6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

“God, I need this coffee,” Ivan groaned as he opened the door of the Koffee Klatch.

It was busy this morning, half a dozen students and staff in line.

“Why?” Elliott asked, not mentioning that this would be his third cup of the morning. Why? Because he’d stupidly lain awake in bed for hours, trying unsuccessfully to sleep. Trying unsuccessfully to not think about Malcolm.

The way he’d felt against him.

The way he’d smiled.

The shadows in his gorgeous blue eyes.

How he and Mal had only needed a slight shift to turn their endless bickering into something like flirtation.

Connie would tell him he was in deep.

Macey and Nina would tell him he was barking up the wrong tree.

What would Ivan say?

Elliott didn’t know and he wasn’t about to find out, because he wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

“Martina and I were up half the night working on this stupid joint project,” Ivan said, rolling his eyes. Martina was Ivan’s girlfriend of a few years, and it had only taken one meeting for Elliott to know, without question, that someday she’d govern a small country with an iron fist but so competently that the whole population would probably love her.

Kind of like Ivan did.

“Hey, you wanted to be a poli-sci major. That’s practically declaring you like group projects,” Elliott joked.

Ivan elbowed him in the side. “And what does being a lit major mean? That you enjoy being a lone wolf?”

Elliott grinned. “Oh, you know it.”

“Explains why you and Mal can’t get along for five seconds,” Ivan muttered. “I’m surrounded by fucking lone wolves.”

Elliott wanted to say they weren’t that bad, but they could be—and he knew that Ivan also took the brunt of that.

“Aw, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Elliott crooned, slinging an arm around Ivan’s shoulders, tugging him close. “We’ll try to get along better.”

Ivan shot him a skeptical glance. “Since when?”

“Since now?”

“I’ve got a better chance of not needing any more caffeine today,” Ivan said bluntly.

“He is tutoring me, and we haven’t destroyed a building yet.”

“Did you finish Anna Karenina ?” Ivan asked, changing the subject because clearly Ivan didn’t feel the same about the subject as Elliott did. The way he and Mal interacted was all Elliott could think about. All he wanted to think about.

“I’m still working my way through it. It’ll be a good contrast for this paper I’m working on,” Elliott said. “I’m also reading Wuthering Heights .”

“That’s not Russian,” Ivan said, brows drawing together, face disgruntled.

“A plus observation,” Elliott teased.

Ivan elbowed him again.

“I’m working on a thesis they both take different angles to the romance, but ultimately they show it as doomed. We could even say they’re warnings,” Elliott said.

“I bet you’d agree,” Ivan said. “Don’t you think romance is shit?”

“Hey, just because I don’t bother to stick to one guy—”

One of Ivan’s eyebrows skated upwards. “ One guy .”

“Okay, just because I don’t stick to any number of guys doesn’t mean I think love is automatically shit. I just . . .why should I bother with it right now? I’m having too much fun.”

“Love can be fun, too,” Ivan replied dryly.

“Yeah, you tell yourself that in twenty years when Martina is ruling you and a whole other country beneath her boot.”

“That could be fun, actually,” Ivan said thoughtfully.

Of course he’d think that.

“Anyway, I think it’s a good subject and I’m impartial about it. It’s not that I believe love is bullshit. Just . . .never needed it not to be, before.” Elliott shrugged.

“Sure,” Ivan said.

Finally, it was their turn at the register, and for a second, as Ivan ordered a triple shot latte, with an obscene number of flavors, Elliott couldn’t place the guy taking his order, gaze skimming right around Ivan.

Then he remembered.

Less than a week ago, he’d flirted with the guy, given him his number, and promptly not texted him back when he’d reached out a few days ago.

Whoops.

He’d meant to. But then Mal . . .

Well .

Way back last year, he’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t let Malcolm McCoy and his complete disinterest in sharing his bed hamper his ability to share anyone else’s and he wasn’t about to start now.

Ivan paid, stepped to the side, and Elliott turned on his widest, highest watt grin.

“Hey,” Elliott said.

“Hey,” the guy said. His nametag read Austin. Which Elliott was forty-seven percent sure he’d remembered. The guy’s name had been saved in his phone as “cute coffee guy.”

“Imagine seeing you here, again. I must have the best luck in the world.”

“Kinda what I thought,” Austin said. He didn’t need to add, but then you didn’t text me back.

“Well, seeing you right here, just reminded me I met this really cute guy at Koffee Klatch a few days ago, and I meant to text him back, but I got busy. You know, all that hockey I’ve been playing.” Elliott leaned against the counter and barely refrained from fluttering his eyelashes at the guy.

Austin’s slight standoffishness melted right away.

If only Malcolm was this easy.

“Ell,” Ivan complained, whacking him in the back. “Stop flirting and start ordering. We have to get to practice soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, give me a second.” He turned back to Austin. “Cold brew. Room for milk.”

“Any sweetener?” Austin grinned. “Or are you sweet enough?”

“Oh, baby, I’m plenty sweet enough.”

“Could’ve guessed that.”

Next to him, Ivan made a very obvious vomit noise.

After he paid and Ivan practically dragged him away towards the other end of the front counter, he hissed, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I can draw you a diagram, if you’d like.”

“You don’t want this guy,” Ivan said bluntly. “You didn’t even remember his name.”

“I . . .” But he couldn’t really claim he had, and he didn’t want to lie to Ivan. He’d only ever been a great friend and teammate.

“Exactly. You shouldn’t lead him on. Not when you’re . . .” Ivan cleared his throat.

“Not when I’m what .” Elliott had a feeling he knew what Ivan was about to say—and why he’d stopped. And Elliott wanted him to fucking say it .

“Aw, Ell, you know what’s going on with you two. You want Mal to want you, and he doesn’t know how to want anybody.”

It was exactly what Elliott had hoped—and dreaded—that Ivan would say.

“Maybe,” Elliott said lightly, eying Austin over the espresso machine as he helped the next set of customers.

“Ramsey told me he suggested you seduce him—but then you just did nothing .”

“Why are you listening to Ramsey?”

“As much as I try not to, the guy has a point and he has a history of actually knowing something about how to get someone into bed.”

Normally, Ivan had a bluntness that Elliott liked. No worries about other shoes dropping, or finding out a secret, insidious truth. Not with Ivan. He didn’t even know how to lie.

“And I don’t know how to get a guy into bed?”

“These boys that pant after you ’cause you’re a cute hockey player, sure. But Mal ? I don’t think you have a clue.”

There was that trademark Ivan honesty. It cut, yes, but it also often provided clarity.

Today, it did the latter.

How good had it felt to just sit there and study with the guy? To hug him?

And Malcolm had liked it too. Elliott knew he had.

Don’t just tell him you want him. Make him want you .

The other barista called Ivan’s name and he picked up his gross marshmallow-salted caramel-pumpkin spice monstrosity.

“I don’t know how you drink that,” Elliott said, watching as Ivan guzzled it.

“It’s nice and sweet,” Ivan claimed.

“ Too sweet, probably,” Elliott said.

What would it look like if he tried to seduce Malcolm? If he really, really tried? If he touched him more and more like he had last night? If he kept gently invading Mal’s personal bubble. Until he liked it.

Until he admitted to liking it?

If it happened, Elliott wouldn’t even look twice at the Austins of the world.

“You’re right,” Elliott said, interrupting Ivan’s long diatribe on sweet coffee drinks.

“You mean you’re finally going to stop drinking that abominable stuff that’d strip the paint off my car?” Ivan asked. “Or—” He paused, looking closer at Elliott’s face. “Oh, you mean, about Mal. Well, of course I’m right. Or maybe Ramsey’s right, really.”

“Well, definitely don’t tell him that,” Elliott said.

“So you’re—”

“Don’t say it,” Elliott interrupted.

“Why the hell not?”

“Plausible deniability?” Elliott tapped his fingers on the counter. Then picked up his cold brew when the barista slid it over to him. He walked over to the condiments station, topped it off with some skim milk. Closed the lid and shook it, gently. “Also, ’cause I’m kind of terrified it’s not gonna work out again and I . . .”

Ivan put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay. Whatever happens. Nobody ever died because of blue balls.”

Elliott laughed. “That’s ’cause you don’t get any.”

“You don’t think Martina busts my balls?”

“I know she does.” Elliott pushed open the door and they stepped outside. “You just like it.”

“True,” Ivan admitted wryly.

They had about an hour before practice started, but they headed towards the athletic complex anyway. There was some thin sunshine attempting to break through the thick clouds covering campus, and Elliott tilted his head back towards the sky. Wanting to soak in what little of it there was.

“You’re gonna text that guy, then, and tell him it’s off?”

Elliott took a long sip of his coffee. “Yeah. I think so. I . . .you’re right about that, too. It wouldn’t be fair. Maybe I’ll tell him it could happen later, I just have to see how this thing goes, first.”

“Mal’s not going to be an easy nut to crack,” Ivan warned.

Like Elliott needed to be told that Malcolm McCoy would be difficult to seduce.

Ha .

There was a reason he’d considered this route before and to use Ramsey’s terminology, chickened out . Why he was still considering calling it all off now.

But then as they turned towards the rink, there was Mal’s distinctive head, ahead of them, his dark curls, a hair too long, blowing in the breeze, and his head was tilted back too, just as Elliott’s had been, only a moment before.

Elliott swallowed hard.

He’d been chasing this high since last year. But only Mal made him feel it.

“No,” Elliott agreed, “he won’t be easy. But that doesn’t mean he’s not worth the effort.”

Ivan made a satisfied noise, and Elliott looked over to see him smiling encouragingly. “There you are, that’s the Elliott I know,” he said, patting him on the back.

“Should you be so excited that I’m going for our liney’s dick?”

“You’ve been going for his dick since the moment you showed up on campus. Now you’re just finally going about it in a way that means it might actually happen. So yeah. I’m thinking it’s for the best. This is good. A good day.”

It was a good day, Elliott agreed as he finished his coffee.

They caught up to Mal as he headed towards the players’ entrance.

Mal turned as he heard them, and their gazes met.

That heat he was too familiar with bloomed inside him. Normally he’d say something cutting. Or explicitly designed so Mal wouldn’t dismiss him. Wouldn’t look away.

But Mal wasn’t looking away now.

“Ivan. Elliott. Good to see you.” His voice was as serious as ever. But even as they walked into the facility he hadn’t taken his eyes off Elliott.

“Malcolm,” Elliott said, and if he stepped a little too close to him and felt Mal stiffen in response when they walked through the doorway, then that wasn’t a bad thing, either.

Usually Mal ignored him until he didn’t have a choice—at least until Elliott made him pay attention to him, typically by saying or doing something that would ensure all his attention was focused where it belonged: on him.

But today, he actually turned to Elliott and as they walked into the locker room, said, “Hey, how was your statistics class today?”

He was supposed to ask. But Elliott didn’t bother to tamp down the thrill that all that serious intent was focused on him.

It turned out that was even better than having the bright, burning spotlight of Mal’s frustration and annoyance blinding him.

“Good. I think I followed the lecture a bit better. There’s a quiz next class.”

Mal nodded gravely. “We’ll make sure you’re ready for it. I know the goal is the big test, but it doesn’t hurt to ace these, too.”

“Sounds like a very Mal thing to say,” Elliott teased, but gently. Easily.

And for once, Mal didn’t take offense.

He smiled.

He goddamned smiled.

“Hey, acing things isn’t a bad thing,” Mal said.

Elliott nodded. “If it’s statistics, I’ll take it. How’s the paper coming?”

Frustration burned in his blue eyes. “I don’t think it’s very good. Or that I’m very good at this.”

“Must feel weird to not be brilliant at something.” Elliott stopped in front of his locker.

Mal’s was two down.

Someone, probably someone very intelligent, had put Brody between them. Likely with the hope that they wouldn’t destroy their easygoing teammate just to get at each other.

“Not weird, but . . .worrisome,” Mal said, and to Elliott’s continued astonishment, he didn’t immediately head to his own locker.

“You’ll get there,” Elliott promised.

“Right.” Mal shifted from one foot to the other, and Elliott realized this was one of a very limited list of times he’d ever seen the guy look uneasy. Unsure. “You wanna study tomorrow night?”

“We can do a tutoring session, yeah,” Elliott said. Even if he had to rearrange his schedule, he’d make it happen.

“Ah yeah, yes,” Malcolm said, nodding, as he turned away.

And Elliott wondered if that hadn’t been what he’d actually meant at all.

Maybe he’d enjoyed last night, too.

Mal was sure that the pleasant after-effects of yesterday evening—how much he’d actually shockingly enjoyed just studying with someone, with Elliott— would fade, especially during practice.

Because practice was generally where the two of them sniped at each other the most.

Mal took practice seriously. Elliott did not. He didn’t put his full effort into drills. Goofed off and spent more time laughing with Ramsey and Ivan and Finn than he did focusing on how they could make their line even better.

It drove Mal nuts, and now he was beginning to wonder if he’d done that on purpose.

Because it was similar today, Elliott a shade slower than he was during a game as they skated through the first set of back and forth drills, but it didn’t feel insolent, like a slap in the face, like it always had.

It was still a little grating, and Mal didn’t like it, because he’d never approached anything he didn’t commit a full effort to, but he was beginning to understand that when it came down to it, when it really mattered, he could trust Elliott to bring it.

Or at least that was what he told himself.

He took a break, grabbing his Gatorade from the wall, squirting it into his mouth.

Ivan skated over, sending up a shower of ice as he came to a sharp stop next to him. “You seem marginally less pissed off than normal,” he observed. “You finally getting used to the kid?”

“He’s nineteen ,” Malcolm said, even though just a few weeks ago, he’d probably have made a similar comment—and in a far more disparaging way.

“You tryin’ to convince yourself he’s all grown up, now?” Ivan joked.

Mal rolled his eyes. “No.”

But Ivan was observant and unflinchingly honest, and probably more than a little right.

Because, yeah, Mal couldn’t forget how he’d felt against him in the booth yesterday. He’d certainly felt like a man. Firm and confident and reassuring. And that was just his attitude.

There was his body . . .

No. You are not going there.

It had been easier—not easy , but easier— to inform his cock they were ignoring how goddamn attractive Elliott was when he was driving Mal nuts. When he was an insolent puppy, practically begging to be collared.

Now, well .

He was having a little more trouble.

Even right now, in the middle of a practice, on the ice, a place where Mal’s focus was usually tight, his cock was half-hard, throbbing as Elliott glanced at him, his bright green eyes skimming over his figure. That look was usually an annoyance. Now it was just arousing.

“Yeah, you can’t stand him at all ,” Ivan muttered dryly and patted him on the shoulder pad before skating away.

“Everything all good?” Zach skated in and stopped, leaning over the boards.

“Yeah,” Malcolm said. Because what else was he supposed to say? Elliott’s driving me crazy. And not in the usual way.

“You wanna run some more shot drills?” Zach asked. “Or will that just—”

He knew what Zach was going to say. Will that just put Elliott and you at each other’s throats again?

“No, we’re good,” Mal said before Zach could ask the question.

“You know, I kinda think you are,” Zach said, a thread of disbelief in his voice. “The tutoring must be going well, then.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“Well, I’m happy to be wrong.”

Mal looked over at the assistant coach, who just shrugged with a wry smile on his face. “I told Coach you two weren’t going to be able to work it out. That putting you together more was only a recipe for disaster.”

“It’s not—” Mal paused. “We’re not that bad.”

“Of course not.” Zach clapped his hands and called out, organizing the next set of drills.

Over in the goal, Finn made a face, obvious even behind his helmet.

“I’m assuming you don’t want me to take it easy on him,” Mal said under his breath referring to their starting goalie and his occasional crises of confidence.

Mal understood better than anyone how much impact a father could have on a son. But then Finn’s dad wasn’t inflexible and cold like Malcolm’s was. He was just famous. More than famous, really. Every time he showed up on campus, he was surrounded by kids, excited to see one of the most famous hockey players of the twentieth century on their campus. And every time he showed up, it felt like Finn shrank more into himself.

“No,” Zach said.

Mal nodded once. Set down his Gatorade and picked up his stick. “Alright, then.”

Ivan passed him the puck, and he skated down to the other end of the ice.

Mal felt the world around him fold inward as he pulled his focus even tighter.

He could feel Brody next to him, his stick flicking out, trying to steal the puck, but Mal had the best technique on the team—earned through hours of hard practice—and Brody almost never managed to grab it from him.

He didn’t now, either.

Down the ice, Mal eyed Finn, who was stock-still, waiting on how Mal might give his next move away so he could adjust accordingly.

He’d practiced these moves a hundred times. A thousand, probably. Even with Finn seeing them a lot over the last year, he could probably still fool him. But instead of pulling out one of them, Mal loosened his focus and let instinct take him.

Took a hard right instead, looping around and then behind the goal, wind whistling past his ears as he picked up speed, Brody behind him swearing as he tried to keep up.

Finn was half a second late, and Mal flicked the puck into the corner right before Finn’s stick came down, blocking the way in.

“Goddamn it,” Finn cried out, whacking his stick on the ice in frustration.

Mal skated over to the boards and watched as Elliott took the next run. He was sharp, maybe sharper than he ever was at practice—but then Mal knew how good his moves had been, and Elliott never met a challenge he didn’t want to exceed.

Ramsey was fast on the ice—but Elliott was faster. He was the fastest, quickest skater on the team, a few inches shorter than Mal himself, a lean machine of efficiency.

He shot across the rink with a determined effort, nearly leaving Ramsey in the dust, and then changed direction twice, effortlessly, when Ramsey actually managed to catch up to him.

“Fuck you!” Ramsey yelled as Elliott pulled a flashy little backwards move, flicking the puck between Ramsey’s legs.

He was a great defender. Mal had honed his skills on Ramsey’s own, but Elliott had a new speed, a new inventiveness today, and then to Mal’s surprise, he approached the goal much as Mal often did. Mal recognized that pattern and was almost pissed that Elliott was skating it better than he did.

But he didn’t take the shot when Mal usually did, waiting a second, then another, longer, stretching it out until almost the last moment, before flicking the puck up and in, just above Finn’s right shoulder.

A second later, Elliott skated to a stop right next to Mal. He was breathing hard, and Mal wanted to pretend he wasn’t affected by the warm body next to him.

But he was.

“Great shot,” he said, before Elliott could ruin the moment.

Because he would. Right?

“Really was,” Elliott said. “You should try that next time.”

“Holding a second longer? It’s not my norm—”

“God forbid,” Elliott said, but he was chuckling.

“But it’s a good idea.”

Elliott flashed him a grin, full of heat, and it blasted right through Mal.

Shit .

Patting him on the arm, Elliott gave him one last lingering look and took off.

They went through the drill two more times. Once more with Finn. Then with the backup goalie, Nick.

Mal was feeling good, focused tight, right in the zone, as they walked off the ice. Didn’t realize anything was really wrong, until he’d nearly got his gear stripped off.

Then he realized one of his straps had twisted when he’d put it on earlier and the hard knot had rubbed him, leaving a bright red mark.

Or he assumed it was bright red, because it was just out of sight, between his hip and his torso, nearly on the top curve of his ass.

He rubbed it absently as he showered and realized he must still be rubbing it when he tugged his underwear on after.

It was annoyingly right on the line, and as he sat down, pulling his socks on, the elastic waistband rubbed it wrong.

He must’ve made a face, and well, he wasn’t all that surprised that Elliott was watching, because he asked in a low voice, “You alright there, man?”

“Uh, yeah. Just a spot that chafed, that’s all.”

But before he could stop him—tell him again it was nothing—Elliott was skirting around Brody, who was very clearly trying to look elsewhere, and he was kneeling down close. Checking it out. If he shifted his gaze, he’d get an eyeful of Mal’s cock. Covered, yes, but perking up, thinking that maybe this might finally be the time that someone other than Mal touched it.

No. No. No.

Then Elliott’s fingertips grazed the spot. Mal nearly gasped, and not because it hurt. “You nearly broke the skin,” Elliott said softly. “You should get it patched up.”

“I . . .uh . . .it’s no big deal,” he said.

“But it could be,” Elliott said. There was his touch again, soft and careful, right along the waistband of his briefs.

Mal couldn’t help his sharp intake of breath.

“Could be a real problem, since it’s right here. Could irritate it all the time. Could get infected, even,” Elliott said.

It would be so easy to just tell him, yeah, I’ll go see the trainers. Get it taken care of.

But he didn’t.

Later, he wouldn’t know if he’d said otherwise on purpose, because if he did, he knew what would happen. But if he didn’t know for sure, it was only because he wouldn’t let himself ponder the question.

“It’s fine. No big deal,” he repeated.

And on cue, Elliott reached out and took his arm and tugged him towards the training rooms. Didn’t call for one of the guys who took such good care of them. Instead, he gestured towards an empty bench and went over to one of the sets of drawers, full of medical supplies.

He hadn’t had time to put more than underwear on, either, and his boxer briefs were tight, a bright green, and hugged his hips and his ass like . . .

Mal swallowed hard.

Always, before this, he’d look away. Not let himself look his fill.

Because it felt wrong, but also because it felt like playing with fire.

If you’re not going to touch, you shouldn’t look.

And he’d never had any intention of touching.

That certainty was fading by the second.

Not when Elliott raised up on his toes, stretching out that long, lean form as he searched for one last thing. His skin was milky white and strong, muscle bunching underneath it. It looked soft. You want to touch it. Touch him. All over.

A creaking noise surprised Mal, and he realized he’d fisted the edge of the bench and it was protesting at the strength of his grip.

“Here we go,” Elliott said, turning around finally. His gaze was full of concern. Soft with it, but there was that same challenging spark of heat, too.

The one that Mal always saw when he looked at him.

He’d always told himself he didn’t like it. That he didn’t want to be challenged.

But maybe he did.

“Turn a bit,” Elliott said, and just as Mal complied, he reached out and tugged down the waistband of Mal’s underwear.

Not all the way. But nearly enough.

Mal yelped in surprise.

“Sorry,” Elliott said, but the corner of his mouth was upturned, and he didn’t look sorry at all.

Then he was crowding in close, ointment on his fingers that he soothed over the spot in question. He was practically between Mal’s legs, Mal’s gaze glued to the top of his head.

His hair was brown. Or else Mal had always thought it was. But it was more than brown too, with hints of red and blond running through it. Elliott kept it cropped pretty close, but there was enough of it that he could easily reach out and tangle his fingers in it . . .

No. No. No, you won’t.

The bench creaked again.

“Sorry,” Elliott repeated. “Trying to be gentle.”

Like Mal was actually losing his mind over pain .

Well, it did fucking hurt. If Elliott looked down, he’d get a full view of how much unrequited pain Malcolm was in. All that arousal, going nowhere.

Elliott was actually pretty good at this. Finished putting on the ointment and then stuck a thin pad against it. Expertly tore off a piece of tape with his teeth and then secured the bandage with it.

“There,” Elliott said, taking a step back, “that’s better.” He reached down and tugged the waistband carefully over the spot, eyes never leaving Mal’s.

And they twinkled, practically, with mischief and care and something else.

Mal knew he was trembling. So horny that if Elliott touched him one more time, he might not be responsible for what happened next.

Elliott’s gaze finally drifted down, not to his cock but to his lips.

It would be easy , Mal told himself. You could just give in. Lean in. Find out why all these boys pant after him.

Except that Malcolm had never, ever wanted to be one in a long line of suckers.

He’d pathetically hoped, a very long time ago, that he might be special. He hadn’t been. Learned the hard way that maybe he wouldn’t be.

But then, if he really believed that was true, why hadn’t he ever broken this standoff with his body?

Mal didn’t know.

“You good?” Elliott asked, tongue flicking out and wetting his lips. They were moist, now. They looked as soft as the rest of him.

“Uh . . .” Mal didn’t know how to speak. Heard the roughness in his throat. Tried to clear it. Once. Twice. “I’m good.” The moment dragged on. Mal wondered why Elliott didn’t just lean in and take. He wanted to. At least Mal wanted him to want to, and he never really had before.

That’s a lie . Lie to him, but not to yourself.

But Elliott didn’t. He was still right in Mal’s space, definitely in his bubble, but he didn’t move a fraction of an inch closer.

“Thanks,” Mal finally got out. Knowing he should be appreciative. But not sure for what anymore.

“’Course,” Elliott said. “Anytime.”

There was a knowing edge to the word, anytime .

Like all Mal would have to do was say the word, and Elliott would do something—hopefully a lot of things—about that heat between them.

Mal would just have to be the one to say.

And he couldn’t say.

The words felt trapped inside him, under too many layers of ice, painstakingly and achingly created over the years.

At first the wall had been on purpose. Now it didn’t feel purposeful so much as a force of habit that he didn’t know how to break.

“I . . .uh . . .better get going,” Mal said, even though deep down, he didn’t want to go anywhere. Maybe he and Elliott could exist just like this, their skin not touching but close enough that it could . Elliott swaying closer, his hair damp and curling at the temples, his green eyes bright and knowing when they gazed up into his own.

Maybe Elliott felt the same, because he didn’t move. Not right away.

He’d fought the compulsion for what felt like forever, and he gave up when Elliott finally took a single step back.

Let his gaze sweep down Elliott’s torso. The lightly muscled shoulders, his pecs with their pale pink nipples, and then lower, appreciating the taut stomach and abs and finally following the trail of light brown hair down to his waistband.

His skin didn’t just feel warm now, but burning.

Then his gaze snagged on the bloom of a dark gray and purple bruise curving around towards his back.

Without thinking, Mal touched it gently, four fingertips pressing against his skin. And it was soft. His cock throbbed with that knowledge.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly. “This looks rough.”

“It’s . . .” Elliott’s voice was rough and hushed. “It’s fine. Really. Uh . . .from a few days ago.”

Mal forced himself to stop touching him. Especially when he was determined not to do anything about it—there was that long-standing habit he didn’t know how to break.

But even if he didn’t intend to break it, he could help Elliott the same way he’d helped him. The bruise was in a weird spot. It must hurt. Mal knew, because Mal had had plenty of bruises in that vicinity over the years.

“I can help,” Mal said, and only then did Elliott take another few steps back, allowing Mal to slide off the bench. He knew what he wanted, rummaging through the drawers of supplies until he found what he was looking for.

“This’ll help with some of the pain.”

Elliott gave a short incredulous bark of laughter. “That’s not . . .uh . . .well, not what hurts.”

Mal didn’t ask what hurt. Didn’t need to look down again, either, to know that Elliott was probably sporting a hard-on in his briefs. Same as Mal’s.

You know what that means. What it should mean.

But Mal pushed the voice aside, and squeezing numbing ointment onto his fingers, reached over and began to carefully massage it into Elliott’s multi-colored skin.

“That should feel better,” Mal said with an approving nod.

He grabbed an antiseptic wipe and made sure to clean off his fingertips. He didn’t want them going numb, too. He wanted to feel that satin smooth brush of Elliott’s skin under them forever.

“Yeah.” Elliott nodded.

“You know Brody’s thinking about going to med school?” Mal said, because he needed to say something to break this nearly unbearable tension and maybe a mention of their teammate might distract him enough that he’d go soft-ish before they headed back into the locker room.

They’d been here long enough the locker room had likely emptied out by now.

“Yeah,” Elliott said.

“Guess we’re gonna give him a run for his money.”

Elliott chuckled under his breath. “Guess so.”

Mal tossed the wipe in the trash. Had felt his blood clear enough now that he could look at Elliott without being certain he was about point two seconds away from losing all semblance of control.

Elliott trailed him out of the treatment room. “We still on for tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Mal said, nodding. “You want the library or Sammy’s again?”

“I really love those smoothies,” Elliott joked.

“Sammy’s it is.” Normally, Mal would never study so casually but last time had gone so well maybe there was something to be said for it.

Or maybe it had nothing to do with Sammy’s at all.

Mal told himself he was not looking, but he couldn’t help it when the first thing Elliott did when he got back was to his locker was pull his phone out.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, just forgot to send a text before practice. So sending it now,” Elliott said, flashing him a bright smile.

“Oh.” Mal wanted to ask who it was to, but that was absolutely none of his business and it would’ve been completely out of character for him to wonder—and to care .

Elliott looked up from the screen. He looked regretful. About the text he was sending? God, Mal hoped so. “Does it ever suck being so honest?”

Mal didn’t know how completely honest he was being.

After all, he’d been pretending, nearly from the beginning, that Elliott didn’t entice him.

“Yeah, sometimes,” Malcolm admitted.

“Ugh,” Elliott said, letting out a groan as he finished dressing. He glanced over at the phone again, like he was worried about the response he was going to get.

“But,” Mal added, “I’ve never regretted it, in the end.”

“Right. Right .” Elliott gave him another one of those smiles that lit him up inside.

Malcolm grabbed his bag. “See you tomorrow,” he said. He could wait another minute for Elliott. He could tell he was nearly ready to go, and then they could walk out together and . . .well, and do what ?

Malcolm didn’t know.

Which was why he escaped.

Or at least, as he walked home, that was what he told himself he’d done.

Escaped with his mind and body completely intact.