Chapter 8

8

Max

It's Tuesday morning, which means it's been a full three days since I've spoken to Luke. The baseball team was on the road all day Saturday and Sunday, and I had a full game schedule as well. I'd texted him Saturday—a simple good luck text that has gone unanswered. I pull up the messaging app and double check for the thousandth time that he hasn't replied; he hasn't. Sighing, I put my phone face down on my desk and do my best to apply myself to world literature.

Marcos had warned me that Luke was a playboy, and a large part of me wonders if that's not what's happening here. Did our one failed sexual encounter fulfill his hook-up requirement? I don't want to believe it; I can't imagine the same Luke who stroked his fingers tenderly through my hair, and FaceTimed me to help himself fall asleep would ghost me. If he is, I've completely misread him.

Vasel catches up to me outside of class, and we walk together toward the gym. We're not on the ice today, but working on strength and conditioning. These days are usually awful—physically demanding while being mentally dull. I wish we were doing almost anything else; I desperately need to be distracted.

It's the assistant coach who takes us through our workout today, not Coach Mackenzie. He never does the gym workouts with us, and rarely participates in practice beyond feeding us pucks and watching from the sidelines. I wonder if his reluctance comes from the accident that ended his career; I wonder if he'd be offended if I asked him about it.

Thoughts of Coach distract me enough that I'm able to get through the workout without thinking about Luke. Unfortunately, that only lasts for as long as it takes for me to walk out the door. I think back to the way Luke had waved off my apology about throwing up; maybe it bothered him more than he let on, but he was just too nice to say something at the time. Or maybe he never liked me to begin with, and he's cutting his losses.

Feeling disproportionately upset about the death of a relationship that was barely over a week old, I let myself into Marcos' and my apartment. I stop and listen, ascertaining he's not yet home, and head into my room. I'm hungry, but not hungry enough to eat; just because my body is hungry, doesn't mean I have the mental fortitude to do so. Sitting down on the end of my bed, I make a mental list of all the things I have to do that don't include pining over Luke Kelly.

I hear the front door open and call out to Marcos. He appears in my doorway a second later, leaning against the frame and looking me up and down to verify I'm intact.

"Hey," he says, crossing his arms. "You got plans tonight?"

"No, just homework."

"You think you'll be able to get some sleep?" He asks carefully. I try not to let these questions bother me; I know they come from a place of love, even though the fact that they need to be asked pisses me off.

"Probably not," I admit, thinking of Luke. "It's supposed to rain, though, so I'll probably stay here."

His shoulders relax down away from his ears. "Is it cool if I go out?"

"Of course, you don't have to ask permission."

"I…might not be back until morning, though," he says, scuffing the floor with his toe and not looking at me. "So, if you do go out later, can you text me?"

"I'll share my location with you."

"Okay," he breathes, relieved, "thank you. I'm going to shower and head out."

"Have fun. I'll just be here, slaving away." He snorts, rolling his eyes and waving as he walks away.

Getting up, I go take a shower and put on my pajamas. There's no sense in keeping my street clothes on if I'm planning on staying home, and if I go out walking, it'll only ruin Marcos' night. He'll spend all his time with eyes glued to the screen, obsessively monitoring my progress through the streets. He calls out when he leaves, locking the door behind himself, and then I'm alone. Pulling out my lit homework, I prop my head up on my hand and get to work.

I get in two solid hours before I let myself take a break. Picking up my phone, I unlock the screen just as a call from Luke comes through. I stare at it, thumb hovering over the green accept button, stomach systematically tying itself in knots. On the third ring, I answer.

"Maxy?" Luke's voice comes over the line, wary, as if he's expecting somebody else to be answering my phone.

"Hey. "

"How are you?"

"I'm all right, how are you?"

He laughs under his breath. "Eh. Hey, listen, I've got the night off tonight. I don't suppose you'd want to… I don't know, maybe I could keep you company on your walkabout?"

"It's going to rain," I tell him, and he's quiet for a time. I feel bad, all of a sudden, for this unexplained awkwardness between us. Sighing, I rest my forehead in my hand and close my eyes. "So, listen, Luke, you don't have to pretend to be interested in me. It's okay if the…if you're not into this anymore."

"What?"

I huff out an exasperated breath. Is he going to make me spell it out? "Well, I'm assuming you only asked me out because you wanted to sleep with me, and we both know how that worked out. So, if you've decided this is more trouble than it's worth, no worries. You don't have to keep up the charade."

The silence is palpable, broken only by the soft breathing that indicates he's still on the line. "What do you mean you assume I only want to sleep with you?"

"Isn't that…you're not really a relationship guy, right?"

"And that's what you want? A relationship?" He asks, deflecting away from answering my question. Which, I suppose, does in fact answer my question.

"I guess, yeah," I mumble, rubbing my hand over my head and squeezing my eyes closed. I don't even know what I want. "I like you, and I like being around you, so, yeah, I would be disappointed if all you wanted from me was a fuck."

"You're right, I'm not a relationship guy," he admits suddenly. Sitting up, I spin myself idly in my desk chair, trying to pretend the words don't bother me. "But, it's not that I don't want to be, or could be."

"Luke, I don't know what that means."

"It means… okay, I like you too, and duh I want to have sex with you. I'm not a fucking nun. But I also just like talking to you, and I like it when you visit me at work. You're already different than the rest of them. Most of the guys I sleep with, we don't really talk—it's just banging."

"Super glad I know that," I deadpan, and he lets out a snort of laughter. I grin, happy to hear that the Luke I know hasn't been replaced by this more serious version.

"You get what I'm saying, though?"

"Spell it out for me."

"Maxy, I'm here, wearing an omelet yellow shirt and an apron, asking you to go steady with me."

It's my turn to laugh, and I hear Luke chime in from the other side. "Yeah, I'll go steady with you, you fucking weirdo. But no more ghosting me for three days; I'm too needy to handle that."

"Mm, possessive, are we? I like it. I'm going to change my Instagram bio to read: Property of Max Kuemper," he says, smile evident in his voice. I roll my eyes at the ceiling, shaking my head. "So, are you really not going on a midnight walkabout tonight, or were you just trying to let me down easy?"

"I'm really not. Marcos is out and I told him I'd be home. And it really is going to rain."

"Got it," he says, and then pauses. His voice becomes hesitant. "So, I don't suppose you'd want company?"

My eyes immediately track to my bed, and I scuff my heels along the carpet, thinking. "Yeah, you could come over if you wanted to…I'm just doing homework. "

"Great! I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Ten min—hello?" I pull my phone away from my ear and sigh. He hung up.

Standing, I walk into the bathroom to check my appearance in the mirror. Pajama pants and a baggy t-shirt, damp on the shoulders where my wet hair has dripped down.

"Very sexy, Max," I congratulate myself, before grabbing my toothbrush and brushing my teeth. I consider changing, but, aside from the pajama bottoms, this isn't that much different than how I usually look these days. No sense pretending to be something I'm not, anymore.

A knock sounds less than ten minutes later, and I pull the door open with a smile. Luke, unlike me, looks fantastic: black joggers and a fitted black long-sleeved shirt, neither of which leave much to the imagination. I can see every line and indent of the muscles on his arms. His dark hair is carefully messed up, as though somebody was running their fingers through it. My stomach clenches at the sight of him; heat pools low in my pelvis, and I have to remind myself what happened last time.

"Hey," I clear my throat, stepping back to let him inside. He brushes up against me as he steps through the doorway, and I inhale his scent, involuntarily. Jesus Christ, it's abnormal for somebody to smell this good .

"Did you just sniff me?" He asks, the left corner of his mouth tipped up in a partial smile.

"Sure did," I admit, and he laughs. I close the door and lock it. Putting both hands on my waist, he pulls me to him and into a hug.

"Sniff away," he says, and I inhale, audibly. His chest vibrates against mine with silent laughter.

I really do sniff him; tightening my arms around his back, I tuck my nose into his neck and breathe. It is, after all, my right to do so now that we are going steady. Luke rubs a hand up and down my spine and kisses my shoulder, through my shirt. He doesn't step away, waiting for me to decide when I'm done. I give it a full minute before I let him go.

Instead of letting me go completely, he keeps one arm around my waist and pulled tight to his side. "So, what are we studying?"

"Lit," I tell him, and lead him to my room.

I go to sit back down at my desk chair, turning it around so that I can face Luke, who's standing in the center of the room and gazing around. He smiles at the poster of Sidney Crosby on my wall.

"Cute," he tells me, and walks over to peek into my closet.

"Hey," I protest, "no snooping."

" Yes, snooping," he replies, voice muffled as he walks further into the closet. "Where is your underwear drawer?"

I laugh. "You're fucking ridiculous, you know that?"

"Alas," he sighs, stepping back into the room and coming to stand next to me at my desk. He hooks a finger in the pull on one of the drawers, but I block it with my hand before he can open it too far, "I do know that."

Abandoning the desk drawers, he goes to sit on the bed, wiggling his eyebrows at me as he opens the nightstand drawer instead. I merely shake my head at him, amused, as he peeks inside. He hums, winking at me, and closes the drawer. He points to the bed.

"Do you mind?"

"Go for it," I tell him, waving a hand. He kicks off his shoes and moves so his back is against the headboard, long legs stretched out in front of him. Crossing his arms, he looks at me .

"Sorry about not texting you back," he says.

"It's okay."

"No, it was shitty. I was just…working through a few things in my head. That's no excuse, though, so I'm sorry. And it won't happen again," he says, voice genuine.

"Okay," I say, unsure of how to respond, "thanks."

His eyes carve a slow path from mine, down my neck and chest until they reach my legs. His mouth pinches at the corners as though he's trying not to laugh; it doesn't matter, I can see it in his eyes anyway.

"You can say it," I tell him.

"Those are hideous ," he explodes, doubling over in laughter. "I thought…I don't know, I was picturing something nice, like SpongeBob and Patrick holding hands or something."

"I know," I agree, nodding. He points at my crotch.

"That's not SpongeBob, that's a demon."

"I know," I repeat, and hold up a finger as though I'm about to make an important point. "But remember, the selling point was the feel, not the print."

"I'll be the judge of that," he says, waving me over.

Instead of scooting my desk chair over, I get up and walk to the other side of the bed, climbing on and sitting next to him. I gesture for him to give me his hand; he holds it, palm down, in the air between us. Wrapping my fingers loosely around his wrist, I bring his hand down to rest on my thigh and let him go. Just like I knew he would, he immediately does a rubbing motion, mischievous brown eyes on mine.

"Soft," he whispers.

"Told you," I whisper back.

Grinning, he leans over so that his shoulder is against mine; I notice he leaves his hand on my leg, thumb circling idly. There might as well be no fabric between us—I can feel the warmth of that hand so strongly he could be touching my skin. I wish he was. I wish I wasn't so nervous about the possibility of a repeat performance of the other night to try.

"Can I ask you an invasive personal question?" He says, voice low and private.

"Yikes," I remark, and he smiles at me, head turned to the side facing me and leaned against the wall. "Sure, go ahead."

"You don't like your arms being held down—noted. Can you tell me what else you don't like, if there is anything?"

"Oh my god, Luke," I laugh, blushing, slightly.

"Here, I'll go first. I don't like…" He stops, evidently thinking hard. "Okay, so there isn't anything I don't like. But it's important to me that I know what you want, and what you're comfortable with. I know conversations like this are awkward as fuck, but can you just humor me? Please?"

"All right," I agree, looking away from him and over at my poster of Sidney Crosby. Nope, doesn't make it any less awkward . I raise my eyes to the ceiling, and talk to it instead. "I guess I don't know, really. It's been a little bit since I've…been with someone."

"Mm," he hums, and his hand tightens slightly on my leg. "Gentle or rough?"

"Gentle," I answer immediately, eyes still on the ceiling. I have no idea what Luke is looking at, but I feel like it might be my face given the way my skin is tingling.

"Top or bottom?"

"Both."

"Spit or swallow?"

"For you? Swallow," I say, and laugh when he groans.

"Rimming."

"Sure."

"Giving or receiving? "

"I don't know, I've never done either. But I'm not opposed to trying. How many of these questions do you have lined up?"

"I'm the one asking the questions," he scolds, nudging me with his shoulder. "Fingering—yes or no?"

"Yes. Definitely yes. Is this some weird form of foreplay you employ, or are you just getting me excited for nothing?" I ask, finally lowering my eyes and looking at him. His face is already turned toward mine, as I knew it would be.

"Luke's Safe Sex Questionnaire. Should have done it the other night, but you had me all worked up."

I laugh, shaking my head. It's been so long since I've felt this level of attraction to someone: heart pounding, nervous jitters, and that constant, throbbing ache in my pelvis. He's just so easy to be with—smiling and making me laugh, flirting and calling me Maxy, which nobody in my life has called me. I know he doesn't belong to me, but I can't help but feel that if someone were to be created specifically for me, they'd look and act a whole lot like Luke.

"Is the Grouch going to come storming in here and shoot me if I kiss you?" He asks, nodding toward the closed door.

"Nope. He's gone. Won't be back until morning."

Luke's eyebrows flick upward. "Morning," he drawls. "You don't say."

Reaching over, he runs a finger along my hairline and over the crown of my ear until his hand is cupping my cheek. He's no longer looking at my eyes, but tracing paths over my face and down my throat. By the time his gaze returns to mine, it feels like he'd done that with his tongue, not his eyes. There is a pressure mounting in my chest, and I think that if he doesn't kiss me soon, I'm probably going to die.

Or you could kiss him, idiot , I remind myself, and then do just that. Closing the distance, I press my lips to his and immediately slide my tongue inside. Mirroring him, I slide my fingers into his hair and around the back of his head. I'm so full of the smell and feel and taste of him, I don't even remember to be nervous. I deepen the kiss, gulping great breaths of him like I'm a man starved of oxygen. He groans when I catch his lip between my teeth, gently.

"Has anybody ever told you that you can kiss ," he breathes, coasting his mouth away from mine and along the line of my jaw.

"Yeah?" I ask, ridiculously pleased by his praise.

"Yeah. What do you say we keep going, huh? You need to keep those skills up."

Laughing, I hook my thumb under his jaw and direct his face back up so I can kiss him again. Abandoning his hair, I move my hand down until I locate the hem of his shirt; the moment my fingers touch his stomach, the heat in my abdomen turns to a full-blown wildfire. It shouldn't be possible to want somebody this badly; it's not survivable.

He lets me explore, but doesn't move to do the same. Every now and then he pulls his mouth from mine and kisses down my neck, but he leaves his hand against my face and the other on my leg. When my own fingers creep toward the soft waistband of his joggers, he murmurs into hollow of my throat.

"Not tonight," he says, and I immediately pull my hand away.

"Sorry." My voice sounds raspy with desire, and my pajama pants aren't hiding anything. Two minutes of kissing and touching his stomach, and I'm ready to blow my damn load. Pulling his head away so that he can look at me, he catches my bottom lip with his thumb .

"Want to make out like teenagers for a couple hours?" He asks.

"Sure, as long as you don't mind if I come in my pants like one," I retort and he tips his head back and laughs. I can't resist leaning forward and kissing his exposed throat.

He slides down until he's lying flat on his back. He curls an arm around me as I lay down as well, pulling me to him. I'm half laying on top of him, held in place by a loose arm around my middle. There is a question in his eyes that makes my stomach sink; he's nervous about me freaking out again. Instead of opening that can of worms again, I kiss him.

Later—much, much later—I've got my head on his shoulder and a leg thrown over his hips as we give our swollen lips a break. He's trailing his fingertips up and down my spine, the touch barely discernible through the fabric of my shirt. I'm cursing the presence of his own, and wishing my face was resting directly against his skin.

"I should go," he says, sounding apologetic.

"Stay," I request, and flinch the moment the word is spoken. As much as I like him, I'm not sure I'm ready to spend an entire night together. What if I have a nightmare, or wake up in the middle of the night with his arm around me and freak out because I can't remember who it is? I don't need to give him any more reasons to give up on this thing between us; nor do I want him to look too hard at possible reasons why I have panic attacks and nightmares.

"I've got weights early tomorrow, before class," he says, pressing three quick kisses to my hair. "But how about dinner this Sunday and if you want, we can hang out at my place after?"

"Sure, that would work. We have an early game on Sunday, so I'll be free. "

"I know," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "I checked your schedule."

"Who's the possessive one now," I joke, and he pinches my hip, gently.

"Me," he admits, rubbing my lower back. "Get up, you, I've got to get home, jerk off, and go to bed."

Laughing, I roll over and prop myself up on an elbow so I can watch him as he slips his shoes back on. Pinching my chin between thumb and forefinger, he leans down to give me three kisses, the same way he just did to the top of my head. I follow him to standing, shaking my pajama pants back down where they'd gotten rucked up my legs.

Walking him to the front door, I lean against the doorframe as he turns to look at me on the landing.

"Sunday," he says.

"Sunday," I agree, nodding. Grinning, he turns and jogs down the stairs. I wait until he's out of sight before going back in and locking the door behind me. Knowing I won't be able to concentrate on schoolwork, I send Marcos a quick text to let him know I'm still alive and at home, before crawling into bed and inhaling Luke's scent on the sheets as I fall asleep.