7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Elliott mostly liked school. That was a fact that would probably shock the hell out of Mal if he ever admitted to it, but once he’d started to get the required classes out of the way, the subjects he wasn’t personally interested in, he’d really started to enjoy it. Especially his literature classes.

Unfortunately this class was not his literature class.

It was statistics, which, even with Mal’s tutoring, was something he was never going to be good at and definitely never going to like.

Dr. Prosser went on to the next slide, explaining in detail how to solve the problem in a slow monotone that more often than not made Elliott want to fall asleep.

Still, he’d been astonished, that first test, at the F scrawled across the top.

Math wasn’t his strong suit, but he’d also never sucked at it. And despite the fact that nobody assumed student-athletes would carry their weight in class, Elliott mostly tried to stay up on his homework and reading.

Sure, he prioritized the stuff he enjoyed, like reading for one of his lit classes, but he did keep up with stats—and hadn’t understood how he could be flunking.

He wasn’t the best at math, but Elliott had still expected better.

The two times he’d shown up for Dr. Prosser’s office hours, to ask how he could improve his grades before Coach B had intervened, she’d been unavailable and the second time she’d claimed she had to step out for a last-minute errand. She’d promised to email him, but hadn’t.

Elliott was pretty sure she just had a problem with athletes. But then, if that was why, shouldn’t Malcolm have done worse in her class?

Of course, Malcolm was Malcolm.

Elliott shifted in his seat and tried to pay attention.

AKA tried not to think about Mal.

But it was harder even than normal because Malcolm and statistics had gotten tangled together in his head, and it felt like he couldn’t untangle them even if he’d wanted to.

Dr. Prosser continued droning about standard deviation and the more complicated forms of calculating it, and what different real-world applications they could have.

The only real-world applications Elliott had for statistics were for how they were calculated when he was in the pros, hockey becoming his primary career. But then, he hedged, that was probably why so many professors hated athletes. They weren’t even willing to pretend interest. Or that this wasn’t a massive waste of their time.

Elliott surreptitiously pulled his phone out of his pocket. Typed out a quick message.

This class would be a lot more fun if we could calculate everything with hockey stats.

Elliott didn’t expect Mal to respond right away—or frankly, at all.

Unlike the rest of the guys on the team, Mal took school incredibly seriously. Probably because he’d long declared that instead of pro hockey being the end result, it was only a stepping stone for him. Mal wanted to end up managing an NHL team. Making all the personnel and player decisions.

Making his club—and himself—a hell of a lot of money, probably.

Did Elliott think it was a fucking waste, with how well Mal played?

Hell yes.

But that decision wasn’t up to him.

To Elliott’s surprise, his phone buzzed.

Are you texting? During class?

Elliott rolled his eyes.

Yes, Dad. You caught me.

He was sure that would be it—Mal was painfully uptight about this kind of thing. Frankly, about a lot of things.

But, a response appeared on his screen a moment later. If I was your father, I’d definitely let you know how inappropriate I found it.

Of course he would. This was standard Malcolm McCoy behavior. But there was something more to it, too. Almost a hint of flirtation, buried underneath all that proper, icy behavior. And Elliott had never been good at leaving well enough alone.

You gonna spank me, then?

Elliott entertained himself by imagining the disgusted and pissed off expression on Mal’s face as he read it. Because there was no way Mal would reply to that. As soon as Elliott got flirty, he always disengaged, growing even chillier than normal.

But shocking him again, another text came in.

No, Mal texted, you’d probably enjoy that too much.

And well, sue him , he probably would.

I like you thinking about my kinks, Elliott texted back.

And even though Mal didn’t reply to that text, Elliott was still grinning as he slipped the phone back into his pocket and tried to drag his attention to what mattered right now: Dr. Prosser’s slides, and not Mal’s assessment of his sexual preferences.

Twenty minutes later, Dr. Prosser distributed their graded quizzes as class drew to an end, and Elliott stared down at the paper on the desk with incredulity.

A C? He’d missed four questions?

That couldn’t possibly be. He’d understood the material. Been doubly sure that he’d understood the material since he and Mal had gone over it carefully. Had he miscalculated something? He didn’t think so. But nothing else made sense.

He flipped the test to the back but there were no comments, even though by glancing around him, he could see that she’d scribbled plenty of notes on his classmates’ quizzes.

Elliott rose slowly and made his way over to where Dr. Prosser was packing up her laptop.

“Hey, Dr. Prosser?” Elliott asked, as politely as he could, even with the panic streaking through him. He couldn’t keep getting C’s. He needed B’s—preferably A’s, in fact—if he wanted to stay on the hockey team.

She glanced up at him, looking even more frazzled than usual. It was funny, her lecture-mode was so different than non-lecture mode.

“Oh yes, hello,” she said.

“I was wondering about my quiz,” Elliott said, extending it in her direction. “I was pretty sure I got all of these right.”

“Well, obviously not?” She shoved her unruly hair behind her ears and looked everywhere but at him. “I’m not sure how much more help I can be.”

That was ridiculous, because she’d been no help at all. Brushing him off every time he tried to talk to her before or after class, and then there were the two times he’d attempted to go to her office hours.

Including the email she’d promised that she’d never sent.

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“Read through the material carefully. Study.” She shrugged helplessly.

"I have been, though," Elliott said, trying to keep his frustration tamped down. "I even got a tutor. I tried to go to your office hours, but you weren't there."

"I've been—I have a sick relative," she finally said. But that was all. She seemed uninterested, or actually more like distracted , and just brushed him off with a wave of her hand and a, “I’m sorry but I have to go. Email me if you have any more questions.”

It seemed transparent what the issue was. She didn’t like athletes, and she thought he was just blowing this whole class off. But he wasn’t . He’d studied for this quiz. He and Mal both.

Mal had even told him he was ready.

But ready was not a C. Elliott didn’t need to be Malcolm to know that much.

“Alright,” Elliott said, not wanting to push too hard. Frankly, he’d never had to beg a professor like this, and maybe she was right. Maybe he just needed to dedicate himself harder to studying.

Well, next time he and Malcolm met up, he’d insist Mal go over every answer he’d gotten wrong, and they’d figure out how he’d miscalculated so drastically she hadn’t been able to give him any points.

He was just walking out of the classroom building when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

It was another message from Mal.

What? Your kinks don’t include me kicking your ass on the ice? See you tonight at practice.

Elliott grinned, his mood already better.

Ivan had told him he couldn’t die from blue balls, but Elliott was beginning to question that particular proclamation.

He shifted uncomfortably on the weight bench. Telling himself that he was not going to look over at where Malcolm was lifting with Ramsey and Ivan.

“If you look over there one more time, you’re going to get a freaking neck cramp,” Finn said.

“I—” Elliott broke off the claim that he wasn’t, because he clearly was.

“Exactly. You gettin’ anywhere?”

Elliott wasn’t about to kiss and tell. Even though there hadn’t been any kissing, unfortunately. “Don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Yeah, you do,” Finn said with another knowing glance in Mal’s direction. “You two finally stop bickering—and you stop pulling his pigtails, trying to get his attention—something’s going down.”

“Maybe we decided to be adults,” Elliott claimed.

“Maybe you finally figured out why you kept egging each other on,” Finn muttered under his breath.

“We give each other an edge.”

“Believe me. I’m familiar.” Finn’s voice was wry. And yeah, he probably hadn’t enjoyed yesterday’s drill, but Elliott knew it was good for him. It was better to give up goals now, in practice, than it was to do it in a game.

“You’re welcome,” Elliott said, but he kept his tone kind. Understanding.

He liked Finn and he knew how much the guy struggled.

Every goal an opposing team scored on him churned him up.

“Just don’t lose that edge, when you two finally fuck,” Finn said and shot Elliott another knowing look as he turned away to head to another machine.

Elliott did another set of reps, his biceps burning.

But not as bad as his balls ached. Elliott didn’t know what satisfaction was anymore. He’d texted Austin from Koffee Klatch that he was “involved” with someone else and he was going to see where it went.

Even though “involved” was probably a vast exaggeration.

It felt like he and Mal had barely stopped barking at each other at every available opportunity. But then, there’d been yesterday after practice, when Mal had been hard and ready in his boxer briefs, undeniable heat in his eyes as he’d stared at Elliott.

So he wanted him, too.

It had taken everything inside Elliott to not just lean in and take .

But he was beginning to understand what Ramsey had meant about not just telling Mal he wanted him—but making Mal want him .

If he wanted to melt all the ice around him, he was going to need to find a new reservoir of patience. Wait Mal out, until Mal decided that what he wanted—what he needed— was Elliott.

And until then, his balls were going to ache.

Touching himself wasn’t going to work.

And he certainly wasn’t going to blow it by letting some other guy take the edge off.

No. He was determined now to see this through to the end.

Whatever the end turned out to be.

After their workout, he showered and changed and was waiting under the athletic complex overhang, the rain drizzling from the sky in big, slow drops as the sun finished going down.

Well, if he’d been able to see the sun, anyway.

A second later, Malcolm came out.

“Hey,” Elliott said, pulling up his hood. Mal did the same, nodding at him, and they headed off in the direction of Sammy’s.

“How did the quiz go?” Mal asked as Elliott pulled the door open.

Elliott grimaced. “Not as good as I’d hoped. I got a C.”

“But not bad,” Mal said, with unexpected diplomacy.

“What?” Elliott joked, as they approached the counter. “Aren’t you supposed to pin me to the wall over anything less than an A?”

Mal’s gaze swung his way, unexpected heat burning his blue eyes. “What?” he barked.

Elliott’s mind rewound and he laughed weakly, even though his double-speak was not very funny. Not funny at all, really, not unless it actually happened for real.

If Mal really pinned him to the wall and kissed him, lips trailing down his neck, hips working hard and relentless against his own . . .

“Uh, joke?” Elliott claimed, shrugging. He’d needed to make the joke to deflect from feeling the way he did about his quiz grade.

Mal rolled his eyes, but when he reached for his wallet in the back pocket of his sweats, Elliott swore his fingers were trembling.

“It’s on me,” he said, as he paid. “You got it the last time.”

“Aw, you’re a sweet date,” Elliott teased.

And sure enough, he got another one of those looks, full of heat and longing and terror, before something slammed down in Mal’s eyes and he went stern, again.

The problem with that was that the sternness, which had been a total buzz killer before, was now kind of a turn-on.

When even Mal’s annoying habits work you up, you’re fucked .

“It’s not a date,” Mal said, brows drawing together.

Elliott nudged him with his elbow. “Just breathe, Mal. It’s not a ring or an invite to my bed.”

“It’s a study session,” Mal said, and yeah, he definitely looked a bit agitated.

“Yep, it sure is,” Elliott agreed, nodding. If the word date sent him into a meltdown, then he just wouldn’t use it. After all, it really wasn’t a date, anyway.

“I don’t know why you even need to go there,” Mal said.

“To tease you,” Elliott said with exasperation. To flirt with you .

Malcolm looked surprised. Astonished, really. “Is that why you do it?”

“ Yes .” Elliott nudged him again. Before a few weeks ago, he’d gone out of his way to avoid touching Malcolm off the ice. Now, he felt like an addict who couldn’t wait to get another hit.

“Well. That . . .” Mal cleared his throat. “That explains some things.”

“It’s just fun, though I know how you feel about that particular three letter word.”

As they settled down in the same booth they’d occupied a few nights ago, the corner of Mal’s mouth tilted up, almost into a smile. “That’s the same thing, yeah? You’re teasing me.”

“Finally, you’re catching on,” Elliott said, pulling out the quiz, sliding it across the tabletop. “You wanna nail me against the wall now or later?”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous. But . . .yeah, let’s go over this.”

Elliott was beginning to learn that when Mal wanted to focus—or when he felt like he should focus—there was no dissuading him. No distracting him.

Now was one of those times. Elliott could tell now when that switch flipped. He watched as Mal impatiently pushed his hair back as he leaned over the table, eyes skimming over the paper.

Honestly, he was glad for it. With Dr. Prosser apparently abandoning him because she just didn’t expect any better from a hockey player, he only had Mal left to save him from this particular disaster.

“Do you see here?” Mal said, pulling a pencil out of his backpack and pointing to the paper. Elliott craned his neck to read partially upside down.

“No?”

“Ugh, just a sec,” Mal said, and then suddenly he was sliding out of the booth, one big hip pushing Elliott over on his side.

It was a lot to suddenly have his bubble invaded by Malcolm McCoy.

He’d done it to him, sure. But he’d anticipated doing it. Braced for it.

This time, he hadn’t been ready.

Mal was big and warm and so fucking close, gazing over at him with those soulful blue eyes. “Do you see it now?”

Ugh, no. But you sure fucking feel it.

Elliott forced himself to look down on the paper and focus on something else besides his dick throbbing in his pants. “I . . .uh . . .”

“Ell,” Mal said, and he actually sounded amused now. “Are you even trying?”

Normally that question might feel like an accusation falling from Mal’s mouth, but now when Elliott looked up, he realized that Malcolm was actually fucking smiling .

“That’s not fair,” Elliott muttered.

“Was it fair when you did it to me ?”

“No. Yes. Maybe.” Elliott laughed then.

“Okay, seriously. Focus. At least look at the paper.”

But Elliott didn’t want to. He wanted to stay pressed up against Mal. Wanted to keep basking in the banked fire in his eyes.

Still, he made himself focus. If he didn’t, he was afraid that all this might end, abruptly, and he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. Looked at the quiz, and as Mal explained, Elliott began to think something wasn’t quite right.

Was it easy with no blood in his brain? No, it was not. But he did it anyway.

“That’s how I did it,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Mal looked as confused as Elliott felt.

“I mean . . .I did it that way. Exactly the way you explained.”

Mal pursed his lips. “Then how do you explain this?” He tapped his pencil where Elliott’s answer was listed there, in typed black and white.

“I don’t know,” Elliott admitted.

“Well . . .let’s go over the rest of these,” Mal said.

They did, and out of the three questions he’d missed, only one of them felt legitimate.

“I can’t explain this.” Mal hesitated. “Is there any chance you have dyslexia?”

Elliott shook his head.

“I didn’t think so,” Mal said. “You’re such a big reader. I would say there’s something weird going on, but Dr. Prosser seemed fair enough when I took the class two years ago.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to do better next time.” It was hard not to feel frustrated. Frankly, a little desperate—and not just to get into Mal’s pants.

“It seems like you did just fine this time,” Mal said, to Elliott’s surprise. And then even more, he was rewarded with grudging admiration blooming across Mal’s face.

“But I got these wrong—”

“You won’t. Not again,” Mal said firmly. “You actually did a pretty good job.”

“High praise coming from you.” Elliott took a risk and teased. Not just to get a rise out of Mal, but to make himself feel better. And he was rewarded again, this time with an actual goddamn smile.

“This is a tough section.”

“I can’t let it get the best of me,” Elliott said with determination.

Mal actually reached out and touched him, patting him encouragingly on the back. “You’re doing good, Ell.”

“Ell, huh?” He risked another little flirtation.

Kept waiting for Malcolm to freeze up again, but he wasn’t.

If Ramsey in fact ended up being right about this whole goddamn thing, then he was never going to let Elliott live it down.

Elliott was never going to let himself live it down. Imagine if he’d used this approach from day one? He and Mal could’ve been hot and heavy this whole fucking time.

Because he already knew when he got Malcolm in his bed, he wasn’t going to be quick to let him back out again.

“It’s your name, isn’t it?” Mal slid out of the booth and returned to his side.

Elliott didn’t bother to hide his disappointment.

“But you never call me that. I’m surprised you didn’t use my full name, all those times you yelled at me.”

“You mean all the times you deserved me yelling at you?” Mal raised an eyebrow.

“Well, maybe a little.”

“I might’ve. If I’d known your full name.”

Elliott leaned over the table. “Elliott Archer Jones.” Then he flashed his best smile. A year ago, six months ago, even a few weeks ago, it hadn’t worked. It had only ever put Mal’s back up. But today, it felt like Malcolm just melted with it.

Well. Goddamn.

“Archer, huh?”

“It’s an old family name, and since I was the only boy, I ended up with it. Mom likes to joke that they kept going until they got one. Good thing I wasn’t a girl, huh?” Elliott fluttered his eyelashes in a purposefully exaggerated movement.

Stuff like this used to only piss Malcolm off. But today, he seemed softer. More reachable.

Mal chuckled dryly. “Why is that?”

“Well, duh , ’cause then you wouldn’t be attracted to me.”

That got him another eye roll, but Elliott was pleased that Mal didn’t immediately protest or deny it completely.

Instead, he changed the subject.

“Well, next time I’ll be sure to deploy the whole name ,” Mal said. “Do you want to start the session now or wait for food?” He paused. “Or you could start my paper?”

“You finished it?” Elliott couldn’t deny he was eager to cross the seduction finish line, which was looking more and more probable—but he was also excited to read Mal’s essay. Something that might give him more than the stingy little bits of himself that Mal was willing to dole out.

Mal nodded. “This draft anyway. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to say.”

“Maybe.”

“I emailed it to you right before our afternoon workout,” Mal said.

Pulling out his laptop from his bag, Elliott found it in his email and with his heart beating a little faster in anticipation, began to read.

Was aware that with each paragraph he consumed, the more agitated Mal seemed to become.

Not to anyone else, probably.

But Elliott had made a study of Malcolm’s behavior over the years. Even though he’d pulled out that same workbook he’d been scribbling in the other night, he wasn’t writing quickly, decisively. And every few seconds, he shifted uncomfortably on the seat, changing positions half a dozen times in only the time it took Elliott to read a few sentences.

“You alright over there?” Elliott didn’t look up from the screen. “That chafed spot still bugging you?”

“That—” Mal stopped. “No. No. It’s fine. The . . .uh . . .nursing you did with it was satisfactory.”

“That’s me, Nurse Ell. Happy to tend to whatever ails you,” he said lightly.

Finally let his eyes drift up, meet Mal’s. Watched as his eyes darkened. Like he was thinking of Elliott tending to a very specific ailment.

He was thinking it. Elliott knew he was thinking it. That they were both freaking thinking it. But why didn’t he give in? Why didn’t he say, screw this study session, let’s just screw? Or whatever that was in Malcolm McCoy language.

But Mal didn’t say anything. Instead, he looked back down, at his workbook.

Well .

Elliott’s cock throbbed and he had a feeling his balls were about to do the impossible and grow even bluer .