Chapter 6

6

Max

Luke is beautiful. Of course, Luke is beautiful. There is no difference between the color of his arms and the color of his stomach—just one smooth expanse of caramel, broken only by a smattering of dark hair trailing downward from his abdomen.

"You have pretty skin," I mutter, and immediately flush. What an idiotic thing to say. Luke smiles.

"Thank you. I take after my Puerto Rican mom. Come back here and kiss me." He pulls me in and I smile against his lips.

My fingers itch to touch him and when I do, he makes a pleased noise that sends my heart rate galloping. I haven't wanted anyone in so long, I've forgotten how potent it is; the desire to touch and be touched, and be wrapped up in another person.

I dive my hands into his hair, because I've wanted to feel it since the first day I met him. I trace my fingers around his ears and down his throat, marveling at the totally normal yet unbelievable fact of him. I bury my face into the crook of his neck and inhale; he still smells of sunshine. When he flips us, I gasp—shock momentarily distracting me.

He lowers his hips down against mine, and the pleasure of our erections rubbing together briefly outweighs the first spark of nerves in my stomach. He's touching me, hands calloused and rough against my skin; a direct contrast to the softness of his mouth. His weight presses down against me, more firmly now, pushing me into the mattress. When he rocks his hips against mine, an unmistakable shot of fear travels up my spine.

"Luke," I gasp, but can't remember what I wanted to say beyond that. I feel amazing. I feel scared.

Heart pounding, I reach for his face, wanting to bring his mouth back to mine. Kiss me —that's what I wanted to say. Kiss me so that I can't think.

His mouth is gentle against mine, teasing my tongue with his and dancing his fingers across my ribs. I lose track of that hand as I let him kiss me into oblivion. He links our fingers and presses my hand against the bed, leaning his weight against me. I freeze. The fear—manageable before—floods my system, burning everything away. My chest hurts and there is something constricting my throat, making it hard to breathe; I have a single, insane moment where I wonder if he's choking me.

"Luke," I try again, and this time it sounds like exactly what it is: distress. I rock my hips upward, trying to dislodge him. Get off, get off, please get off.

He releases my hand and raises himself into a pushup position above me. We're barely touching, but I can still feel the weight of him, pressing me down. Holding me there. I can't separate the real from the imagined, what he's actually doing from what I fear he might do.

"Max?" He says, and he sounds so far away.

I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to breathe. My skin is hot and my chest hurts so badly; the hammering of my heart is so violent I feel as though my ribs might crack. I think Luke is speaking but I can't hear him over the pounding of blood in my ears. Bile rises in my throat and I barely have a second's notice before I roll to the side and vomit.

I lose track of everything, my mind going blank as I struggle to do anything more than introduce oxygen into my lungs. My vision tunnels, and I know I'm going to pass out. I barely notice when a pair of hands touch me; something cold and wet is laid across my forehead. The world shifts as I'm pulled into a sitting position, and I'm coherent enough to recognize that somebody has an arm around my shoulders, lifting me up. The realization that I'm so incapacitated that I can't remember who it is nearly has me blacking out in terror.

"Maxy, hey, it's all right. Move down here, okay? Come over here," Luke's voice, so close to my left ear, feels like a lifeline. It's Luke who's touching you, just Luke. I want to tell him to call 911 because I can't breathe and I think I'm going to die, but you need oxygen to talk so I do nothing more than lean against him.

I go where he directs me, totally disoriented as the room rocks and sways. We end up on the floor and he removes his arm from around my shoulder, sliding it up to the back of my head.

"Put your head between your knees. There you go, just breathe. You're all right, you're all right." His voice is different, tight and stressed, and totally unlike the Luke from the diner or the one at the beach. Something cold touches the back of my neck and trickles down my spine. One of his hands is on my chest, tracing small circles over my heart.

"Breathe," he tells me, and I'm grateful for the reminder. "Breathe."

I have no concept of time. No idea how long we sit like that, with Luke rubbing my chest and chanting in my ear. The cold compress on my neck has long gone warm by the time I lift my face from my knees. I can breathe normally, but it feels like a hard-won battle; my chest and ribs ache, and my face is damp. I reach a hand up and touch my fingertips to my cheek. Jesus Christ, am I crying?

Luke discards the icepack, tossing it onto the floor next to us, and puts his arm over my shoulder to pull me against him. I go willingly, barely clocking the cold sweat covering my skin or the smell of vomit and fear permeating the small room. Almost as soon as I hope that he hasn't noticed the tears, he reaches a thumb up to brush one away. I'm shaking, tremors wracking my body and causing me to tremble uncontrollably. He's rubbing his hand up and down my arm, as though worried it's because I'm cold.

He adjusts slightly, running his palm up and down my spine instead; soothing me the way one might soothe a spooked horse. I'm coherent enough to recognize that this is a situation I should feel extremely embarrassed about. I turn my face away from him, unwilling to let him see me cry if I can help it. Apologies crawl their way up my throat, but I swallow them down, reluctant to speak until I can be sure my voice won't waver.

"Do you want me to get another icepack?" Luke asks quietly. "Do you feel lightheaded? "

"No," I mutter, and there is no hiding the presence of tears in my voice. "Thank you."

We're sitting on his floor, backs to the bed. I'm mostly leaning against Luke, though, half of my body warm against his chest. He puts a hand to my sweaty hair, threading his fingers through soothingly. Leaning an elbow on my knee, I rest my forehead in my hand and close my eyes. The sickly-sweet smell of puke hits my nose; there is no coming back from this degree of shame.

"I should go," I tell Luke, unable to look at him.

"No," he says quickly, "no, stay a little longer. Just a little bit, okay? Please?" Another pass of his fingers through my hair before he wraps me in a half-hug again. "Here."

He stretches a foot out and hooks it through the strap of his baseball bag. Plucking a water bottle from a side pocket, he unscrews the top and holds it out to me. My hands are trembling so badly, I can barely bring it to my mouth without spilling. I hand it back to him silently and he sets it down on the floor. I can't think of a single thing to say that would make this situation better.

"I'll drive you home when you want to go," he says. "Or you can stay."

The offer has a sob worming its way through my chest. I shake my head, mutely, and wipe a palm across my face. "I'll buy you new sheets."

It's all I can think about. I puked on his bed. On his fucking bed . I almost wish it was possible to die of embarrassment; at least it would save me from this hell.

"Jesus, no, don't worry about it. I'll do laundry."

"I need to go home," I tell him, and this time he simply nods and unfolds himself from where we're wrapped up in one another. He holds out a hand to help me to my feet, and I let him—I'm as shaky as a newborn giraffe. It hurts to look at him and see the worried expression on his face. I should never have come here; now all I've done is passed my misery onto him.

We dress in silence and Luke asks me to wait as he jogs up the stairs to have a quick conversation with one of his roommates. He's back a second later, dark eyes shining in the dim light of the hall.

"I'm going to drive you home in your car, okay? That way you have it tomorrow when you need it. Jay is going to get dressed and come pick me up." He smiles when he says this, hand brushing my arm. It seems that nothing can shake him—I wish I had half of his easy confidence.

"Okay," I say, and reach for the door handle, "thank you."

Luke walks me to the door of my apartment, clearly unsure of whether I can be trusted on the stairs or not. It takes me three tries to get my key in the lock with my shaky hands. Before I open it, I look back at Luke. He smiles, but it's a dimmer version of the sunshine smile at the beach and I wish I hadn't seen it.

"I'll text you tomorrow," he says, and I think: no, you won't.

I let myself inside and stand, uncertainly, in the vestibule. Marcos left the light on, like usual. I could turn right, take a hot shower and curl up in my bed alone while the anxiety eats me alive. Or I could turn left, knock on Marcos' door, and let him shoulder yet another of my burdens. I turn right, padding softly to my room and clicking the door shut behind me.

I stay in bed long past the time I'm usually awake the next morning. Marcos and I both have late start today for class, which is why Luke and I had chosen last night to be our date night. Lying flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling, I can hear my roommate moving carefully around the kitchen. He's not bothering to be quiet, assuming I'm already awake. Sitting up, I scrub my hands over my face and leave my phone where it is as I head into the bathroom. I don't want to check it for fear of messages from Luke. Or a lack of them.

I actually slept remarkably well after the fiasco of last night. It's as if my body needed a complete recharge after losing control at Luke's like that. And there it is , I think, sadly, as the thoughts I've been trying to avoid all come rushing back. I never thought it would be possible, to feel worse than I did that night at the hospital last year. Yet, here we are, the morning after what had been an otherwise perfect date until I projectile vomited and then sat on the floor, while Luke held me as I sobbed like a fucking baby.

Leaving my room, still in my pajamas, I pad softly into the kitchen. Marcos is standing at the counter, coffee cup in hand as he scrolls idly through something on his phone. He looks up when he catches sight of me and smiles his small smile. It's a testament at how good I've become at hiding my feelings from him that he can't notice how perfectly fucking awful I feel right now.

"Hey, Max. Coffee?" He goes to fill me a mug when I nod. I sit down on one of the tall barstools and wait for him to bring it to me, murmuring a thank you. "How did your date go?"

"Oh, well, I hurled all over his bed and then sat on the floor and cried, so," I shrug and try to sound like this isn't terrible. He stares at me, setting his mug down so hard that coffee sloshes onto the counter. I pick my own up and take a few, scalding hot sips.

"What? Are you okay? What do you mean you threw up?" He looks panicked, eyes wide. "Why did you throw up?"

"I'm fine, unless you can die from embarrassment, in which case, I'll say my goodbyes. And I don't know why I threw up, I didn't do it on purpose. It was just…spontaneous. We were…having fun, and then all of a sudden, I just lost it and I couldn't breathe, and I thought I was going to faint. I thought I was having a…a heart attack or something, swear to god."

"Let's go to the hospital and get you checked out. Just to be sure," he says, snatching up his phone and even going so far as to step toward the front door, as though we were both going to head out in our pajamas.

"No, I'm fine. I don't need a doctor," I tell him, and he scoffs, shaking his head. "What?"

"I think you do need a doctor, Max. You need somebody you can talk to."

"I talk to you," I counter, but he's still shaking his head.

"No. You don't."

We stare at each other over the expanse of the kitchen: Marcos wrestling with his guilt over leaving me alone at the party last year, and me fighting with the shame of the result. He's wrong. I can't talk to somebody about this; hell, I can't even remember the thing I'd be talking about. What would be the fucking point? I don't need a doctor to tell me why I can't sleep and have no appetite. I don't need a doctor to push pills on me or give me a bunch of empty, textbook platitudes.

"I'd better get ready for class," I say, and look down at my coffee mug. Marcos nods, walking to his room and wrapping his fingers around the handle. I call him back. "You know it wasn't your fault, right? And…and that I don't blame you for what happened? You know that, right Marcos?"

He turns around, slowly, and meets my eyes. "The funny thing is, I do know that. But knowing something and believing it are two different things. There are a lot of things that might have changed what happened that night, Max, and every single one starts with me."

"Sounds like we both need to talk to somebody," I joke, and he smiles, sadly.

"Yeah, maybe."

"I mean it, though. I don't want you to think I'm…I don't blame you, or hate you, or anything like that. Okay?"

"Okay." He pushes down on his door handle, cracking it open a few inches before pausing again. He bites his lip, looking uncertain. "Uhm, but about last night… Was Luke…?"

"No need to defend my honor and kick his ass today, Marcos. He was a perfect gentleman. Jesus, the poor guy. I owe him an apology. Puked on his fucking bed," I mumble, mostly to myself, and take a gulp of coffee.

"Has he texted you?"

"I don't know. I didn't want to see, so I didn't check."

"Well, for what it's worth, I doubt Luke is upset about whatever happened. I'm not the guy's biggest fan, but he's not one to let things bother him. If you…if you want to keep, uhm, seeing him, you should just talk to him."

I laugh, looking at the pained expression on Marcos' face. "That kind of hurt you to say, didn't it?"

"Leave me alone," he says, chuckling. "I've got to get ready for class."

School is a trial, each class longer than the next. I can't focus on anything except my memories of last night, the conversation with Marcos this morning, and the absence of any text messages from Luke. He's probably disgusted. He's decided you're obviously more trouble than you're worth, and has already moved on to the next guy. He's probably told his roommates the whole, ridiculous story, and they've been having a good laugh about it all day.

"Hello, Max," a soft, German voice breaks me away from my thoughts. I look up to see Henri Vasel standing next to me, collared shirt halfway unbuttoned as he starts getting undressed.

"Hey, Vas, how are you?" I'm already dressed in my practice gear. Like usual, I came early to change before the rest of the team arrived.

"I am very well, thank you. It is a good day for hockey," he says, and I laugh.

"Yeah, it is."

"Something is bothering you, though, I think," he adds, carefully going through the motions of putting his gear on. I look at him in surprise and he shrugs. "I am friends with Carter Morgan for a long time. And you are not so good at hiding, as he was."

He grimaces at me, apologetically. I shrug. "Just had a bad night, is all."

"Mm." He pats me on the shoulder. "You can tell me, if you'd like. I am very good at all the advice. Carter will tell you."

I laugh, again, and he smiles at me. I open my mouth to reply, but close it again as Coach Mackenzie walks into the room. He looks carefully around at us all, probably doing a mental roll call, before sending everyone out to the ice. I stand, gratefully. Coach watches me as I pass him, and my neck prickles uncomfortably. I don't think Vas is the only perceptive one here.

We're playing Harvard this weekend, and so Coach puts us through a rigorous set of drills meant to prepare us for their style of play. When I skate to a stop next to the bench and reach for a water bottle, my chest is heaving. It's the second time in twenty-four hours that I feel like I can't breathe. The whistle blows again and I abandon the water and skate over to center ice. I feel great—perfectly in my element, sweaty and exhausted from working hard. I would stay here all fucking night if Coach would let me.

More drills. These center mostly on footwork and I could cry of happiness. I'm fast, and I've got good feet; a hundred times I've been given that praise, and I remind myself of it now. If only life was as easy as hockey. It's another hour before Coach calls an end to practice, and I stay behind to help him gather up the cones and move the nets. Now that practice is over, the sick feeling of dread has settled in my stomach once more. When I leave here, I'll have to deal with what happened. I'll have to talk to Luke.

"You played well today, Kuemper."

"Thanks, Coach," I say, smiling. He slides to a stop next to me, green eyes searching mine. I have to fight the urge to look away, fearing what he might see.

"I'll finish up here. Go get some food and rest," he tells me, and I nod.

The locker room is mostly empty. The end of practice means the guys can go out to eat or see their girlfriends, so everybody is in a hurry to leave. I take my time in the shower, cranking the heat and standing under the spray with my eyes closed. Marcos' suggestion from earlier is bothering me; you need somebody you can talk to , he'd said. Maybe he's right. Maybe I need somebody removed from the situation who can help me—give me advice. I don't even know how I would go about finding somebody like that.

Trailing wet footprints behind me, I walk over to my stall and quickly get dressed. In trepidation, I check my phone; my stomach drops all the way to the floor when I see a text message from Luke. Dropping the phone back onto my locker shelf like it's on fire, I sit down to pull on socks and shoes. After waiting all day, hoping he would reach out, now I find myself wishing he hadn't. I really don't know if I can read that message.

The last of my teammates is long gone by the time I stand up and grab my bag. Resolutely—and before I can change my mind—I unlock my phone and open the messaging app. There isn't any way he could make me feel worse about myself than I already do.

Hey, Maxy. I hope you're feeling okay today. I stopped by your apartment earlier, but I think you guys were already gone. I feel bad about last night, and I'd have preferred to apologize in person but I couldn't find you. I'm sorry if I scared you.

"Oh my god," I breathe, and rest my forehead down against the side of my stall. He wants to apologize in person, as if there is anything he needs to apologize for. What a fucking mess.

Feeling like I'm in danger of throwing up again, I grab my things and head out through the quiet rink. There is a light on in Coach Mackenzie's office and the door is standing wide open. I stop, well down the hall and out of view, and stare at that patch of gold light. There he is—right there in front of me this entire time—the person I can talk to .

Striding forward, I step into the doorway and tap my knuckles against the frame. Coach Mackenzie, who'd been bent over and putting his things in a bag, sits up and looks toward the door. As quickly as it came, my courage fails. Am I really about to tell him about this? Say the words out loud, and sully the one place on this campus that I love?

"Kuemper," he says, abandoning his bag and leaning forward, elbows on his desk. "Come in."

"Hi, sir, I was just…you're going home, though, so actually…" I hook a thumb back toward the hall and take a step backward. Nope. I'm not going to do this.

"Come in," he repeats. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, nothing, I just…well I just wanted to talk to you about something, but it's not important. You should go home, it can wait."

He stares at me, face giving away nothing.

"Home will still be there once we're finished," he says simply. I sit down in the chair in front of his desk, unsure whether my knees can be trusted to keep me standing.

"Okay, well…if I tell you something, you won't…like, can you promise not to tell anyone else?" I flush, embarrassed to be implying that he's a gossip. He doesn't seem offended though, only contemplative.

"Anything you want to tell me will stay between us, unless you are about to confess to a crime, in which case we might need to reevaluate."

I laugh, a harsh, gasping sound that sounds more like a sob. "No, it's not that."

He nods, standing up. I watch him, scared for a second that he's leaving. But he only walks carefully around me and quietly shuts the door. Instead of taking a seat behind his desk again, he brings a chair closer to mine and sits down facing me. We could be two guys just having a friendly chat. He waits, letting the silence stretch until I'm comfortable enough to break it.

"So, you know last year when I missed a few days? I think my friend, Marcos, had called you…?"

"Yes. Because you were ill," he fills in, nodding.

"Right. That's not really…" I look down at my feet, because it's easier to tell my shoelaces the story than it is to tell Coach Mackenzie.

I talk. It's not smooth, or well explained, or even chronological. It's a messy stream of consciousness that I toss at his feet, hoping he'll be able to untangle it. He doesn't interrupt a single time—no noise or movements made, as though he's just a cardboard cutout of himself. I glance up from my shoes every now and then, and find his expression unchanged. I'm able to get everything out and then sit there, panting like I've just run a race. My throat is scratchy and I feel a little woozy, like expelling the words has excised a physical weight from my body.

"Uhm, so," I wipe my sweaty palms on the thighs of my joggers, "I'm doing fine, obviously, and everything is okay. But, I want to…I want to do normal things again, like go on dates and…you know…and there is somebody that I really fucking—sorry—that I really like, but I completely screwed things up last night, and now I don't know what to do. So, if you could maybe, uhm, if you could help me with…that."

I finish, lamely, and slump back in my chair, exhausted. It feels good, having said it out loud. It also feels like I could go to bed and sleep for a week; maybe I should.

"Max," Coach Mackenzie says softly, and the use of my given name has me meeting his eyes. He's leaned forward in his chair, closing the distance between us. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

I nod, tightly. I knew he'd say that, but the sincerity with which the words were spoken make me feel like a child in need of comfort. The desire to hug him is so strong in this moment, I have to knot my hands together to keep from reaching for him.

"I'm not a doctor, Max. I'm not qualified to do anything more than teach you hockey skills."

"I know that," I say quickly, "I'm not trying to…I'm not looking for medical advice. I just wanted to…well, I guess I just wanted to talk to somebody. And I thought maybe you could give me personal advice."

"Okay. Thank you for trusting me." He runs a hand down his sternum, as though smoothing an invisible tie. His phone vibrates on his desk, scooting across the surface hectically as it rings. I glance at it.

"You can get that," I tell him.

"No," he says. "What happened last night?"

"Oh, that," I breathe, running a hand through my damp hair. "It was…I was having such a good night, sir. Like, I was having fun . I haven't had fun outside of the hockey rink in months, but Luke is so easy to be with, and he…I don't know. I feel like I don't want to be around people; sometimes I look at other guys on campus and think I wonder if it was you , which I know is wrong. I know it is, but I can't fuckin—sorry—I can't help it. But it's different with Luke; he's just…he's magic."

I cringe as soon as I say it, self-conscious. What a ridiculous thing to say about someone I've only known a fucking week. Coach Mackenzie smiles a small, private and somewhat sad, smile .

"Yes," he says, "I know what you mean."

I nod, and fix my gaze back on my shoes as I tell him every detail about last night. He listens in silence again, letting me get the whole thing out in one go. He doesn't laugh or smile again, nor does he look like he pities me. He's just…there; it's exactly what I needed.

"And then he texted me today," I finish, "and he said he's sorry. And now I feel like shit because…well, what the hell does he have to feel sorry about? He didn't do anything wrong."

"You can have a relationship that isn't predicated on sex, Max. If you're not ready, you're not ready."

"I know that," I say, flushing. "But…I wanted to. I just couldn't. It's so fucking stupid—god, sorry."

"I've heard that word before, Max," he says wryly, and I smile at him. "And it's not stupid. I have never heard anything less stupid in my life."

His phone goes off again, vibrating through another phone call. The moment it stops ringing, a text message comes through. I point at it.

"Somebody needs you," I tell Coach.

"You need me," he replies succinctly, and I breathe in so sharply it hurts.

"It…it might be Anthony Lawson," I say, and he nods.

"Oh, it is definitely Anthony Lawson," he confirms, in a dry tone that makes me laugh. "He gets worried when I do not make it home at the time I tell him I'll be home."

"You should answer him. Really, sir, I don't mind. I think…I'd better get going, anyway. I've taken up too much of your evening."

"Max," he says, exasperated, "you are not inconveniencing me. I am glad you've chosen to confide in me, and I hope that in the future you feel like you can come to me if needed. You have my phone number, and if you walk in that direction," he points out the window, "you'll eventually find yourself at my house. I cannot possibly stress this enough: I am always available should you need it."

"Yeah, okay. All right. Thank you."

"And, about your friend, Luke." I nod. Yes, please help me with my friend, Luke . "You should talk to him, Max. That's all you need to do—talk to him. You've done nothing wrong, and as long as he wasn't forcing himself on you in any way, he hasn't either."

"But…do you think I need to tell him? About…about what happened?"

"Do you want to tell him?"

"No," I say vehemently. "No, I don't want him to know. He can't know."

Coach Mackenzie looks at me steadily, green eyes narrowed slightly. He's gotten a little bit of a tan, and the scars on his forehead stand out stark against it. His phone vibrates again.

"You don't have to tell him, not if you don't want to," he says, and I sag in relief. "But you should reply to that text. Or go talk to him in person. You're stressing yourself out over what happened, and he might be as well. Just talk to him."

"Yeah. I'll do that. I'll do that tonight," I stand up, cupping my hand over the back of my neck and kneading slightly.

Coach follows, rising fluidly and carefully placing the chair back where he got it. The line between us feels blurred, and I don't know where we stand, now. He's my coach—somebody in a very clear position of power over me; but now, he also feels like my family. He feels like the uncle you can talk to and trust not to rat you out to your parents. My arm swings toward him, as though my body is pulling the strings and not my mind. He sees the movement and smiles, kindly, placing a hand on my shoulder.

Relieved, I step forward into him and wrap my arms around his middle before I can think too hard about the implications of hugging Coach Mackenzie. He rests his arm across my shoulders, not holding me to him but not pushing me away either. He passes a hand down the back of my head, and my eyes prick with tears. I don't hold onto him long, dropping my arms and stepping back as I clear my throat. This is turning out to be a strange fucking day.

"Thank you," I tell him, grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder. It's hard to look at him too long.

He picks up his own things and rests a hand on my shoulder once more, walking with me out the door and toward the exit. It's already dark when we get outside; he gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, and squints into the darkness.

"You'll be all right getting home?" He asks.

"Yeah. I'll be all right. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes. Tomorrow."

I watch him as he walks off, moving slowly. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I read the text from Luke one more time, bolstering myself. I tell myself that talking to Luke will be as cathartic as talking to Coach Mackenzie was, and that I'll feel better once it's done.