being weird,” Malcolm said and then wished he could snatch the words back. Because there was a telltale gleam in Ramsey’s gaze that told him he’d betrayed too much.

“Don’t like it when he ignores you, huh?” Ramsey said bluntly.

Mal rolled his eyes. “That isn’t . . . no .”

“I think you hated it. ’Course, it’s not like he enjoyed it either. When he’s trying to show you up he’s got a whole other level.”

It was the exact same conclusion he’d come to, and the hypothesis he’d tested by poking Elliott in a spot he knew might be vulnerable. He wasn’t proud that it had worked, but it had worked. Elliott had gotten pissed off and had played like a demon for the next two periods.

But just because they’d both been right didn’t mean Mal wanted to admit it.

Especially to Ramsey.

“Come on,” Ramsey continued, tone entreating. “You know I’m right.”

“Ugh, yes, but don’t . . .don’t read something into it. Especially something that’s not there,” Mal said.

The Lovejoy Apartments came up on their right, emerging from the damp gloom.

Ramsey stopped in front of them, an expectant look on his face, like he knew Mal wouldn’t just turn around and walk away.

“You sure there’s nothing there?” Ramsey asked.

He heard her before he saw her.

“Oh, hey, Mal,” Jane exclaimed as she walked up behind him. “And Ramsey.”

“Honey,” Ramsey said, smirking.

Mal shot him a glare. “Don’t,” he said.

“Oh, Ramsey’s harmless,” Jane said, tilting her head in the very-not-harmless Ramsey’s direction.

“I’m gonna have to side with you on this one, Mal,” Ramsey agreed. “Nowhere near harmless. But really, think about it, okay? ’Cause I think, and so would you, if you really considered it, you actually should be reading something into it.” He shot Jane another wink and then turned and sauntered off.

“What was that about?” Jane asked as Mal unlocked the door to their first floor apartment.

“Don’t ask,” Mal muttered.

“I saw on my phone alerts you guys won.” She gave him a look. “Started a bit slow, though.”

“Don’t ask about the first period,” Mal muttered.

“Why? What happened?” Jane frowned, setting her book bag on the couch. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Mal said, even though he wasn’t sure that was actually true anymore.

He felt . . .discombobulated.

By what Ramsey had said? By what he’d said to Elliott working so well the guy had gone on a tear at the end of the game?

He didn’t want to be tied to Elliott this way. It made him uncomfortable. And the more he looked at it, the more Ramsey and even Jane pushed him to look at it, the more uncomfortable he was with it.

“I’m not sure you are,” Jane said, tucking her knees underneath her on the couch. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not yet,” Mal said. He needed to understand it better himself, first.