9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Elliott was a freaking pro.

He could do this.

He could walk into the locker room and get ready for tonight’s game without his whole body turning into mush the moment he spotted Malcolm.

You got what you wanted.

Yeah. He had.

But unlike every other time he’d hooked up, it hadn’t felt like the end, but instead like the beginning.

Usually when he scratched an itch, it was scratched, and he didn’t need to do it again.

But all Elliott had freaking thought about today was doing it again, over and over again, Mal’s eyes going blurry and soft as he sent him over the edge.

It was becoming a litany in his mind, an obsession that he wasn’t sure how to handle.

Thus, why he was loitering outside the rink, half-hidden as he pretended to be fascinated by something on his phone.

Was it because Malcolm had been, unbelievably, a virgin?

Elliott had had sex with virgins before, but it had never felt like this before. Like the guy had sunk his hooks into him, and Elliott was perfectly, wonderfully happy with that situation.

He’d meant what he’d told Mal in the aftermath, last night. He didn’t want anyone else. He couldn’t even imagine flirting uselessly with the guy at Koffee Klatch or any one of the many cute boys at the Gamma Sigma house.

But would this fuck with his mind? His focus? His play?

He remembered, too well, what had happened the last time he’d decided to change something between them.

His edge had fucking vanished.

“You okay, Ell?”

He looked up and Ramsey was walking towards him, a frown on his face.

“I . . .uh . . .yeah.”

Ramsey didn’t look convinced. “Brody mentioned seeing you out here, dawdling. You aren’t trying to avoid Mal, are you?”

Elliott winced, internally. “No. No. Not at all.” Then winced, in full view of Ramsey, who had a brain like a freaking trap.

Ramsey’s gaze narrowed. “That’s not convincing, Ell.”

“It’s fine. It’s really fine.” We fucked, and it was glorious. I’m never getting over it. I’m gonna walk into the locker room and he’s going to be there, all stern and hot and I’m gonna melt like ice cream on a hot summer day.

Ramsey shook his head. “I still can’t fucking believe you wouldn’t take my advice.”

Elliott managed to hide his surprise, barely. Ramsey hadn’t guessed why he was out here. He thought he really was avoiding Mal because they were fighting. Not because they were fucking.

“You’re not always right about everything.”

But, Ramsey had been right about this. The high that he’d convinced Malcolm McCoy to come to him, and to come —not just once, but twice— was never gonna fade. And, unlike what Elliott had always imagined, it wasn’t really about ego at all.

It wasn’t even about accomplishing something that nobody ever had done before.

It was so much more personal than that.

It was Mal himself. Elliott was beginning to believe he was the prize.

Ramsey cackled. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m fucking right about everything.”

“Sure,” Elliott retorted.

“Well, are you coming or not?”

Elliott nodded. Maybe if he walked in with Ramsey distracting him, he wouldn’t look over at Mal and give the whole game away.

He hadn’t minded that Mal had wanted to keep this between them. He wasn’t even sure what this was, anyway. The problem with that hadn’t occurred to him until ten minutes ago, when he’d realized the first time he saw Mal, everything he’d thought about all fucking day was going to show, plainly, on his face.

Not just on his face, but on the ice, too.

“You didn’t stop by the house yesterday,” Ramsey observed as they walked down the corridor towards the locker room.

Elliott shrugged. “Mal wanted to do another tutoring session. I’m not gonna argue with him. The guy is gonna single-handedly make sure I don’t fail stats.”

“You didn’t even want to swing by after?” Ramsey was looking at him closely now—while pretending he wasn’t. Elliott had begun to learn some of Ramsey’s tricks. Not all of them, but enough to recognize when he was working an angle.

“I was tired.” Elliott knew he was a shitty liar. “Mal wore me out.” True in all versions.

“Ah.” There seemed to be a wealth of meaning in that single word, but as Elliott pushed the door to the locker room open, Ramsey didn’t say anything else.

And there was Malcolm.

His bare back was to Elliott, that big, broad gorgeous back. He’d touched it all over yesterday. Felt how strong it was. Had discovered how vulnerable Mal was, really.

Then he turned, and Elliott was very proud that he didn’t stumble, not once, when their gazes met.

Mal’s poker face was brilliant, but then that didn’t surprise Elliott particularly. He was beginning to realize just how much of a front Mal showed to the world. And how good he was at getting behind it.

Elliott walked over to his locker and began the long process that he always did before every single game.

Brody wasn’t here yet, so there was no obstacle to looking his fill of Mal.

“Hey,” Elliott said. Was proud of how steady his voice seemed.

“Cutting it close again?” Mal shot him a look, quick and efficient, but ultimately revealing, as Elliott pulled off his jacket, then his shirt.

“You’re not on Ivan’s ass, and he’s not even here yet,” Elliott grumbled. This is good. Bicker the way you normally do .

“You don’t know that I won’t be,” Mal said self-righteously. Yeah, he’d probably already texted Ivan. Like the overprotective big brother that he was.

How had that energy somehow become really, incredibly hot?

Elliott didn’t know. He prayed he’d stay soft and pushed down his pants.

“Had a big win yesterday,” Ramsey announced to the locker room at large. “Rented out the arcade tonight.”

“First, it’s a school night,” Mal said. “And second off—”

“Don’t say I shouldn’t be gambling,” Ramsey teased Mal.

“You know you shouldn’t be.” Mal was so righteous. He practically burned with it. And so did Elliott, for a host of other, far less upstanding, reasons.

“Well, then you’re not invited,” Ramsey joked, but then his expression softened and he slung an arm around Mal’s shoulders. “Come on, McCoy. It’ll be fun.”

“Fun,” Mal grumbled.

“Fun,” Ramsey repeated. He exchanged a glance with Elliott. Like he expected him to chime in. And on any other day, he would’ve.

“I’m busy,” Brody said, “but I can stop by for a few.”

Elliott was pretty sure Brody was fucking his gargantuan football player roommate, but Brody hadn’t told him yet, and he’d been so preoccupied he hadn’t been bothering to try to get him to tell him.

But maybe he should, tonight.

“I’m in,” Finn said.

“I’d have rented out Darcelle’s, if only to see McCoy squirm more, but the kids wouldn’t be able to come.” Ramsey winked at Elliott and Finn.

Elliott rolled his eyes.

“Like both of them don’t drink at Gamma Sigma house,” Brody said.

Malcolm made a face.

Elliott decided right now would be a great time to change the subject. “Darcelle’s has a drag brunch that’s all ages on Sundays.”

“Right. We’ll have to do that sometime,” Ramsey said. “But tonight, we’re going to Star Signs.”

“I guess I could eke out a few minutes,” Mal said, begrudgingly. “If we’re all going.”

“Such a team player,” Ramsey said, smacking him on the shoulder.

When Ramsey finally wandered away, Mal turned to him. “I was uh . . .hoping we might do a tutoring session tonight,” he said, rubbing his neck and actually looking ashamed at asking for sex.

Because that was what he was doing. Elliott was certain of it.

“We can still do that. After Star Signs,” Elliott said, playing along with Mal’s excuse. “You want to come over to mine again?”

“Uh, probably for the best. Jane might be home. She’d be a study distraction.”

Elliott chuckled. “Right. We can’t have that.”

“Then it’s settled.” Mal nodded once, like he could schedule sex just that easy and Elliott would go along with it.

And you will. You sure as hell will.

Elliott took the ice for the first period determined that he wouldn’t let the situation with Mal derail him again. Ruin his edge.

He was going to attack the Cyclones’ goal with as much intensity as he would’ve if he and Mal hadn’t had sex last night.

If he still wanted him as bad as he had, pre-sex.

You do. Maybe even more.

“Shit, what’s crawled up your ass?” Ivan grumbled midway through the first period as they flopped down to the bench. “Did someone light a fire underneath you?”

“Maybe I want to just put this game away,” Elliott said. “We’re only up one. Gotta keep getting our shots in.”

Mal rolled his eyes. “What, are you trying to set some personal shots on goal record?”

“Yeah,” Ivan joked, “’cause it’s not like you scored that goal.”

Elliott didn’t need the reminder that when the Evergreens had scored, it was because Ivan had flipped in the puck in a gorgeous little maneuver, right over the left shoulder of the goalie.

“I’m taking advantage of our opportunities.”

The Evergreens were normally a fairly aggressive offensive team, but Elliott had learned how they set the tone for the rest of the lines, and as he looked out onto the ice, he was glad to see their second line swarming over the Cyclones’ side of the ice, giving their goalie all he could handle.

“Just don’t get too aggressive,” Mal warned.

“Got it,” Elliott retorted, annoyed that Mal was still in warning mode when the whole team was doing a great job keeping the puck on the opposite side of the ice.

It was funny how he’d worried about keeping his edge out here, when Mal’s natural state seemed to keep him there, anyway.

The first period continued, then the second, until it was nearly over, Elliott’s breaths coming in short, heavy pants as their line came back to the bench, letting the next men up finish the remaining time on the clock.

They hadn’t scored again, but the Cyclones’ defense felt off and so they’d hassled the Cyclones’ goalie the whole period, their shots nearly double that of the other team.

“Keep it up,” Zach said, leaning in, as Elliott squirted Gatorade into his mouth.

Mal said nothing next to him, a hot hard pressure against his side, even through all the layers of their equipment.

But even though he was silent, he’d played his ass off out there, keeping up with Elliott, even through some of his crazier play—even going as far as being open when Elliott had inevitably stolen a puck right off a cross-ice pass, and trying to sneak it in behind the goalie’s stick.

It hadn’t worked but it had given Elliott a little extra boost.

Whistles sounded and Elliott jumped and stared at the ice.

The second line was on the ground—well, two out of the three. The third had his hands in the air, and he was motioning to the ref.

“Shit,” Malcolm said, doom in his voice.

The ref called one penalty. High sticking. Okay. That sucked. Not great news. Especially because they’d just gotten off the ice and he and Mal were both on the kill team. But then the ref held up another hand.

Another penalty, this time for tripping.

“Fuck,” Zach said behind them.

And suddenly, they weren’t even on the kill team.

“Andresen. Faulkner. Greene,” Coach B barked out. “Get out there.”

And Elliott could only sit and watch as the Evergreens were forced to go three on five. A recipe for disaster if there ever was one.

“They’re second to last in the league on the power play,” Ivan announced. Elliott reached over Mal, ignoring how he stiffened, ever so slightly, as their bodies collided together even more intently, and whacked him on the knee.

“Fuck your superstitious shit,” Ivan said.

“You’re Russian. You’re supposed to be as superstitious as they come,” Mal said dryly.

“Fuck that noise,” Ivan said.

Most power plays felt like they lasted forever—at least when it was the Evergreens down a man. But this one seemed to practically fly by. Elliott watched, crouched forward on the bench, eyes flicking between the players and the puck and Finn, standing in the goal, every line of his body tense as he anticipated the puck coming his direction.

For five on three, the Evergreens skated well. Ramsey and Brody were dynamite defenders, but the truth was inevitable. Just as it was inevitable with only one forty-seven on the clock, one of the Cyclones’ forwards slipped past Nate Greene’s defense and flicked the puck right past Finn’s shoulder, into the net.

“Fuck,” Mal growled.

It shouldn’t have been hot. Elliott was mad, too. Mad that it had happened. Mad that possibly his aggression had caused the other line to do more than they should. The line changed, the Evergreens gaining another player, and then thirty seconds later, they gained the fifth back.

Elliott wasn’t surprised when Coach B motioned their line back on the ice. He skated hard, looking for an opportunity to grab the puck and take it back down to the other side, to finish off the period on a high note, even after the Cyclones had tied it, but before he could, while the Evergreens were still trying to get their shit together, their center slipped the puck right between Finn’s legs.

This time it was Elliott swearing.

They’d dominated the whole period. They’d had two to one shots on goal.

And somehow, they were down. They were losing .

It was worse because when they got into the locker room, Mal didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at him. Elliott tried to stay focused. On task. Listening to Coach B map out some new formations they could try for the third period.

Tried to quiet his mind. Not let panic get the best of him.

They were a good third period team.

They could score again. Tie it up. Even find a third goal, so they’d win.

Elliott told himself he relished the challenge.

That he wanted it.

That he craved it.

And as they took the ice again, for the last period, he believed it.

Evergreens hockey wasn’t about giving up when the situation was shit. It was about digging down, deep, and finding a new well of determination.

“We got this,” Elliott said to Mal as they got ready for the first faceoff.

Mal gave him a sharp nod, and Elliott took that to mean it was game on . Which he was one hundred and ten percent behind.

Mal didn’t usually let his emotions get the better of him. Even during a game, he tried to stay calm, methodical. Rely on all the preparation he’d done to be as ready for this challenge as possible.

But he was pissed.

Pissed that they kept pushing the Cyclones and pissed that it kept not working out.

He wanted this one—more than he usually did—and he liked winning. Scratch that. He loved winning.

Not for any of those crazed, chest-thumping toxic masculinity reasons, but because it was the best way he could prove to himself—and to others—that he’d done what he’d set out to do, which was be the best and to live up to every bit of the potential he knew was inside of him.

The goals they’d given up at the end of the second pissed him off.

Made him emotional.

And when Elliott said, “We got this,” Mal felt the determination coalesce inside him.

This time when they took the ice, it wasn’t just Elliott pushing, but Mal, too. Harder than he normally did. Getting rougher. Skating faster. Playing fast and easy in a way that anyone with half a brain would tell him was a little too like Elliott Jones for his comfort.

But right now Mal didn’t give a fuck.

He took the puck around the back of the goal, one of the Cyclones’ defenders breathing down his fucking neck, his blades slicing through the ice as he made the turn.

A second before it happened, he got slammed into the boards, the defender trying to steal the puck, but he blocked him with his stick, once and then twice. Then a third time. They were battling it out now, and Mal was big, but this guy seemed even bigger. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of something, trusted that he understood what— who— it was, and he flicked the puck out.

He’d been right.

Elliott grabbed it, and before anyone could react, sent it flying towards the goal. A great shot. A perfect shot.

He couldn’t have timed it better, or shot it better, but the puck didn’t go in. It glanced off the very edge of someone’s skate. Mal didn’t even know, couldn’t get a clear glimpse of whose it was. It might have even been Ivan’s.

But it didn’t matter, because they missed the rebound and had to fight for control of the puck again.

Rinse and repeat. No time to cry over spilled milk—or missed shots, no matter how goddamn gorgeous they were.

Twenty minutes later, the game was over, and no matter how hard they’d fought, no matter how many shots they’d taken—none as good as that one, but they’d certainly not stopped making the attempt—they’d still lost.

“Hard game. Hard fought game,” Coach Blackburn said as they filed into the locker room.

Mal slumped onto the bench in front of his locker. He could feel Elliott’s eyes on him, but he didn’t want to look up.

He was afraid he’d see an apology—or even worse, guilt— in Elliott’s face, and he didn’t know how to deal with that, on top of his own frustration.

“Yeah,” Zach added. Mal saw him exchange a glance, heavy with meaning, with Coach B. “You guys are four and two. And you played your asses off tonight. Really great shots on goal. And that one shot? Mal to Ell? That was a thing of fucking beauty.”

“How’d you even know he was there?” Ivan asked, stripping off his gloves and tossing them into the equipment bin.

He’d just known. Well, not for sure. Not one hundred percent. But he’d taken a very Elliott-like risk, hoping— believing— that he would be there. And he had been.

Malcolm shrugged. “We’ve been playing together for awhile now.”

Ivan made a scoffing noise, and okay, yes, that was fair, though they’d certainly never bickered on the ice the way they had off it. But they’d still not gelled to that extent. Their playing styles were too different. Zach kept telling him it was going to take time, and Mal had been willing to be patient, let the on-ice chemistry develop.

“Well, I’m glad to see it,” Coach B said. “More of that trust. That’s what I want you to take from this game. Not the loss. But how hard you fought. How you swarmed them, and you pushed every step of the way. And how you trusted each other to get the job done.”

But the job hadn’t gotten done.

Mal knew that not every game was winnable. They were in a tough conference, and even though the Evergreens were a damn good hockey team, they weren’t that much better than a lot of other teams.

Still, it sucked. He finished shucking his gear, and grabbing a towel, headed towards the showers.

He’d half expected Elliott to follow, and sure enough, he did.

“Hey,” Elliott murmured, “I want to say—”

“It’s alright,” Mal said. He actually wasn’t mad at Elliott. He’d gone out there, like Coach B said, wanting and willing to do what it took to win. He’d pushed too hard, sure, but it wasn’t like he’d been the penalized player—either of them, in fact.

Was it still frustrating? Oh, it sure as hell was. But it wasn’t Elliott’s fault.

“No, it’s not alright,” Elliott retorted in a voice filled to the brim with guilt and self-recrimination.

Before last night, Mal might have snapped that of course Elliott was going to make this loss all about him, because he always wanted to center every single fucking thing on himself. The good and the bad.

But tonight, he kept his mouth shut. Not just because of the sex. Though that was probably part of it. It was impossible to unwind the sex from the rest of it, because it was tangled up inside him, now. It was there and there was no taking it out. No taking it back.

Even if Mal wanted to. Which he didn’t.

“I told you—it’s fine,” Mal said, stepping into the shower cubicle. Flipping on the water hot and letting it cascade down his head, washing away the sweat of the game.

Elliott took the one next to him, and any other time, Mal might’ve thought that he was doing it to get an extra peek.

But Ell had already seen everything he had on offer. Had tasted and touched almost every part of him, last night. Malcolm felt his blood heat, with remembered pleasure and shock, at the memory.

When he looked over, Elliott had his eyes closed. He wasn’t even paying attention to Mal.

That’s better. For everyone. No apologies. No guilt. He’ll move on; he always does.

Nobody was more resilient than Elliott Jones. Losses slid off him, and he was always ready with a smile after or a snarky joke to defuse the locker room tension.

Mal had kind of hated that, before. But now he wanted it back.

Wanted Elliott to bat those ridiculous eyelashes at him and rattle off a come-on.

But he didn’t.

In fact, he didn’t say anything else, not until Mal was done showering and was heading back to finish changing. Ramsey had announced they were still on for the arcade, and that would be good for everyone. A nice, healthy distraction to get their heads out of their asses.

But as Mal was about to head out, towel firmly around his waist, Elliott stopped him, wet fingers wrapping around his arm.

“What?” Mal asked. Glancing down at the end of the room, where a few of the very last stalls were taken by a few guys. Brody and Greene. Everyone else had finished.

He half expected Elliott to suggest they take advantage of the nearly empty showers to break a whole bunch of team rules—spoken and unspoken .

But Elliott was still looking at him with those puppy dog eyes, sad and depressed and guilt-stricken.

“I really meant it, I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t,” Mal huffed in frustration. Acutely aware of how ironic this was. He’d have given just about anything only a few weeks ago for Elliott to be sorry. To apologize. To see the error in his ways. But now, it just pissed him off. He didn’t want Elliott to be sorry. Not for something that wasn’t his fault.

“You’re mad. I know you’re mad,” Elliott said. “You said it yourself. Don’t push. Don’t get too aggressive . And I did. I kept pushing. I pushed them right into where they wanted us to be.”

“Don’t give them too much fucking credit. They only took advantage of a lull, a hard moment. They didn’t plan it,” Mal said, chuckling without humor.

“Does it matter if it was premeditated or not?” Elliott’s voice was bitter.

“Stop beating yourself up. It happens. Shit happens.”

“I can’t believe you’re not pissed about this,” Elliott said. And now he just sounded self-righteous.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Get over yourself,” he retorted.

“See, I told you that you were pissed,” Elliott reiterated.

Well, he hadn’t been, not before, but now Elliott kept pushing, kept wanting him to be mad. Like he was Mal’s whipping boy, and that wasn’t going to work for him at all.

“I’m not,” Mal said, but even he could hear the annoyance in his voice.

“You are . You always are, aren’t you?”

Mal stared at him.

He’d told himself for ages that he’d been raised by his father, but he didn’t have to be his father, but maybe he was. Maybe that cold had sunk so far in he didn’t know how to be warm again.

Except—that wasn’t true, was it? Because Elliott made him red-hot. Burned him so insistently, filling him with the heat of a hundred different emotions. Just like he was doing now.

“That’s bullshit,” Mal said, his tone blunt.

“Not as much as you’d like it to be,” Elliott said darkly.

Mal nearly stormed off. But he paused, just for a second, long enough to decide that he wasn’t going alone. He grabbed Elliott’s arm and dragged him right out of the showers, down the hall, back to an empty treatment room.

Elliott’s hair was dripping in his eyes as Mal pulled him in.

“What the fuck,” Mal spit out of him.

He pushed it back. “I just . . . you’re mad . I know you’re mad. And you won’t even admit it, which makes me even crazier. Don’t take it easy on me? Okay? Sure, we had sex—”

“Is that what you think?” Mal knew he should be incredulous, but this was just like Elliott fucking Jones. To decide what he was thinking. What he was feeling . “That we fucked so I’m gonna take it easy on you now? Not be pissed if you deserve it?”

Elliott nodded.

“Fuck that,” Mal said and kissed him, hard and insistent.

He’d been mad, because Elliott had kept pushing him to be, but the moment their lips touched, Elliott’s damp and cool, he wasn’t at all, not anymore.

He burned with something else.

Elliott groaned, fingertips digging into his shoulder, hips pressing into Mal’s own.

Mal could feel his erection, through two sets of towels, and he didn’t know whether to lean in, or to push the guy away.

To laugh or to cry with how good this was.

Elliott’s mouth lush and perfect against his, kissing him like he’d known all Mal wanted was this, and he was right there, too.

Mal broke off as the anger melted right into lust.

“I’m not mad,” Mal said firmly.

Elliott was smiling again. It was like seeing the sun rise again, after a particularly dark night. “You’re not,” he agreed.

“You . . .” Mal huffed out a frustrated laugh. “I wasn’t . And then you kept insisting I was, that I had to be annoyed at what happened, and sure I was. But not at you. You didn’t cause this, Elliott. Shit happens, sometimes. Maybe we did get a little aggressive. But you don’t lead this entire team around by their dicks.”

Those gorgeous green eyes were glowing now. “Just you, huh?”

Mal wanted to protest and say no. But could he really when his dick was still hard just from kissing him?

He changed the subject, instead. “Don’t do that shit, okay?”

“You really weren’t mad?”

“I’m not that much of an asshole.” At least he tried not to be. Maybe they pushed each other, sometimes in good ways, sometimes in bad ways, but he wasn’t stone-cold.

Not cold at all, when it came to Elliott.

“No,” Elliott agreed. He sighed. “I don’t know why I got so worked up. Sure you were mad and that you wouldn’t tell me.”

It felt safe—relatively so, anyway—to pat Elliott on the shoulder reassuringly. “Trust me, if I’m pissed at you, you’re gonna know it.”

“Okay.” Elliott smiled. Leaned in. Mal’s heartbeat felt like it doubled. Then tripled. God, he wanted to kiss him again. Press him back against this door, strip his towel off, and make him feel as good as he’d made Malcolm feel only last night.

But this was school property. Maybe Mal wanted this, and he wanted it badly, but he wasn’t about to break a lifetime of ingrained respect for the rules.

“We should . . .uh . . .” Mal trailed off. “Uh, go?”

“No,” Elliott said, grinned. Then kissed him again. Soft and lush, his tongue nimbly brushing against Mal’s.

He felt Elliott’s fingers trail up his bare thigh, underneath the towel, and he managed to pull away just in time.

“Oh, come on,” Elliott teased. “I know you want it.”

It would be stupid to claim he didn’t. Not when his cock was only a few inches away, pulsing and erect, from Elliott’s magic fingers.

“Yeah, we’re not going to do this here. Ever .” Mal took a very necessary step back. And then another.

It was still somehow not quite far enough.

“I actually don’t think it’s against any actual policies, Mr. Rule Stickler. Ramsey told me he looked it up once.”

“Of course he did.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with being informed.” Elliott shot him a grin that nearly weakened his resolve. It would be so good. It would be so quick, too. And then maybe they could make it through the team outing to the arcade without feeling like his body was too big suddenly for his skin.

“We’re still not doing this here. Not ever,” Mal said with as much certainty as he could muster.

“Aw, okay, fine, send me off with blue balls.” Elliott batted his eyelashes. “You still gonna tutor me tonight?”

“Actually,” Mal said, smiling now, “I think you’re gonna tutor me .”