Page 63 of Line Change

Clean clothes are fifteen minutes in the wrong direction. “Okay.”

He pushes the stool out with his foot, and I sit while he puts the plates down between us. I take a drink of coffee and taste sugar. “You put sugar in this.”

“Two.”

He says it without looking up, as if two sugars is obvious. Maybe it is. He watches me drink coffee at the rink every day. By the time he looks over, I’m staring at his mouth, so I pick up my fork, eat too fast, and burn the roof of my mouth on the eggs. “Shit.”

“Slow down.” Pope slides his water toward me and keeps eating.

I drink from his glass, and Pope’s fingers close over mine when he takes it back. He puts his mouth where mine was, swallows, and doesn’t look away.

I’m still watching his mouth when I lean across the space between our stools.

Pope meets me halfway, cupping the side of my neck in one hand. His mouth is warm from the coffee and moves slowly over mine while his thumb rubs under my ear. When I pull back, his hand slides down to my thigh and stays there.

I stare at it. “I was going to shower.”

“You can shower after practice.” His fingers flex once against my jeans.

I tug the collar of my shirt forward and smell stale sweat. “I smell like your couch.”

Pope goes back to his eggs without moving his hand. “Nobody’ll notice.”

He’s probably right; the locker room never smells good enough for anyone to identify a specific couch.

When I steal a piece of bacon from his plate, he looks at the four pieces he gave me and moves the rest out of reach.

For a few minutes, the only sound is our forks against the plates. Pope’s hand stays on my thigh, warm through the denim, until I cover it with mine. He turns his palm up and curls his fingers around mine without looking away from his plate.

I know what happens when I come over at night, but this is the first time there’s been a morning. I already want another one, and I have no idea what to do with that.

Pope lets go and checks the clock over the stove. “We should go in ten.”

I nod and finish the toast. Pope carries both plates to the sink while I stand and pull my T-shirt away from where it’s stuck to my stomach. The fabric comes free with a faint crackle.

There’s a pale, stiff patch near the hem. I don’t remember getting come on my shirt, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.

“I think this is come.”

Pope comes over and pinches the stiff hem between his fingers. His knuckles brush my stomach. “Probably.”

“Yours?”

“You’d know.” His gaze drops to my mouth.

“I was busy.”

His thumb rubs over the spot. “With my cock in your mouth.”

My cock twitches against my zipper, and the corner of Pope’s mouth lifts.

“That was distracting,” I say.

His grip tightens on the hem. Neither of us moves until Pope lets the shirt go and checks the clock.

“You need something clean.”

“Yeah.”