Chapter 5

5

Luke

I'm in the batting cage, working on my swing, when movement behind me catches my eye. I don't look away from the ball machine, because that's a good way to get a broken rib; I've made the mistake once, and I'm not about to do it twice. Probably just one of my teammates, waiting for me to finish so they can take their turn. I focus on my swing.

"Hey, Kelly," a voice says from behind me, and my eyebrows rise in surprise, even as I maintain my concentration.

"Hey, Marcos. You need the cage?"

"Nah. I was hoping I could talk to you. When you're done."

Oh fuck it all, now I'll never be able to focus. Sighing, I step back out of the strike zone and lift my helmet. Marcos the Grouch is leaning against the chain-link fence, arms crossed and his perpetual scowl in place. I turn off the ball machine and step around him to replace the bat .

"What's up?" I ask, smiling at him because I'm a friendly guy and not a dick, like some people.

"What's going on with you and Max?"

"What?" I ask, because of all the things I'd thought he would say, those are not the words I expected to come out of his mouth. I'm so thrown, I don't even notice the tone of voice he used. "We're going to dinner tonight, why?"

He crosses his arms, shoulders rigid and posture defensive. It puts my back up and makes me wonder if I need to worry about the possibility of a fight. I'd rather not go to a date with a fresh black eye, but needs must.

"I just want you to be…you can't treat him the same way you treat all those other guys. He's not a quick fuck—someone you can roll off of and send on their way. Max is?—."

"A grown ass man," I interrupt, not bothering to keep my voice down. I'm seething. "Who the fuck do you think you are? His dad? What is wrong with you, man, what happens between Max and I is none of your business."

He stares at me, impassive. The longer he stands there in silence, the more pissed off I become. Who does something like this?

"Fuck you," I say, pushing past him and out of the batting cage. If I don't leave I'll do something stupid like punch him in his interfering mouth.

"Kelly," he says, but I don't turn around. You can't treat him the same way you treat all those other guys , he'd said, and I could hate him for that alone. I'm a good guy, I don't mistreat anybody, and the implication feels like a knife between the ribs. I want to turn back around and tell him I'm not obligated to marry every single person I sleep with. I want to tell him that just because I go through a lot of guys, it doesn't mean I'm mistreating them .

"Goddamnit, Marcos. Goddamnit," I mumble, as I drive home. That fucker just had to go and ruin my perfectly good mood.

I slam my way into the house I share with four other guys and stomp my way to my basement room. It feels good—like throwing a little fit—and I already feel marginally calmer. Maybe toddlers are on to something. By the time I've climbed out of the shower and am toweling off, I'm no longer mad at all. No matter how tightly I try to hold on to grudges, I just can't; it's not who I am. Marcos was just trying to be a good friend , I reason, and forgive him for being an ass in the process.

I'm whistling cheerfully by the time a timid knock comes at the front door; I pull it open to find Max on the doorstep, looking fresh and lovely, and smelling like peppermint. He's wearing a shirt that fits , for once—accentuating his muscular chest and arms, and slim waist. I want to touch him.

"Hello, you," I greet him, and he smiles. Wars have been fought for less than a smile like Max Kuemper's.

"Hi, Luke." He hesitates, steeling himself. I can literally see him square his shoulders before he steps forward and kisses me; it's so quick, I might have imagined it. I grab him before he can move back.

"Oh, I think we can do better than that," I tell him, and cup my hand around the back of his neck the same way I've seen him do a dozen times.

He doesn't resist when I bring his mouth back to mine, but I feel a hitch in his breathing when our lips meet. He wavers for only a moment before I feel the tip of his tongue teasing the seam of my mouth; I open for him, gladly, and he makes a small, needful noise as he kisses me deeper. Holy shit, the man can kiss , is my last coherent thought before all of my brain cells are kissed to death.

"Fuckin' a Kelly, get a room," one of my roommates calls from where he's playing Call of Duty in the living room.

I nip gently at Max's bottom lip before pulling away. I've got a hand in his hair, somehow, and take a moment to appreciate how soft it is. I make a show of ruffling it a little, and grin at him.

"There. You're properly mussed up now, just the way I like you."

He laughs, color high in his cheeks and more joy in his eyes than I've seen yet. "Let's take my car. Yours looks like something as minor as a pothole would leave us stranded."

"Hey, now," I say, climbing into the passenger seat of his car, "don't knock it. It's an antique."

"That's not a good thing, when you're talking about cars."

He drives carefully, never pushing beyond the speed limit and taking a full stop at every stop sign. There are no opportunities for me to hold his hand—his never leave the ten and two position. When we get to the restaurant, he backs into a space.

"We made it," he tells me, which is so fucking charming I can't help but lean over and kiss him again. It startles him, the unexpected contact, and he jolts before leaning into it.

Now that his hands are no longer occupied with safe driving, I slide my fingers between his as we walk toward the restaurant. He smiles, shy and a little uncertain, but he also tightens his grip and steps closer to me. I gesture my free hand toward the line of people waiting to go inside.

"Have you ever been here before?" I ask.

"No," he says, shaking his head. I reach forward for the door, holding it open for him and following close behind. I'm unwilling to let go of his hand just yet.

We bypass everyone waiting in the sitting area. The hostess smiles at me as we approach and I return it, easily. "Table for two, miss. Luke Kelly."

"Follow me," she says, and we do, amid many grumbles from the people who didn't think to make a reservation.

Dinner is fun. We talk about everything and nothing at all. I learn all about hockey, and the ins-and-outs of the draft; I watch his eyes light up when he talks about a road trip he took with Marcos. He talks with his hands when he gets excited, long fingers dancing and arms gesturing. He laughs when I tell jokes, even if they're stupid. Halfway through dinner he bridges the distance below the table and presses his leg to mine. I ask him to tell me a secret and nearly laugh myself to tears when he admits to sleeping in SpongeBob pajama pants.

"They're soft," he says, which sends me over the edge.

The waitress comes over to fill my water glass, probably seeing my uncontrollable laughter as a choking hazard. I wipe my eyes, shaking my head. Max is watching me, grinning.

"They're really soft," he says again.

"Stop it," I tell him.

"Your turn," he says, and I try to think of something as innocent and adorable as childish pajamas.

"Okay, keeping with the sleep theme here: I can't sleep alone."

He cocks his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"Just that. I can't sleep if I'm alone. I have a body pillow for nights when there's not, you know, an actual body."

He doesn't laugh at me, but continues to maintain eye contact as he thinks through what I said. I've never told anybody that before, and I'm unsure of what madness possessed me to do so right now.

"I think I'd be the opposite. I think it might…freak me out to wake up in the middle of the night and have somebody in my bed," he says, finally.

"Really? You've never spent the night with someone like that?" There go my hopes for going back to my place, fucking his brains out, and then spooning him until morning.

"No, I have…it's just been a long time, is all," he says, looking embarrassed.

All right Luke, change the subject . I lean toward him over the table. "So, tell me, do you believe in alien life?"

Max drives us back to my place the same way he drove us to the restaurant: slow and careful, radio low and his eyes firmly on the road. I wait until we're parked in the driveway, his car tucked in behind mine, to unclip my seatbelt and turn to him.

"Do you want to come inside?" I ask. He stares out of the windshield, hands resting in his lap. His chest expands underneath his shirt, once, twice, three times before he speaks.

"Yeah. I do."

I bring him in, bypassing the shared spaces of the house and leading him straight down the stairs to my room. He stands awkwardly by the door once we get there, as though he wants to have swift access to the exit. He seems nervous. I sit down on my bed, mentally patting myself on the back for remembering to put fresh sheets on this morning .

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to," I tell him, because he looks like he's fighting some internal battle. Instead of looking mollified, he looks aggravated.

"I want to stay," he says, sounding like the words are painful to speak. "I do."

"All right." I wait, letting him come to me.

He walks forward, eventually, after toeing off his shoes and leaving them by the door leading upstairs. Before he can sit down next to me, I reach up and put a hand on his hip, directing him to stand between my legs. He's standing above me, hands resting on my shoulders; he has the power when we're in this position and I can see the exact moment he realizes this—he relaxes, stretching one thumb out to trace a line down my throat.

I pull him toward me at the same time he leans down to kiss me. His hands cup my face and mine splay across his hips, both of us gentle. I groan when he changes the angle and bends my neck backward with the force of his kiss; he kisses like it's his last—putting everything in it and making me dizzy with desire. I slide my hands up into his shirt and he uses his body to push me back onto the bed.

The moment his weight is on top of me, I'm hard and straining against my pants. We're the same height and our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces: hips locked together and hearts pounding in sync. I want his clothes to be gone so badly; I can't even think of how to manage it. When my fingers find the waistband of his pants, I pull my mouth from his long enough to pant a request.

"Can I…can we…"

"Clothes off?" He asks.

Yes, Jesus Christ, yes, clothes off. He sits back, hands fumbling at his belt. I knock them away, wanting to do it myself. Pushing his shirt up, I lean in and kiss his stomach—his perfectly hairless, six-packed stomach. I could weep with happiness. He tugs his shirt all the way off and I apply myself to tasting every inch of that delectable abdomen. He rests a hand on my head and lets me.

When I run out of skin I'm able to reach like this, I unfasten his pants and let him step off the bed to take them all the way off. I prop myself up, tugging my own off, along with my shirt. We leave our boxers on for the time being which is fine by me. I want to take his off with my teeth. I scoot all the way back on the bed and reach for him as soon as he's close enough for me to do so. So much warm, smooth skin. I want to kiss every fucking inch.

There is a dusting of freckles over the tops of both shoulders, like someone sprinkled him with cinnamon; they are the same copper color as his hair. Wrapping an arm firmly around his waist, I flip us so that his back is against the bed and lean down to taste them. He gasps, arching up against me in a way that has his tented boxers brushing against mine. Leaning down to kiss him, I brush a hand up his side and along his arm. I want him so badly, I can't think where to start.