2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Brody leaned down and tightened the laces on his skate for the third time.

“You doin’ okay there?”

Glancing up, he saw Zach, the new assistant coach, standing in front of him, arms crossed over his chest.

He wanted to like Zach, but the truth was, Zach was only slightly less intimidating than Coach Gavin Blackburn, who was the winningest coach in Evergreens history, and who had only now come back to Portland after a successful, if short, stint in the NHL.

The only reason Zach wasn’t just as ridiculously intimidating as Coach Blackburn was that 1) he was young, maybe only a handful of years older than some of the seniors on the team, and 2) he’d been a player here himself, playing for Blackburn during his first coaching stint.

“I’m fine, knee’s fine,” Brody said automatically. If he said it enough, maybe he’d finally believe it.

Zach crouched down in front of him, his blue eyes serious. “Didn’t ask about your knee. I know Coach got the all-clear from your PT.”

“Right.” Brody felt like something—possibly any one of his hidden fears—had been exposed. “It isn’t my first time back on the ice, you know.” He hated how defensive, how afraid, he sounded, but he couldn’t help it.

He was kind of a wreck. And not even the fun kind.

“Maybe not your first time on the ice, but Coach B and I know you’re gonna start out at your own speed, whatever that is,” Zach said quietly.

“Alright.”

Zach put a hand on his knee. “You got this, Faulkner. I promise.”

“Thanks,” Brody said and pushed himself up off the bench.

His knee felt more than fine. Frankly, it was probably stronger than it had been before the tear. Both his surgeon and his PT had come highly recommended and he’d spent what felt like a very long spring and summer doing all the strengthening exercises they’d recommended.

He’d already done his stretches, loosening up his muscles, and there was nothing to do but to face his anxiety—and the ice just outside the locker room door.

“You comin’, Bro?” Elliott, the sophomore forward, stuck his head just inside the locker room door.

“Yeah,” he said, trying not to look like he was procrastinating, but then what the hell, they all knew him too well, even Elliott, even though they’d barely gotten to play together before his injury. “I’m coming.” And then because he felt like he should , Elliott’s young, uncomplicated face waiting there patiently for him, he stood and walked over to the door and actually managed to get through it.

“This year is gonna be fucking sick,” Elliott chattered, listing out all the reasons. All the guys and girls he was going to sleep with. All the frat parties he was going to attend. Normally, Brody might’ve cautioned him to include some class and practice time in amongst all that, but he was too caught up in his own shit, which Elliott probably knew.

Which Elliott was probably trying to distract him from, come to think of it.

Brody wanted to smack him and hug him.

“You gotta go to class, too, you know,” he said as they approached the opening in the boards.

“You’re no fun,” Elliott said fondly.

“I’m plenty of fun,” Brody retorted. Not thinking of how just yesterday Ramsey had compared him to a nun . Everyone was a nun compared to Ramsey—and Elliott too, for that matter, who was making a real effort to follow in Ramsey’s footsteps, but without some of Ramsey’s natural panache—but that didn’t mean Brody actually was.

Elliott shot him a skeptical glance and Brody was just about ready to tell him exactly the last time he’d had plenty of fun—every summer, he and Liz, a friend who lived down the street that he’d gone to high school with, always casually hooked up at least once—when he realized that with Elliott distracting him, they’d made it to the ice and he was skating, as easy and freely as he’d ever skated before.

“See?” Elliott said, grinning. “Not so bad.”

“Ugh,” Brody groaned. “Did everyone know?”

“That you were hiding in the locker room? Of course not.”

Which meant— yes .

Ramsey skated up to him, flicking the puck over with his stick, and Brody grabbed it easily. They’d been partners for two years now, and it came naturally to play with him.

Once he’d gotten here, he realized how much he’d missed it, how much he’d craved that feel of flying over the ice, stick in his hand, his teammates around him, Ramsey at his shoulder, always right where he needed him if he looked.

Maybe Ramsey had been right after all. Maybe being roommates would’ve been a disaster; maybe it would’ve ruined this.

“Hey! Let’s circle up!” A tall man, still fit, with dark hair and a few threads of silver running through the temples, walked out onto the ice, stopping in the center of the rink.

He was Gavin Blackburn, both the old and new coach of the Portland Evergreens.

Zach was trailing behind him, but he’d put skates on, and was weaving in and out, blades cutting deep into the ice, making it clear that while he was a coach and a grad student now, he still had the moves.

“I’m Gavin Blackburn, your new coach,” he said. Up close, Coach B had grooves in his forehead, fading dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he’d been through a war compared to the photographs of him a few years ago, before he’d left Portland to go to the NHL.

He’d only coached there for a few years, before leaving abruptly in the middle of the season when his wife, Noelle, had unexpectedly fallen ill and then even more unexpectedly died.

There’d been lots of talk that he’d never return to the ice, that he was finished, that he was holed up in a remote cabin in upper Michigan and refused to leave. That he was becoming a grief-stricken hermit.

But now he was back.

What had pulled him out of his hole, Brody wasn’t sure, but he seemed determined to be present, in any case.

If the rumors of his thick black beard had actually had any truth to them, they didn’t now, because he was clean-shaven, gray eyes meeting each and every player as they came to a stop around him.

“Zach here likes to call me Coach B, so that’s fine,” Coach said. “I think we’ve got a talented crew here, but I think your old coach was a little too free and easy with the rules. Just so you know, I won’t be. I expect your best, on the ice and off.”

Elliott mumbled behind him.

He wasn’t going to be very happy about that. He might be an absolute demon during games—deserving of joining Mal and Ivan on the first line—but he hated practice and rarely exerted himself. And class? Well. If he even went, that was an unusual—and rare—step in the right direction.

“That means,” Coach continued, “that we’re going to be taking practice very seriously. Especially these first few weeks. I expect you to show up ready to work.” He motioned to Zach. “Zach is gonna lead you in the drills, and I can’t say I won’t strap some skates on at some point. I gotta stay young somehow.”

“Oh, you’re young enough, Coach,” Ramsey called out.

Coach didn’t quite break into a smile, but it was far enough from what seemed to be his typical sternness that Brody considered it a win. Though he wasn’t sure if Ramsey would.

Ramsey liked to charm everyone and was usually very good at it.

“My youth—or what’s left of it—isn’t up for debate,” Coach said. “But your fitness is. Let’s run some drills.”

Zach proceeded to run them through a bunch of drills, starting with crisscrossing the ice, going both forward and backward, over and over again.

Brody’s knee protested a little at first, but he’d put his brace on, and the more he warmed up, the better it felt. Still, he was shaking sweat out of his hair by the end of that one.

Next, Coach led them through some shooting drills.

Finn traded off with their other goalie, Dominic, and they skated up, sending shots their way.

Finn was young and maybe a little nervy, but he faced them all head-on and seemed to do just fine in the moment.

He’d transferred mid-season last year, and Brody had liked what he’d seen of the guy, but he also worried because the goalie’s NHL pedigree might mask either mediocrity or anxiety—or both.

Four or five drills in, it seemed like Coach B wanted to find out if anyone had spent the summer on the couch instead of in the weight room. And it seemed that maybe a few of them had. Brody decided he was lucky he wasn’t one of them. But by the time practice ended, even he was feeling sweat run down his back, damp underneath his practice jersey.

“God, that was tough,” Finn said, wiping his face with his jersey as they staggered into the locker room.

“Don’t tell me you spent all summer sunning yourself in Europe,” Ramsey retorted lightly. “I saw plenty of pics of you out where, on your dad’s beachfront property in Italy?”

Finn frowned. He didn’t seem particularly happy that Ramsey had noticed that. Well, they’d all noticed, and it wasn’t like Finn could possibly pretend that his dad wasn’t Morgan Reynolds.

He didn’t even try.

But he was frowning still.

“Yeah,” Finn said shortly. “That’s where the house is. Positano.”

“Nice,” Ramsey said. “No hockey rink there, though.”

“I spent plenty of time in the gym,” Finn argued.

“Right, of course you did,” Ramsey said smoothly.

But Finn’s color was up and there was clear exhaustion on his face.

Well, at least he wasn’t alone. Everyone looked pretty beat. Probably what Coach B had intended for their first practice, to set the tone.

At least, Brody thought, as he stripped out of his equipment and headed towards the showers, his knee felt good.

He’d make sure to ice it later, just to make sure, but it had held up, exactly the way it was supposed to.

“Hear you’ve got a hockey player roommate,” Wes said, tossing the ball back and forth between his two big glove-covered hands.

Even in Portland, notorious for its temperate and rainy climate, the Evergreens played football outside. Most quarterbacks avoided gloves, but Wes always practiced with gloves, and never played without them.

He was one of Dean’s best friends on the team. Probably one of his best friends, period, since he didn’t exactly have the extra time on his hands to go around making friends.

If they weren’t in his classes, on the field with him, or at his job, he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting to know anyone.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He wasn’t a guy who spoke up a lot. It always surprised him that he and Wes had gravitated to each other, because Wes was friendly and talked to everyone . But for the last three years, he always seemed to end up right back at Dean’s side.

Without Wes, he’d probably be totally alone.

Mom didn’t give a shit about him—never had—and wherever his father was, Dean didn’t want him to crawl out of the hole he’d hidden himself in anyway.

He was just fine on his own, but he was grateful for Wes’ friendship, nevermind that he didn’t understand it.

Wes nudged him with an elbow. Tossed him the ball, and Dean nimbly plucked it out of the air. For a linebacker, he had pretty good hands. Not as good as Wes’ maybe, but Dean’s hands were there to give him the push he needed to destroy whatever lay in his path.

And he was really fucking good at that.

“Am I gonna get more details than just a single word?” Wes asked, the corner of his mouth quirking up. Clearly amused, and not annoyed, by Dean’s reticence. Three years of friendship and he was no doubt used to it by now.

“Yeah, he’s a hockey player. Name’s Brody. Just moved in two days ago. Don’t know him, so that’s all I’ve got to share.”

“And this is the guy Ramsey set you up with?”

Dean opened his mouth to argue with the set you up with addition, even though yes, it was technically true. It just didn’t mean what Wes was implying, with his waggling eyebrows and knowing look. But before he could, Wes sighed.

“Yes, I know, he didn’t set you up with him. Just facilitated a roommate arrangement.” Wes shot him a limpid smile. “That un-romantic enough for you?”

Wes just wanted everyone to be as happy as he was, with his longtime boyfriend.

Dean didn’t believe that kind of happiness wasn’t for him, necessarily, just that by the time he got around to romance and love and the white picket fence, he didn’t know if it would want him anymore.

He didn’t know anyone who honestly managed to have it all. Something always lost out, and Dean wasn’t going to let that be anything that mattered to him. Anything that he’d worked so goddamned hard for, all on his own.

“Yes,” Dean muttered. “Anyway, he seems like an okay enough guy. Quiet. Biology major, if you could believe it.”

“Really? He want to be a doctor?” Wes wondered.

“Says he was drafted. Can you believe hockey drafts them so young and then they go back to college? So weird. But I think he’s not sure. He’s a freaking biology major and his parents are both doctors.” Dean shook his head. Brody hadn’t said it, but he’d caught the clear hesitation on his face when they’d discussed their futures. Dean couldn’t imagine anyone having that possible future within their grasp and rejecting it. Of course, he also couldn’t imagine having not just one wealthy parent but two , and never worrying about where his next meal was coming from or if he could scrape together rent money this month or if he was going to have enough money for football fees that year.

Going through life unconcerned about what was possible.

Brody wasn’t a bad guy, but Dean didn’t understand him at all. In fact, he’d needed to shove down a flare of jealous resentment half a dozen times since he’d moved in.

It wasn’t fair, because it wasn’t Brody’s fault that Dean’s dad had taken off when he was a newborn, or that his mom was a waitress who had never really wanted him in the first place. Or that there’d never been enough money to go around.

Maybe he’d have been a hockey player, too, if he’d been able to afford the costs. There’d been a rink in town, and a team, and the coach had made overtures, but money was too tight, and so instead, he’d played football, which was cheaper. He’d clawed his way up with his sheer size and the raw talents he’d honed through too many two-a-day practices into skills that could translate into a new life for him.

He was only a season and a half away from that new life, and he wasn’t about to fuck it up now.

“You work too hard,” Wes said, worry flashing across his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna suggest I start skipping classes now, like half the team does,” Dean retorted, keeping his tone light and casual.

“I’m not,” Wes argued. “But you’re just so . . .hyper-focused. It’s not good for you. You need to get out. See people. Do things.”

“I do all of that.”

“No, you worked all summer. When’s the last person you dated—”

“Wes,” Dean interrupted with a warning. Tossed the football back. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I’m just saying, you can’t meet anyone if you never go anywhere. And don’t tell me there’ll be plenty of time for that later. There’s time for that now.”

“So you say,” Dean said.

“Come on,” Wes said, changing the subject, tugging on his arm. “Practice’s starting, and I know how fucking serious you are about practice.”

It wasn’t just him, Dean grumbled to himself, as he jogged over to where the defense was gathering. Wes worked hard, too. He was getting scouted just the same as Dean was. There’d been half the NFL at their first two games of the year, and it didn’t look like that would be changing any.

Dean was on track to set some records in their conference for tackles and sacks, and Wes had never thrown the ball better. Overall, the Evergreens were pretty good this year, though Dean wasn’t delusional enough to think they could challenge for a national championship. No, if he wanted a ring, he was going to have to get it once he turned pro.

And he had every intention of doing just that.

Dean unlocked the door and shut it behind him with a swift tap of his foot.

He was tired, exhausted, really, but his mind was still churning.

Not just with his regular worries of money and class and grades and practice but with the news that his prospective agent had brought to him about the scouting data.

Apparently some teams had the same worry Wes did. That he was too intense. Too focused. That he’d crack up, once he got into the NFL, and the pressure became too much.

He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t .

Dean didn’t have a very good imagination, but he couldn’t imagine having one great enough to think that after he’d been gifted this chance—through all this fucking hard work—that he’d screw it up.

He walked into the living room, thinking he’d throw a frozen pizza into the oven and shove it in his face while reading his chapters for tomorrow’s classes. But before he could, he spotted Brody, sitting on the old stained sofa, ESPN turned down low, a bag of frozen peas on his knee and a frown on his face as he scanned something on his tablet.

He could possibly keep his head down, escape to the kitchen and then his room, and not even bother Brody, but with Wes’ warning echoing in his head, he changed his mind.

“Hey,” Dean said, walking into the living room and dropping his duffel bag onto the floor next to the couch.

There was only the couch—not even a chair—so there was nowhere to sit but next to Brody.

Dean knew he was big so he kept his body plastered to one side of the medium-sized sofa.

“Hey,” Brody said, glancing over at him.

His eyes were warm brown, a little darker than the honey Dean liked to put in the tea he pretended he didn’t drink in the evenings to try to cycle down after one of his very long days.

“Your knee okay?” Dean said gesturing towards Brody’s makeshift ice pack. “Hurt yourself at practice?”

“Not this time, anyway. I tore my ACL late last season. Had surgery. Spent the summer in PT.”

“And the ice?”

Brody shrugged. Dean hadn’t known him very long, but anything the guy seemed to do—from whipping up a protein shake to carrying boxes to brushing his teeth—seemed graceful and purposeful, so he could already tell that he was awkward about this.

About his injury.

“I’m making sure there isn’t any inflammation. I figure better safe than sorry.” Brody looked almost embarrassed now, like he’d been caught doing something that he shouldn’t have been.

But Dean got Brody’s worry. Better than probably about anyone else.

He was terrified an injury might derail his plan and his chances just when he got right up to when he was going to deliver.

Maybe Brody didn’t have to worry about what his future looked like, but it would still be terrifying to have the hazy possibility of it, right there in front of him, and then lose it.

“I could probably use some ice too. I think there’s a few ice packs in the freezer, if you want to use them.” They were cheap since Dean had picked them up at the dollar store, but they had to be better than a bag of frozen peas.

“You’ve never used peas?” Brody smiled, unexpectedly, and it was so bright it was hard to look at him. Dean barely ever noticed people’s looks—because what were looks going to do for him, long-term?—but the pretty boy nickname he’d given Brody felt both still accurate and not quite accurate enough.

He wasn’t pretty; he was actually kind of beautiful.

Whoa. Where did that thought come from?

Dean pushed it away, because he didn’t understand it, but even more because he didn’t have the time or the energy to deal with it.

“No?”

God, it felt like he’d been broke forever, but he’d never been forced to turn to the frozen vegetable aisle to reduce inflammation.

“They’re the best. The way they shift and you can adjust them exactly around the area is just . . .” Brody grinned again. “Just fucking awesome.”

“I’ll have to try them sometime.”

“I bought about twenty bags,” Brody said with a slightly embarrassed wince. “So feel free to help yourself. Just don’t eat them, okay?”

“Noted,” Dean said, leaning back onto the sofa. He could relax; he should relax. Wes was probably not wrong about that. “What are you reading?”

“Syllabuses for tomorrow. I already got my books, but you know if you don’t read the syllabus ahead of time, you’re always fucked,” Brody said. Then paused. “I guess not if you’re taking physical education, though.”

Dean didn’t think, he just did, smacking Brody lightly on the arm. And that arm was surprisingly firm. For a hockey player, he had some real muscle tone going on.

“Hey, some of us aren’t gibbering idiots,” Dean retorted.

“Of course you’re not.”

“Some of us aren’t crazy enough to take a science major, either,” Dean said.

“Truth,” Brody said wryly. “So, are you gonna tell me how you know Ramsey?”

“Ramsey?”

“Yeah. About six foot three? Hockey player? Blond hair. Big blue eyes? Takes basically nothing seriously?”

“I mean I know Ramsey, I just . . .what do you mean, how do I know him? I don’t really know him. I know of him, of course. But I was surprised as anyone when he called me up and told me he’d found me a place to live this year.”

“Huh.” Brody leaned against the back of the couch.

“I think he knows Wes, the QB on the football team. Who’s . . .uh . . .my friend.”

“Oh, he hooked up with Wes, then.”

“Actually, I don’t think so. Wes has been with the same guy since high school.”

Brody shot him a knowing smile. “Then they’ve definitely hooked up. Probably with Wes and his boyfriend. That’s Ramsey’s favorite: being a temporary third in a committed relationship.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know what to say.

Dean knew people did that. Knew they enjoyed sex—otherwise, why do it? But he couldn’t imagine it. Of course, in the best of circumstances he wasn’t a fan of sharing. But if he actually met someone he really wanted and really loved? They’d own him for life.

Though maybe . . .if Dean ever ended up with someone like that, and they wanted it, he was pretty sure he’d give them whatever they asked for, gladly.

“It means he never needs to settle down,” Brody said.

“I . . .uh . . .”

Brody laughed. “Ramsey told me you were more of a nun than even me, and maybe he wasn’t wrong.”

Dean wasn’t a nun . He just . . .well, how did people have the time and energy to devote to sex?

His right hand in the shower was plenty fine and plenty efficient, thank you very much. Much like earlier today, at practice, Wes always moaned about how that wasn’t good enough, that he must need more , but Dean couldn’t say he was dissatisfied with the arrangement. It kept his attention focused on what mattered: his future and the years-in-development plans that were slowly, finally , beginning to unfold.

“I’m not—”

“I know,” Brody said before Dean could try to explain. “Ramsey just doesn’t understand anyone who isn’t him.”

“Right,” Dean said. Even though he already had admitted that he didn’t know Ramsey all that well.

“Guess I don’t gotta worry about you bringing home girls—or guys?” Brody hesitated over the word, raising an eyebrow. “At all hours of the night. I would’ve had to with Ramsey. Maybe he had the right idea after all.”

“It’s girls,” Dean said, though he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been with one. High school?

“Me too,” Brody said. “But if it wasn’t, it’s not like I mind, you know? I got lots of friends who are queer.”

“I’m good friends with Wes, and he’s gay,” Dean offered, though he wasn’t sure before this moment he’d have called Wes a good friend—even if he was pretty sure Wes would’ve called him one.

“Yeah, sometimes I wonder, am I missing something? But I don’t know.” Brody shrugged charmingly.

“Yeah,” Dean said, because he didn’t know what else to say. “But yeah . . .uh . . .I think it’s working out okay with us? As roommates?”

Brody’s smile was blinding. He really was incredibly attractive—if you were into that, which Dean had just said he wasn’t, so it was bizarre how his brain kept sticking on that particular fact. “So far so good,” he said lightly. “You haven’t pissed me off yet. It’s hard rooming with people who aren’t athletes—”

“They don’t understand,” Dean agreed. “Honestly when Ramsey told me about you, I thought you’d be perfect.”

“Aw, only roommates a few days, and you already think I’m perfect.” Brody fluttered his eyelashes as punctuation to that ridiculous sentence, and yep, he had long curling eyelashes, over those sweet brown eyes. They were the kind of eyelashes that Dean would expect on a girl, except that it was obvious that they were on a guy. There was Brody’s definitely muscular build. His broad shoulders. The shadow of light brown scruff dusting his jaw.

“You haven’t clogged the toilet or left a dirty dish in the sink, plus there’s that sick blender your mom brought,” Dean said gruffly. “Oh, and you gave me that tip about the peas.”

Brody patted his knee approvingly. “You’re pretty okay, too. Maybe someday I’ll get used to how goddamn big you are. How tall are you, anyway?”

“Six foot five,” Dean said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.

But clearly he’d failed because Brody asked, “I’m confused. Is that a bad thing?”

“For a linebacker, yeah.”

Brody’s jaw dropped. “They want you to be taller ? Seriously?”

“No, no,” Dean said, and he was chuckling now, amused even though this wasn’t a subject that he’d ever laughed about in his life. “That’s kinda tall for a linebacker, actually.”

“The NFL is weird,” Brody declared.

“Yeah, kinda. I guess. Don’t tell me the NHL doesn’t have ideal sizes for every position. What do you play?”

“Defense,” Brody said. “And yeah, I guess. None of the scouts have ever brought up my height so I suppose I’m not too tall.” He eyed Dean again, from his sock-clad feet to the top of his head. “Unlike some people.”

“So you’re gonna go pro, huh? Cause you were drafted?” Dean asked because he was genuinely curious about someone who’d had all these gifts practically given to him, and he was still hesitating. He hadn’t missed how the last time they’d discussed this, Brody had been nebulous and then changed the subject.

Brody shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, I should . I always wanted to, but then I got injured last year and I’m . . .well, wondering now. I could play pro hockey or I could do something else, discover what else I can do, what difference I can make in the world.”

Dean shook his head in disbelief. “You’re really gonna throw being drafted away?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.” Brody’s tone was crisp and defensive.

“I’m gonna get drafted and make it to the fifty-three man roster, my first season,” Dean said gruffly, more than a little surprised at how Brody was un-sticking his normally reticent tongue. He’d only ever felt as comfortable this easily with Wes. Nobody else had ever managed to get under his defenses so easily. Or get him to talk so quickly about himself. About the things he wanted.

About all the plans he held so close to his chest, picking over them obsessively until they felt worn at the corners.

“Yeah? You got a guarantee or something?” Brody’s question wasn’t rude; it was more inquisitive. Curious.

Dean could see, easily, how he could be a scientist. That he’d want to deep dive into something and figure out exactly what made it work the way it did.

“No. There’s no guarantees.” He’d give anything for that not to be true, but it was. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ll do anything they want, be anything they want, to make sure that happens.”

Brody stared at him, and for a brief, horrible moment, Dean was worried he’d exposed too much.

“You’re that committed,” he stated, rather than asked.

“Yeah.” There was a part of him that wanted to say why, but he never shared that. He hadn’t even told Wes why he worked harder than pretty much any guy on the defensive side of the ball or why he was so desperate to have his name called during draft night. And if he hadn’t told Wes . . .well, he might feel comfortable with Brody, but he barely knew him.

Brody nodded. “I get it.”

“You do?”

“I did, actually. I was like that. And then . . .” Brody gestured to his leg. “I wish I still did. Maybe I’ll find it again. I don’t know. All I do know is that I want something like that, something to feel so passionate about. I love hockey, I do, but it’s not the same. Which is why I haven’t made any decisions yet.” Brody made a face. “I wish I had a little of that certainty you’ve got.”

“You’re a good player, you can’t just give up on that,” Dean said, which was stupid to say, because he wouldn’t know a decent hockey player from a bad one, but when Ramsey had brought up his friend Brody who needed a roommate, unexpectedly, that had been one of the questions he’d asked.

Why had he even bothered? The truth was, he hadn’t wanted a partier or a guy who didn’t take his shit seriously, and if a guy was a good athlete, at this level, then he had to work at least a little at it. He couldn’t get by on pure natural talent. Not anymore.

And when Dean had asked, Ramsey had only nodded, one of the few times he’d been serious in the conversation, and it was clear he’d meant it.

“Oh, am I?” Brody teased, nudging him.

“I can tell.” He paused. “And I asked Ramsey.”

Brody burst into laughter. “You’re such a poser. I love it. You ever watch hockey?”

Dean shook his head.

“Well, I know jack shit about football. So we’ll just agree that we’re the best, okay?”

Dean knew he was the best, anyway. He wouldn’t ever settle for anything else. But he nodded anyway. Why? For the same goddamned reason he kept talking to Brody when he should be eating dinner and reading his chapters for tomorrow. He just liked the guy. He made him feel comfortable in his own skin, and basically, nobody had ever made him feel that way.

“Sounds good to me,” he said. He stretched out his legs, bumping them up against the cheap coffee table. “I should eat something. Read my chapters for the first class tomorrow.”

“And he does his homework, too,” Brody marveled. “Do the rest of the guys in your classes drive you insane?”

“If they don’t come to class, if they don’t respect the professors, if they don’t do the work, then they don’t even exist to me,” Dean said.

Brody nodded, respect gleaming in those sugary eyes. “I get it,” he said. “If you want to study out here, I’ll turn the TV off. I’ve got some reading to do, too. It’s gotta be more comfortable out here on the couch than at the little desk in your room.”

Dean almost agreed. After all, Brody was one hundred percent correct. The desk was tiny and cramped. He often studied in the library because of that.

But he didn’t say he’d stay out here, because if he did, he had a feeling Brody would crack him open like a nut, and he didn’t know how to avoid that.

Or what to do with the desire to just let him do it.

Instead he shook his head. “Nope, it’s alright. I don’t mind. Quiet’s good for me, anyway.”

“Hey it’s all good. I get it,” Brody said, with a nod of approval. “You gotta do what you gotta do. I respect that.”

And Dean had a feeling that he actually did.