10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Luke

I’ve been rooming with Cody for a few weeks now and it just continues to blow my mind how easily we’ve fallen into this comfortable togetherness. It’s like we’ve always lived together, played together, known each other. And although Riley is my man and always will be, the pull that I feel whenever Cody is around is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. Last night we went out again after another win and if you ask me what we talked about and who sat next to me, forget it. I don’t remember. All I remember is Cody’s careful smile and his cute blush whenever someone said his name or asked him a question. The way he tucked his shaggy blond hair behind his ear and how his gray eyes sparkled in the light from the streetlamps when we walked to my car together. I fell asleep once we got home, my head spinning, a lightness in my chest, and although I only had one beer, I felt intoxicated. High.

I woke up in a weird mood, though. I have for a few days, to be honest. I can’t really pinpoint it, but I’m not the usual hyper me—a whirlwind as soon as I get out of bed. It’s not like I’m moody or unmotivated. No, it’s not anything like that. As soon as I get to the rink, I’m the good old Luke again, playing like there’s no tomorrow. Mornings are just… weird somehow. I just feel like camping out in the living room, sprawled out on the couch with Cody next to me, sharing my fluffy blanket—yes, I have a fluffy blanket. Who doesn’t?—watching Love, Simon for the umpteenth time. It’s my favorite movie, and it always gets me out of a funk. Huh, am I in a funk? And if I am, then why would I be? Maybe I’m just coming down with something. Note to self: ask Mom what the herbal stuff is that she always puts in her tea when she’s sick.

Last night was our sixth win in a row and although we all played like a well-oiled machine, Cody was positively on fire. Cody. He was long gone this morning on his mandatory morning run when I woke up. I don’t know where he gets the strength from. It’s freeze-your-ass-off cold outside, and I was glued to my bed until I couldn’t postpone getting up any longer.

We’re getting to know each other’s habits, and there’s no doubt that Cody puts the D in dedicated. I’ve never met a more disciplined player and if it weren’t for the fact I’ve been upping my game too, I would be green with envy. Besides, it’s no hardship being happy for someone who’s just so genuinely nice.

So, it doesn’t help that overnight, Coach Bassey has morphed into a sadistic drill sergeant, his entire demeanor screaming, ‘ No rest for the wicked, boys. ’ He’s had the team skating line drills and practicing one-on-one corner battle drills all morning, and by now my lungs are burning, my legs screaming at me. Crane, who once again led the celebrations last night and was buying a round of shots when Cody and I left the bar, is complaining audibly, looking close to puking his guts out on the ice.

Last in line for another defense drill, I watch as Caps comes flying across the ice at full speed with the puck, while Virtanen waits for him at the blue line. Caps has some mean puck-handling skills, one of the most reliable players on the team, and no surprise, he easily manages to dodge Virtanen as he skates backward, trying to block Caps from getting to the net. Slipping past him effortlessly, Caps fires determinedly at the net, his face just about ready to break out into a broad, celebratory smile. I already see it coming, though, as Cody has been positively on fire all morning, blocking shots left and right, Caps’ meeting the same fate. Blocking the puck in a flash, Cody sends it up over the net and into the glass, and Caps slams his stick into the ice.

“Motherfucking fuck balls,” Caps yells, picking up his stick. Throwing a glance in Cody’s direction, he tips his chin, smiling warningly. “Next time, goalie!” he yells, his voice echoing off the boards. Cody just shrugs, then moonwalks—moon skates?—in front of his goal. I love this side of him; the way he’s starting to let loose with the guys, his confidence building.

“Get it together, assholes,” Coach hollers across the rink, everyone looking up. “Other than Mitchell, you’re all playing like a group of fucking dilettantes! Let me see some goddamn energy.” Shit.

I’m up next, everyone clapping and cheering as I skate out to center ice, trying to keep my protein shake down. Watching our center, Bardét, get into place at the far end of the ice, I wait for Coach’s signal to start the last drill of the day. I just have to keep it together for one final drill and then I can hit the showers and hide in my bed for the next couple of hours. You’ve got this , I try mentally pumping myself up. You’re Lucky fucking Luke.

Coach’s whistle blows and Bardét starts toward me. The closer he comes, the faster he gets. I start skating backward, ready for whatever direction Bardét decides to take to get past me. I know Bardét’s game, though, anticipating his move before he even starts, that telltale movement he makes with his shoulder depending on which direction he’s going to take. As he tries to skate to my left, I use my long reach, my stick connecting with his, causing him to lose the puck. As it slides behind him across the ice, I snag it quickly and start making my way to the net. This is my strong suit. Speed. I may not be as big as most other players, but I can skate like the fucking ice is on fire.

I hear Bardét right behind me as I come up on Cody in the goal. Trying not to focus on the fact Cody has basically been a wall all morning, I decide on my move. Crouching down into position, gloved hands out and his stick raised, Cody gets ready to make another save. Deciding to shoot quickly before my teammate kills my momentum from behind, I flick my wrist, sending the puck across the ice. In a flash, Cody dives for the puck, catching it in his glove before landing on his stomach. Fuck. I don’t know how, but he read me like an open book, just like he predicted almost every other shot today. His talent is insane, and his way of reading the game is so unique. At least he’s our goalie and not our opponents’.

Skating around the back of the net, I circle back toward Cody as Bardét skates off toward Coach, probably for a ribbing. Despite my annoyance at missing the shot, I still want to congratulate Cody on some great saves this morning. I turn just in time to see him pull his mask off and set it down on top of the net. Ruffling a hand through his damp hair, a shadow moves across his face that’s slightly paler than usual. His lips contort into a grim line, and when he starts skating toward the exit, a frown appears between his brows, resembling a wince. Skating to his side, I bump my elbow against his.

“Those were some wicked saves, man,” I say with a wink, taking in his face. As he looks up, blinking a couple of times, I recognize the look in his eye, however much he tries to conceal it with an attempt at smiling back. Pain. And worry.

“Thanks,” he nods, looking back down at the ice. Leaning in, I keep my voice low to not draw unnecessary attention from our teammates.

“You okay, Mitchell? I saw you landed on your stomach.” As he looks back up, his gray eyes are indecipherable aside from that prolonged frown.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just beat.” He wipes his hand across his forehead.

“Yeah, you and me both,” I bump my shoulder against his, skating for the exit.

Cody headed straight for his room once we got home, and I just about managed to drag myself onto my bed, hugging my sunflower fluffy against my chest, before I collapsed into a coach-from-hell-induced coma. It’s getting dark outside when I wake to a light knock on my door. Blinking a couple of times, I sit up, my right cheek and chin covered in drool. Charming.

“Luke?” a low voice sounds from the other side of the door, accompanied by a few additional taps. “Are you up?”

“Yeah,” I clear my throat, jumping out of bed. Nearly tripping over my fluffy blanket, I rub my face as I head for the door. Opening it, I’m met by a pair of wary gray eyes, Cody nibbling on his bottom lip. “Hey man, what’s up?” I ask, taking in his face. Fuck, he looks wrecked, his lips pinched, drops of sweat beading across his forehead.

“Uhm, sorry to wake you…” he trails off, eyes cast down to the floor.

“Nah, good thing you did. Didn’t mean to sleep this long.” My stomach chooses that exact moment to elicit an outdrawn growl, reminding me I’ve skipped afternoon snack number two.

“Do we… do you have any Tylenol ? I took my last earlier.” He shifts on his feet, clenching his jaw. So, it definitely wasn’t something I imagined earlier today. He did hurt himself. Pain is written all over his face as much as he tries to bite it back.

“Sure. We have some in the bathroom.” I move past him, my shoulder brushing up against his. “Go sit down and I’ll get ’em for you,” I throw over my shoulder.

“Okay. Thanks, man,” he murmurs, heading for the living room, where he practically falls onto the couch, a small groan falling from his lips.

After getting the Tylenol from the bathroom, I add an ice pack from the freezer and a bottle of water from the fridge and head for the living area. He sits sprawled in the middle of the couch, his head tipped back, resting against the back, eyes closed. I sit down carefully next to him, placing the ice pack on the table. His left leg is reclined, resting on the coffee table. He’s wearing a pair of gray gym shorts, the fabric stretched across his muscular thighs. As my gaze coasts along his leg and lands on his knee, I can tell that it’s swollen. Nothing too bad, but still.

“Gimme your hand,” I say, unscrewing the cap on the bottle of water. Opening his eyes, he blinks a few times before turning his head toward me. A few drops of sweat remain across his forehead, and he still looks pale like this morning at the rink. As he reaches out his right hand with the palm up, I notice that it’s trembling slightly. I drop two Tylenol into his palm and hand him the water. “What happened?” I ask carefully.

Most of us have our battle wounds by now, but it isn’t necessarily something that you share with the other players. My first year on the team, I suffered a moderate concussion that kept me off the ice for a couple of weeks, but aside from that, I live up to my name, Lucky Luke, dodging any serious injuries so far. Knock on wood.

“Old knee injury,” Cody mumbles as he throws his head back, swallowing the pills down with half a bottle of water. He spills a few drops and as they slide down his scruffy chin and further down his neck, my eyes zero in on his Adam’s apple as it moves smoothly behind his skin. His neck is corded, a bluish vein protruding, pulsing as he swallows, chucking down the water. My mouth suddenly feels dry as I fight to pull my gaze away from him. The last thing you want is to find your roomie ogling you while you’re vulnerable and in pain. Or maybe just ogling you, period.

Pulling the bottle away from his mouth, he swipes the back of his hand across his lips and chin. “Thanks, man,” he sighs, offering me an attempt at a smile. “I injured my knee a couple of years back. It doesn’t bother me too much, but sometimes… when I twist it the wrong way… it acts up, you know?” His gray eyes linger on mine, uncertainty painted across his face, and I nod. Of course, I know. The primal fear of any professional athlete: an injury that will put an end to everything all too soon.

“What kind of injury?” I ask, my eyes not leaving his.

“Meniscus,” he rasps.

“Did you have surgery?” Losing myself in Cody’s eyes, it occurs to me out of nowhere that I didn’t know that there are so many shades of gray. I bet there are even more than fifty. From the lightest, bordering on white, to the darkest of grays, so close to black that it feels like being sucked into space.

“No, conservative treatment,” he pauses. “It wasn’t a full tear,” he pauses, his eyelashes fluttering with fatigue. “Thanks again, Carrington.” He smiles half-heartedly, but even that small, weak gesture combined with my name on his plush lips does something to my insides, small sparks igniting some weird shit in my chest that I’ve never felt before. I better not be coming down with something. We have a road trip coming up.

“No worries,” I gulp, quickly averting my eyes. “I brought an ice pack, too,” I offer lamely, pointing at the coffee table. Cody nods and I reach for it, carefully placing it on top of his knee. He winces, shifting his leg. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just… I landed a bit awkward during that last save.” He sighs, rubbing his hand along his left thigh, the muscles flexing beneath his fingers, and my gaze follows behind, counting the freckles above his knee. Seven. I think there are seven. No, wait. Eight. Eight. “It flares up occasionally. Some ice and painkillers usually do the trick, though.”

“Will you be okay for the game tomorrow?” I swallow, my eyes transfixed by the small cluster of light brown freckles against the paleness of his skin, my stupid mind counting them again and again, making eight my new favorite number.

“Yeah, I should be fine,” he smiles weakly, the smile not reaching his eyes. Worrying his bottom lip, a dark shadow moves across his face. “Will you…” he trails off, swallowing audibly. “Please don’t say anything to Coach and—”

“Of course not!” I interrupt him. “I’d never do that. It’s not for me to share. Not with anyone,” I stress, squeezing his thigh without even realizing it, my fingers just barely brushing his freckles, then quickly pulling my hand away like I burned myself. The physical reaction that Cody brings out in me is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. I’d been with random guys in college, the odd hand job or blow job, but it never felt anything like this—like more than just going through the motions. Doing something that everyone was talking about but never making my entire being buzz remotely like this. And all just from sitting next to him, feeling the warmth from his body against mine, seeping into me, his scent of sweat and soap and… guy … so potent that it makes my mouth water.

“Thanks. I really appreciate it,” his voice shakes as he nearly squeezes the life out of the water bottle. “I just… shit ,” he groans, his chin wobbling. “I finally get to the League and then I’m reminded why I shouldn’t even be here in the first place.” I’m not sure he realizes that he’s talking out loud since his eyes are closed again. His chin continues to tremble, and his right leg has started bobbing up and down, his hand still squeezing the bottle.

“Hey, hey…” I placed my hand on his shoulder, rubbing it reassuringly. “You’ll be fine,” I add, which is stupid, really, because I don’t know the extent of his old injury. But I feel I have to say something, with Cody shaking next to me, cold sweat breaking out across his forehead again. “And of course, you belong here. You saved our asses last night, man. Every night, basically, since you got here.” I continue to massage his shoulder, and after a while, his breathing seems to even out, that frantic edge to it gone, and I feel him relax into my touch. He isn’t shaking anymore and perhaps the pills started working, too, because he almost melts into the couch. Finally, he blinks his eyes open, brushing his hand across his face.

“Shit,” he sighs. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to go all emo on you there.” He offers me a crooked smile as he sits up straighter, a dimple I hadn’t noticed before popping at the right corner of his mouth. It gives him an even more boyish look than before and, combined with the vulnerability in his eyes, I just feel like hugging him. Holding him close and breathing him in. Feeling his heart beating against mine, the quiet thump-thump-thump merging with mine. But that would be kind of weird since we’ve known each other for all of a few weeks. Even though it feels like I’ve known him my entire life. Like some part of me has always known of him, just waiting for him to come along.

“No worries. You’re good.” Jesus , what a lame thing to say. Suddenly, I’m too aware of how close I’ve moved next to him and that my hand is still resting on his shoulder. Removing it reluctantly, I get up, heading for the kitchen. “You hungry?” I ask with my back to him as I open the top drawer of the kitchen counter, going through the stack of takeout folders. My stomach still hasn’t forgiven me for skipping snack number two and I fear it’ll soon start eating itself if I don’t get some carbs.

“I could eat,” his mellow voice wafts toward me. “I am , after all, a hockey player.” There’s a lilt to his voice, and even with my back to him, I can tell that he’s attempting a smile. My stomach does that weird flutter again that I now recognize for what it is. I like Cody. I like him like him. Fuck. Earth to Carrington. Mission not confirmed. I repeat, mission not confirmed. The image of that small fox flashes before my eyes, a blur of blacks, grays, whites, and purples mixing, as I suck in a deep breath.

“Pizza?” I squeak pathetically. Clearing my throat, I add, “It’s a little late to cook now.” Turning around, I hold up a folder from the closest pizza place, The Crust.

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugs. “It’ll be our little secret,” he smiles carefully, his cheeks slightly flushed. Secret, my stupid head echoes. Tell me all your secrets , I want to say. I want to know everything about him. What makes him laugh or cry? What he dreams of aside from hockey. If he thinks as much about me as I think about him. “I’m good at keeping secrets,” he continues. His voice sounds drowsy, his eyes hooded. I nod, moving toward him and throwing the folder at him. It lands on his chest, and he jolts back awake.

“Pick something,” I say as I nod at the bathroom. “I just gotta take a leak.” And splash some water on my face, then search my cabinet for a chill pill to get a grip. I so need to get a fucking grip.

“Sure,” he picks up the folder, apparently oblivious to my inner forest fire, while pulling his phone from his shorts pocket. “What do you want?” he bites his bottom lip absentmindedly, turning the folder over.

I wanna know what your lips taste like and if you moan when I kiss you. Shit . He just looks so cute and sweet as he sits there, all fucking vulnerable, with that ice pack on his knee, his huge wary eyes resting on my face, damp, shaggy locks spilling onto his face.

Until now, being gay has mostly been something I’ve been in theory. Like reading about a foreign country that you’ve never visited. You have this idea of what it’s like, but you can’t know for sure until you’re actually there. I think I’m there now, watching Cody studying the menu. I think I finally know what everyone has been raving about.

“Luke?” I shake my head, rubbing a hand across my T-shirt-covered chest. Pull yourself together, dude. Now is not the time to be… whatever it is I’m doing over my roomie and teammate. Thank God I’m not drooling, but I need to get a grip and work on not ogling him compulsively. Especially not in public.

“Yeah, sorry. Uhm, Hawaiian for me,” I manage to articulate, the Hawaiian coming out a little too heavy for my taste. Like it’s code for something else. Cody doesn’t seem to notice, though, a smile blossoming on his lips.

“Cool,” he nods. “I’ll have the same.” Looking at the folder, he taps the number onto his phone. Suddenly, I’ve forgotten all about where I was headed and my eyes are locked on the focused frown between his prominent brows.

“You wanna watch a movie?” I hear myself asking, my voice sounding breathy, almost as if I’ve just run around the block twice. Maybe I should run around the block twice and clear my head.

“Sure,” he looks up, his smile growing, this time reaching his eyes. Holding the phone against his ear, he continues, “What do you wanna watch?” Without thinking, the words fall from my lips on their own accord.

“Love, Simon?” I croak because that’s apparently what I’ve been reduced to now. A needy, croaky— croaky?— mess of a guy. Before I can curse myself for suggesting a gay coming-of-age movie, the smile, now in full bloom, explodes across Cody’s face, his steel-gray eyes all bright like granite, pulling me in, keeping me transfixed. The moment seems to expand, and I’m just about to suggest another movie, maybe some lame superhero thing, when he laughs. I haven’t heard him laugh like this before, but the sound makes something shift inside my chest and I know then that I’m truly fucked. Not just because he’s our goalie and my roommate, but because, again, the small fox tattooed on his hip appears before my eyes and it’s all I can think about. Those colors and what they mean. You don’t have a tattoo like that unless it means something to you. It means something to Cody, and that’s how I know I need to squash whatever feelings are growing inside me.

“Ohmyfuckinggawd!” Cody squeals, before his face sobers. “Oh, sorry, sir. Yes, two number 24s, sir.” Through a haze, I listen as Cody places our order, his cheeks ruby red, his eyes bright. Once he ends the call, he places his phone next to him before looking up at me. “I love that movie,” he whispers, eyes as clear as the virgin snow.

Of course you do, Cody Mitchell. Of course you do.

“It’s my favorite,” I swallow, that small fox imprinted on my retinas like a big fat stop sign.

“It’s my favorite, too.” He blinks, eyes not leaving mine, an edge of want in them that speaks to the same want that’s currently taking over every inch of my body. I’ve always followed the rules. Every goddamn one of them. I’ve never broken the speed limit. Not once in my life. I always came home way before my curfew. I never cheated on a test or handed in an assignment late. I’m your ultimate good guy. But all I want to do now is just blow past that imaginary stop sign and wave a big fat fuck you at all the rules. Cody’s smile, this very second, makes me want to break all the goddamn rules.