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Lake’s hands on my dick—liked it.
His cock rubbing against mine—liked it.
His tongue inside my mouth—liked it.
Am I still freaking the fuck out about all the revelations?
Yeah. One hundred percent. Who wouldn’t? It’s new. I don’t understand any of it. But at least I can acknowledge the fact that there’s something there. Before, it was as if somebody had told me to find the hidden treasure, but hadn’t given me a map, told me where the thing was buried, or if it was even real at all.
Now, at least, I have the map.
Not that it does me a lot of good. I have no idea what happens now.
Lake didn’t show up last night.
I’m pretty fucking sure common sense says he’s not interested.
The not-so-common sense doesn’t agree.
Thing is, I’ve always had a tendency to stubbornly latch on to things I really want, so there’s no way to tell whether that gut feeling that Lake isn’t as disinterested as he might want to be is right or not.
No one’s ever kissed me quite like Lake does. With a barely controlled edge of chaos that makes me suspect we haven’t even scratched the surface of what could happen between us if we let it.
No one’s ever had that kind of pull on me. If I really let myself consider it, it’s not even a new thing. He’s been pulling me toward him ever since that first time I found him sitting on the front steps of my mom’s house, lanky and skinny, dressed in jeans he was on the edge of outgrowing and a hoodie that had seen better days. Edgy, throwing around anxious looks, but trying to hide it as best as he could, with Bowie pressed against his side, Lake’s fingers sinking into his chocolate brown coat, and Bowie’s tail thumping against the pavement.
I spent the next few years trying to somehow look after Lake as best as I could, considering I was a kid. As much as he’d let me.
He hasn’t needed looking after for a long time.
But the pull remains.
So what is it?
Some weird obsession? Plain, simple lust? Something else?
Fuck if I know.
That question makes the rounds in my head until the end of practice, and the thing that finally brings me back to the present is Soren’s elbow to my gut.
“Dude, you still with me?” Soren asks as we’re walking toward the locker room. He’s chugging water from the oversized metal bottle he drags with him everywhere and uses as a prop to lecture people about hydration.
I blink back into the present and shake my head to clear it of Lake.
“Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Just making sure you’re all right. You’ve been weird lately,” he says.
“Fine,” I say, then repeat, “Fine,” more defensively at the way his brows furrow when he looks at me.
“Getting your shit together after last week?”
It’s not so much a question as a demand. Admittedly, a fair one. Hockey is a team sport. A true team game. Every position matters, so if one player flounders, it affects everybody.
“Yep,” I say.
He nods and lets it go. We’ve been friends ever since we met in freshman year. Him and Hayes are my two closest friends on the team, so it makes sense the two of them both would confront me about being off.
“I’m heading to the dining hall. You in?” he asks.
