5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

After Sunday’s game—a frustratingly close one-zero loss—Elliott finished dressing in the locker room, then looked around for Mal. Assuming they’d walk over to Sammy’s together.

But Mal, who Elliott swore he’d only seen a few minutes ago, was gone, the space in front of his spotless locker empty.

“He took off already,” Brody said when he saw Elliott looking around in confusion. “Said he’d meet you there.”

“Ugh,” Elliott groaned. “Why can’t he be normal?”

Brody grinned at him. “Who’s even normal, anyway? Besides, normal is overrated, Ell. You know that.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think he was so eager to avoid me he’d ditch me to walk there alone ,” Elliott grumbled.

“His dad called and I think he wanted to call him back,” Finn offered from the other side of the locker room.

“Oh, alright,” Elliott said. Of course Malcolm had a father. He hadn’t sprung to life, fully formed, explicitly designed to torment Elliott.

He’d just never heard Malcolm say anything about his dad before, not the way all the rest of them offhandedly mentioned their families in the middle of practices and workouts and crammed together in booths at Jimmy’s.

But then Mal was more serious, and a lot more focused than most of them, too, so maybe that made sense.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and texted the sister chat on his way to the little tucked away sub and smoothie shop.

Going to my second tutoring appointment, he sent.

The sister chat was practically never quiet. The moment anyone popped up in it, it was like the freaking bat-signal for the rest of them to appear.

Like it was freaking magic.

Nina texted: You’re going to pass that test, Ell. I’ve got faith in you.

Macey chimed in next, as always, true to her middle-child self. God, Nina, you sound like a Tony Robbins seminar.

But she did love Elliott, and clearly, despite her comment to Nina, agreed with her, because the next text she sent read: But you DO have this, Ell. Accompanied by that gif meme of the kid in the audience pointing and shouting, “You can do it!”

Elliott chuckled under his breath. He hearted Macey’s gif work, then coming in last was his youngest sister, Constance.

You still being tutored by the super hot guy? You’d enjoy that.

He and Connie were the closest, and she’d told him more than once, swearing him to secrecy, that she sometimes felt closer to him than to their two older sisters.

Connie—don’t encourage him. That was predictably from Nina, but to Elliott’s surprise, Macey hearted that comment.

It wasn’t often the two of them actually agreed on anything.

A second later Connie sent a text just to him. Don’t listen to them. He’s super hot. You can get him, I know you can!

Elliott laughed again. He loved his sisters so goddamn much. Even when they, in their collective, tried to mom him.

Aren’t you supposed to be encouraging me to pass my stats test?

Ah, you got that, we both know you do. Especially with Malcolm on the case. But the real question is if you’re ever going to get into his pants?

Ramsey thinks I should seduce him.

Well, by all means, listen to Ramsey.

I’m going to tell Nina you were being a bad influence again.

Ugh. You’re the worst, baby bro.

You love me!

Constance sent him a whole string of different colored hearts, and he glanced up from his phone to pull the door to Sammy’s open.

Immediately he spotted the back of Mal’s head, curls damp from the shower, in the far corner.

He’d dump his bag off, then order, but as he approached, something in the way Mal spoke brought him up short.

“Yes, sir, of course sir,” Mal said and in the season and a half they’d played together, Elliott had never heard that particular deferential tone from the guy. Not even to their coaches, and of all the guys on the team, he was probably the most respectful when it came down to it.

But this wasn’t just respect. It was something more than that.

Something deeper.

Almost something . . .well, Elliott would’ve called it fearful, but he’d never seen Mal afraid of anything.

“Yes. I’m taking care of it.”

Elliott watched as the back of Mal’s neck tensed at the reply.

“I apologize. I . . .I am tired. It was a long game. We—” He hesitated. Had the person he was talking to interrupted him? Elliott didn’t generally feel protective, and he’d never imagined that the person he’d begin with would be Malcolm, but he didn’t like any of this.

“Yes, well, it was a tough game. Lots of shots on goal, but no luck.”

Elliott knew he should make himself known. He should tap Mal on the shoulder and let him know he was here. Or drop off his bag, unobtrusively but obviously enough, and go order. Stop listening in to at least Mal’s side of the conversation.

But he couldn’t quite make his feet move.

Instead, he stayed put and listened to Mal continue to apologize without actually saying the words, I’m sorry .

“He always has a lot of shots.” Mal paused. “I’m okay with the number I have. It’s a good supportive line. A team. His style isn’t always mine, but that’s okay.” He paused a second time. “No, it really is okay.”

Elliott realized that Mal was talking about him . He knew out of everyone on their line, he had the most shots on goal this season, but then Malcolm wasn’t that far behind. While he liked his approach—it worked for him , and that was all that mattered—there was something to be said for Mal’s more deliberate, studied approach too.

Mal was a great hockey player, and it seemed like he was also apologizing for maybe not being great enough.

Maybe if they’d been friends, Elliott would’ve sidled up to the table, snatched the phone, and told the person on the other side of the line just how full of bullshit they were.

But he and Mal weren’t friends.

On top of that, there was something in the way Mal spoke to this person—so fucking carefully—that made Elliott hesitate.

Made him not want to dig Mal further into this hole.

Even if it was a hole that Elliott didn’t quite recognize.

Mal went so long without replying that for a minute, Elliott wondered if maybe he’d ended the conversation. But then Mal said, “No, sir. I know my grades are important. I’d never prioritize hockey over them. I know—”

His neck tensed again. “I know,” he continued again, in a voice that sounded forcibly relaxed, “I understand that to you it’s a game, but I know I can make it my career.”

There was another short pause, and then Mal said, “Bye, Dad,” and Elliott nearly fell right over.

Sure, Finn had said Malcolm’s dad had called and that’s why he’d ducked out early. But Elliott had never imagined that the person he’d been talking to—the person who’d undeniably been lecturing him, riding him, and ultimately giving Malcolm hell—was his dad .

They all knew Finn’s father kind of sucked. Not specifically. Specifically, he was a kind, generous guy. Tough, but decent. Finn’s struggles didn’t originate with the way his dad treated him, but the way the world treated him because of who his dad was.

Malcolm’s dad seemed like a whole different story.

Elliott shifted his weight, watching as Malcolm set his phone down on the tabletop and he reached behind, using his fingers to work out the tenseness in his neck.

He knew he should go over there. Stop staring. Stop theorizing. Stop wondering if that might be why Mal was the way he was—because he’d been built that way.

Battered into acquiescence against a set of inexorable expectations.

Elliott resolved to be nicer. Somehow. Without losing his edge. Without sacrificing anything.

He turned and walked back to the front counter, eyed the guy who was behind it.

“Hey,” Elliott asked, “did the guy over that way order yet?”

The guy looked bored, but glanced over in the direction Elliott was pointing. He shook his head.

“Okay, good.” Elliott proceeded to order a giant Italian sub and two smoothies. The peanut butter banana for him and the strawberry pineapple for Mal. He knew he liked sweet things and whenever they got shakes at Jimmy’s, he always got strawberry.

This time when he approached the table, he didn’t walk quietly, but advertised his entrance loudly. Grumbling under his breath and sliding into the other side of the booth in a pile of flailing limbs, tossing his backpack next to him on the bench seat.

Mal’s eyes were shadowed, but a moment later, the pain was gone, smoothed over like he’d never felt it.

For a split second Elliott almost resented the knowledge he’d just inadvertently come by. He didn’t really want to feel sorry for Malcolm. It felt uncomfortable.

It would’ve been so much easier to just keep lusting after and bickering with the guy.

But now, Elliott already knew nothing would be that simple or easy again.

“Hey,” Elliott said. “I ordered for us. Italian sub. Strawberry pineapple smoothie for you.”

If Mal asked, he was going to say, did you think I wasn’t paying attention? And he was going to repeat it, if needed, and hopefully make it clear it wasn’t just because Mal was really fucking great to look at.

Sure enough.

“How did you—” But then Mal stopped abruptly mid-sentence and took a deep breath. “Thanks,” he said, finally, in a much softer tone.

“You took off pretty quick after the game,” Elliott said.

He didn’t think Mal would tell him anything. After all, he’d never heard Malcolm mention his dad, not once. He was good enough friends with Ivan, and even with Ramsey, that he had a feeling Mal might have confided in them—but nothing in the last year and a half had made Elliott think that they knew anything either.

This was a secret Malcolm held close to his chest, and he wasn’t about to confess it to Elliott.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try, anyway.

“Yeah, I . . .uh . . .my dad called. I wanted to call him back.”

Maybe it was a little wrong, but Elliott pretended ignorance. “Your dad didn’t know when your games were? I swear to God, my family knows my schedule better than I do. My three sisters—”

“You have three sisters?” Malcolm interrupted.

“Yep,” Elliott said wryly. “Three older sisters. And yes, it’s like having four moms, but they’re really active on the sister chat during the season. They share livestreams and stats and everything. It’s great.”

“Ah,” Mal said noncommittally, and Elliott realized a second too late that maybe he shouldn’t have shared too freely—he’d hoped that by sharing he might get Mal to reciprocate a bit, but instead Mal seemed to have shut down. Maybe because his dad was not nearly as invested in Evergreens hockey as his sisters were.

“Does your dad ever come to games?”

“No,” Mal said, with no additional explanation. It was clear he didn’t want to be asked any more questions about his father. Which, of course, only made Elliott want to ask them more . But before he continued to push, he remembered Ramsey’s advice. Get him to want you. It also went along with . . . make him want to tell you. Elliott resolved to try that, instead. Not being pushy. But by being open.

“How did you know I wanted the strawberry pineapple smoothie?” Mal asked, and it was such a blatant attempt to change the subject Elliott almost wanted to call him on it, but that wouldn’t serve his goal, so he let it go.

Let Mal take the win.

“Whenever we go to Jimmy’s, you always get the strawberry milkshake. Even when Ramsey gives you shit.”

“I don’t care what Ramsey thinks of my preferences,” Mal said stiffly.

“That’s what you’re going to focus on?” Elliott teased, leaning more across the table. Mal tensed, but didn’t move back. “Not me memorizing your food orders like a creep?”

“You said it, not me,” Mal said dryly. “Now that we’ve established that, pull out your book. There’s a list of calculations in the back I want you to do while we wait for food. Page 357.”

Elliott wrestled his statistics book out of his backpack, flipped to the page Mal noted, and then took the notebook he slid across the table.

A few minutes later, his name echoed through the little sub shop, and Elliott glanced up, ready to go grab their food, but Mal just shook his head. “I got it,” he said, sliding out of the booth.

A few moments later, he was back, his big hands juggling two big smoothie cups and the gigantic sub, wrapped in Sammy’s striped green and white paper.

“Peanut butter banana,” Mal said, setting his cup in front of Elliott.

“Now who’s the creeper?” Elliott joked.

Mal rolled his eyes. “I knew you got me the strawberry,” he said, tilting his cup towards Elliott. “Now, how’s it going?”

This time it was him who leaned forwards, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he frowned, squinting at what Elliott had scribbled down on the notebook page.

Elliott watched him as he gazed down at the page, that same pulse-fluttering, cock-twitching attraction unfolding inside him.

You could do it. You could make him want you.

“Pretty good, I think,” Elliott said. “But this one, I wasn’t sure I understood what they were asking for.” He pointed to one of the questions in the textbook. It was the truth—but maybe a few days ago, he’d have pretended that everything was fine. Not wanting to look bad in front of Malcolm.

But Elliott could see now that had just pissed Malcolm off more.

“Here,” Mal said, plucking Elliott’s pencil from his hand, and leaned in, scratching out the problem a different way. “Does that make more sense?”

There was an apprehension in his blue eyes as he glanced up at Elliott. “Yeah, actually,” Elliott said and then smiled. He made it slow and sure and pleased and sure enough, Mal not only looked flustered by it, but leaned back into the booth.

“Come on,” he said gruffly. “Let’s eat. Then you can do the rest of those.”

They split the Italian sub, eating in silence.

Elliott took another risk. “Must kinda suck that your dad doesn’t come to games.”

“He’s too far away.” Mal paused. “And too busy.”

“Work?”

“Yeah he’s . . .well, he’s in the military still. Up at Fort Lewis-McChord.”

“That’s not too far, really. Just outside Seattle, right?”

Mal nodded. Set the remainder of his sandwich down. “He . . .he thinks it’s kind of a waste, playing hockey. So I guess even if he isn’t too far away, he wouldn’t want to come out and see me play.”

“He thinks it’s a waste ? Mal, I gotta tell you—next year you’ll be in the NHL and I don’t think anyone thinks that’s a waste.”

“That’s not a given,” Mal said.

“Come on,” Elliott said. “You’re one of the highest-rated players in Toronto’s system. Sure, nothing’s a guarantee but you’re going to be on their roster after you graduate. They’d be stupid not to move you up.”

Mal nodded absently. “Hard to say it’s important though, playing games for a living, when the alternative is devoting your life to your country.”

Elliott supposed he shouldn’t be shocked, not after listening to his half of Malcolm’s conversation with his dad earlier. But he was, anyway. “Is that what your dad tells you?”

Mal wouldn’t meet his eyes. Picked up his sandwich and finished the rest of it in four or five big bites. “It’s fine,” he said evasively. “Finish your food. I’ve got other homework to do tonight, not just help your sorry ass out.”

Elliott got it. This was as much as Mal was willing to say—for now , anyway.

But he’d said more than he had a feeling anybody else knew.

“Well, that makes sense then.”

Mal’s brows drew together. “What makes sense?”

“That you want to be in the front office, ultimately. That you’re taking all these classes, to make that happen,” Elliott said. You’ve been told the whole fucking time that just playing isn’t good enough, not for a McCoy.

Mal shot him a look, hot around the edges. Elliott wanted to say it didn’t singe him, that he didn’t want to lean in and feel even more of that heat.

“Or maybe I really want to do that,” Malcolm said.

“I think whatever you end up wanting to do, you should do it,” Elliott said. “You’re definitely fucking capable.”

Mal’s gaze softened. “What? No lectures about being serious and focusing? No snarky retorts about how fucking boring I am?”

“I mean, you are .” Elliott winced. Because it was true. Or sort of true. Elliott couldn’t help but wonder what he’d be like, if he did let go, even for a minute. “You could use a little more—or a lot more—fun in your life, but as long as you’re happy, that’s the most important thing.”

“Thanks,” Mal said sarcastically. “I think there was actually a compliment in there, somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Elliott said.

“Buying me dinner and giving me compliments?” Mal shook his head. “Not sure I know what to do with this new Elliott.”

“He’s grateful you’re bailing his anti-math ass out,” Elliott said.

It was a little more than that—but it was that, too.

“Well, finish those problems and then we’ll start the next part,” Malcolm said.

Before, Elliott might’ve pushed him more. Might’ve shot him a bitchy remark. Just because. Or okay, not just because. Because he’d enjoyed the way Malcolm’s blue eyes flashed, loved the way that for just that second Mal’s attention was solely on him.

But it was also on him now. No snarky comments necessary.

So now, he just bent down to his work.

Malcolm pulled his laptop out, and for the next few minutes, there was nothing but the scratch of Elliott’s pencil against the paper and Mal’s rhythmic typing.

But then Mal made a sound under his breath. Then another.

When he grunted, Elliott looked up. “Everything okay?”

Mal made a face. “I’m taking this writing class. I thought it would be good to have, for. . .for, well, later .”

“For when you take over the NHL with your superior intellect and preparation?” Elliott asked with faux seriousness.

“Something like that,” Mal muttered. “But we’re working on this paper, and the professor keeps making comments on my first draft. Like . . . Needs more detail. Needs more personal connection. And this last one? I’d like you to work on finding your voice. I have a voice.”

Elliott raised an eyebrow. Pleased, despite trying hard not to show it too obviously, that Mal had confided in him again . “Do you, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what do you normally write? Business papers?”

“Yeah. For economics and math, sometimes. Not a lot of papers. But I can write.”

“Of course you can. You’re Malcolm McCoy. I told you, you can do anything. But writing something like this—what is it, exactly?”

“A narrative experience.”

“Exactly. What your prof means is that you need more of you in it. The business professors probably told you to leave out everything personal, right?”’

Mal stared at him blankly. “She wants me to get personal?”

“Are you feeling uncomfortable yet?” Elliott teased gently.

Mal made a face. “I don’t like this.”

“Good writing means you’re in sync with your own thoughts and feelings and beliefs. That they shine through every word you write.”

“I think I’m fucked then,” Mal said, giving a short bark of laughter.

Elliott didn’t even think. Just put down his pencil, and before he could reconsider, he got up from his side, and slid onto Mal’s side, nudging his hip with his own.

Ignoring the way the sensation raced along his skin.

“What are you doing?” Mal demanded. Putting a hand up so he couldn’t see the screen.

“I’m helping you continue your Malcolm McCoy unbroken streak of never giving up, ever,” Elliott said. When Mal still didn’t move his hand, he nudged him again. “Come on, let me read it.”

“What are you, some kind of writing expert now?”

Elliott shrugged. “No. Not an expert. But I am a lit major.”

Malcolm looked astounded. “You’re a lit major? How did I not know this?”

“Because you’re not actually a creeper?” Because you aren’t paying close enough attention to me. Unlike how closely I’m studying you.

“It’s not very good. Clearly .”

“Well, I’m shit at statistics, so we’re even, then.”

“It’s not the same thing. It doesn’t feel . . .statistics aren’t personal .”

“It felt pretty goddamn personal when Coach B called you and me into his office and asked you to tutor me so I wouldn’t fail.”

Mal just stared at him. Those blue eyes, so beautiful. So apprehensive.

Elliott wanted to wipe all that away.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Don’t you deserve me being nice to you?” Elliott retorted.

“I certainly don’t think I deserved you giving me all the shit in the universe,” Mal said wryly.

“There you go,” Elliott said. He took another risk, reaching out and taking Mal’s hand, gently moving it down. “Promise, this is a no-judgment zone.”

He didn’t usually touch him—Mal probably thought it was because they didn’t like each other—but it was for much more complex reasons than that. But here they were, pressed together, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and Mal’s callouses were brushing against Elliott’s.

Elliott let out a deep breath. Wondering how he could feel something so fucking acutely when it didn’t seem to affect Mal at all.

“Fine,” Mal said and shook his hand off, finally revealing his screen.

Reaching over him, Elliott hit the up arrow key, scrolling all the way to the top of the document.

Mal had a sparse, efficient style that probably worked great for the business papers he wrote, but was entirely wrong for the narrative style the professor was asking them to emulate.

There was no personality whatsoever in it, and very little detail. But then . . .Elliott wondered if he knew Malcolm’s personality.

He was quiet, yes, and intensely focused, but once he thought about it, Mal did have a dry sense of humor. He didn’t talk a lot , but what he said was always funny in that know-it-all, smart-ass kind of way.

It suddenly occurred to Elliott that was maybe why he kept trying to make the guy talk. Because whatever he said was always interesting, and usually funny, too.

“Well, am I hopeless?” Mal asked.

They were still pressed up together. There was potentially room on the other side of Mal that he could’ve used to give them a little more space, but he hadn’t moved into it.

Elliott told his mind—and his cock—not to read too much into that particular situation. But his dick wasn’t really paying attention. It was close to the super hot guy whom he’d been fantasizing about forever, and Elliott was grateful he’d changed into his loosest sweatpants after the game.

“No,” Elliott said. He leaned back. Enjoying the way Mal’s arm, draped over the back of the booth, seemed to frame him.

“Just no? That’s really fucking reassuring,” Mal retorted.

“ No , you have a personality and you can show it, in the text here. You just haven’t yet.”

Elliott pointed to a spot in the narrative, where Mal talked about the first game they played this year. “You don’t want to just say here, we won, two to one, and the opponent was the Ducks. That’s not the point.”

“Okay, what is the point?”

He could feel Malcolm tensing now.

“Hey, hey, you’re fine,” Elliott soothed and gave him a reassuring squeeze on his other arm.

“Maybe I’m annoyed that you’re all up in my business,” Mal retorted. But there was no heat in his words.

Elliott just chuckled. “Sure. Let me just finish this. So . . .it’s the first game of the year. How do you feel?”

The look Malcolm gave him was full of disbelief. “How did I feel ?”

Elliott nodded.

“Uh . . .I don’t know. I guess I was ready to start the season. To get back on the ice.”

“ Ready isn’t a feeling, Mal,” Elliott reminded him.

“Okay, uh . . .I was excited. A little nervous.” Mal shot him a glance. It felt as good as a caress. “I was worried, too. Anxious that maybe we wouldn’t gel as a line. But mostly excited. It’s a good feeling, like right before you step on the ice for the first game.”

“Yeah,” Elliott said. “Use that . Talk about that .”

“I know this’ll come as a huge surprise, but I don’t spend much time focused on my feelings.”

Elliott probably could’ve guessed that, but then, he’d always seemed pretty worked up emotionally about Elliott himself.

Maybe Mal wasn’t as immune as he kept pretending.

After all, he preferred to pretend those pesky emotions didn’t exist at all.

“Really? No ,” Elliott said, faking a shocked gasp.

Malcolm rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. It was only with the corner of his mouth, but that was enough. Elliott fucking loved it.

“And that,” Elliott added, “is more like what you should be including.”

“Sarcasm?”

“ Personality . You have one. That’s what your prof was talking about too, with your voice. Those little snarky asides about me? About our team? About how Ramsey doesn’t know how to stop smirking at anything that moves? And how Ivan is way too stoic? All of that.”

“Ah. Okay.” Mal nodded. “I think I understand. That’s . . .” He cleared his throat. “I don’t normally focus on any of that. I always thought it was extraneous. Unimportant.”

“It’s the opposite, man,” Elliott said, punching him lightly in the arm. “It’s what makes life interesting and fascinating and every single day different.”

“Oh. Huh. I never thought of it that way.” Mal looked genuinely surprised. Maybe not pleased, but contemplative.

That alone—besides the love of reading—was why Elliott loved books. Loved experiencing different perspectives on things. Often they made him see the world differently than he had before.

“You’re welcome,” Elliott said, patting him one last time and sliding out of the booth. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but he also hadn’t wanted Mal to tell him to get out. To remove himself from his personal bubble.

Let’s share it again, soon, okay?

Mal cleared his throat. “You finish those problems yet?”

“Just about done,” Elliott said, flashing him a grin. “Give me five.”

Six minutes later, by his watch, he’d passed the notebook across the table to Mal, and as he finished his smoothie, Mal’s gaze skimmed over the page.

“These are all right,” he said, with an approving nod.

Old Elliott would’ve taken offense to that. Would’ve seen that as patronizing approval that he didn’t need or want.

But Elliott understood this guy a little better now. It helped to not constantly misunderstand him or interpret everything he said and did in the worst possible light.

“Awesome. You fix your essay yet?”

“Working on it,” Malcolm said. Hesitated. “I’m only asking this because . . .well, I don’t know why I’m asking it, really.” Suddenly, he seemed more flustered than Elliott had ever seen him before. “Okay. No. That’s not true. I know why I’m asking. Because I don’t get B’s, and this professor has made it clear this isn’t A work. Would you . . . could you . . .”

Elliott grinned. “Yes, Malcolm, I’ll look over your paper for you after you finish editing it.”

“Thanks,” Mal said. He was flushed now, and God , it was an attractive look on him.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” But Elliott had known it was. Maybe not for anyone else, but for Malcolm.

No doubt his dad had instilled this idea that accepting help made you weak, or whatever bullshit they were cloaking toxic masculinity in these days.

Mal rolled his eyes, but before he ducked his head down, Elliott swore he got a flash of a smile.

They hadn’t agreed to spend the rest of the evening studying together, but Sammy’s was open until midnight, and it was warm and comfortable, and apparently neither of them wanted to move.

Okay, Elliott hadn’t intended to leave, not until he got kicked out, but to his surprise, Malcolm made no move to pack up and go, even after he clearly moved on to the next item on his to do list, pulling out a thick workbook that proclaimed on the front it was about creating business plans.

Elliott wanted to tease him about it, but he didn’t want to remind Mal that he was still voluntarily spending time with him, either.

Elliott did his new problems for statistics and felt like yes , it was getting slightly more comprehensible, then pulled a much smaller book out of his bag.

That was when Mal looked up. “ Wuthering Heights ?” he asked.

“Don’t tell me you’ve not heard of Emily Bront?,” Elliott said with faux seriousness.

“It does ring a bell,” Mal said. He waved at Elliott’s book. “Is that for a class? Or just because you like reading?”

“Can’t it be both?” Elliott wondered.

“I . . .uh, I guess so.” Mal rubbed his neck.

“In this case, for a class. Nineteenth century lit.”

“That sounds . . .”

Elliott grinned. “Like you’d hate it?”

Malcolm actually laughed, and Elliott was reminded, sharply, of why he’d wanted him the first time he’d ever seen him.

Reminded of when he’d looked in Mal’s face and felt something inside of him that he’d never felt, before or since.

“Yeah,” Mal mumbled.

Elliott opened his book back up and used it to hide his own smile.

Forty-five minutes later, Elliott looked up from Cathy and Heathcliff’s epic bullshit to see Malcolm packing up his stuff.

“I gotta take off,” Mal said.

“Alright.” Elliott stretched, and on a whim, decided to go too. Yes, it was almost definitely drizzling and cold and he could stay here for another few hours, but he realized he didn’t want to. Especially not if it meant he could spend another minute or two in Malcolm’s company.

He tucked his book into his bag and slid out of the booth, following Mal as he headed towards the door.

“You’re coming too?” Mal looked surprised.

“Might as well. Can read in my bed just as well as I can read here. It’s warmer there, too.”

Mal pushed open the door. Muttered, under his breath, “Thought you’d have other things to do in bed.”

Elliott could believe all of Mal’s affronted outrage at the guys he slept with. What he couldn’t believe was the undeniable thread of bitter envy in his tone.

He’d tried . Okay. Admittedly, only the once, seriously, but still .

“Believe me,” Elliott said slowly, “the only thing that’s sharing my bed tonight is Wuthering Heights .”

“Not that I care,” Mal said quickly.

But it was clear that he might .

Elliott didn’t know what to do—but with Ramsey’s advice echoing in his head, he knew the one thing he couldn’t do.

Be an asshole. Rub Mal’s face in it. Be a dick, generally or specifically.

“’Course not,” Elliott said mildly. “Hey, thanks for the tutoring.”

“When’s your next class?” Malcolm said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoody.

“Tomorrow.”

“Let me know at practice how it goes, okay?”

Elliott nodded. Took a chance. “Hey, I really appreciate it, again.” And then before he could even brace himself for rejection, wrapped his arms around Mal, pulling him into a quick, tight hug.

He hugged his other teammates all the time. But not Malcolm.

Malcolm froze. And for a second—the longest second in eternity—Elliott just enjoyed the feel of Mal’s big, warm, firm body pressed against his own.

Tried, but not very hard, not to think about how it would feel without any clothing between them.

Mal’s arms didn’t return the hug but he also didn’t shove Elliott, which he would one hundred percent take as a win.

Take the win , Ramsey’s voice echoed in his head, and Elliott let go.

“What was that for?”

Mal’s face was full of shock—and astonishment too.

And Elliott knew he’d done the right thing.

“It was a thank you and hey, great hang out—” Elliott paused because Mal made a disgruntled face at hang out. “Okay, study session . Not a hang out, we studied . It was a good study session.”

Mal nodded once, sharply.

“And also, ’cause that’s how friends say goodbye,” Elliott said gently, and before Malcolm could tell him they had never been friends and never would be, he turned and walked away.

Didn’t look back even though he felt the pull of Mal’s gaze on him every step of the way.