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He must’ve pegged it, judging by Eli’s shout.

“Don’t stop,” Eli begged. His fingernails raked up Nolan’s back. “Don’t stop.”

“Not a chance,” Nolan panted. “Gonna come?”

“Yes, yes, more. There. Fuck. So close. Nole, I’m so close.”

Nolan slowed his pace and unburied his head from Eli’s neck, rising up onto his forearms.

“No, no, don’t stop.”

“Not stopping,” Nolan said. Keeping up the slow pace, he dropped his forearms onto either side of Eli’s head, bringing their mouths so close that Nolan could feel Eli’s breaths on his skin. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Eli replied with a small laugh. He brought Nolan’s head down for a kiss, and it was sloppy as fuck, mostly teeth and tongue as they both gasped and groaned and chased their own orgasms.

Eli gave his erection a couple of tugs, and apparently that was all he needed—he came in the next second, his entire body going rigid beneath Nolan’s.

Nolan followed soon after, drunk on Eli’s body and the sounds he made and the contradiction of his wholesome looks paired with his current freshly debauched state.

Eli’s chest shook with silent laughter, and he patted Nolan’s butt. “Hungry?”

Nolan thought about it and nodded. “Yeah. I could eat.”

Eli made them sandwiches and chili—okay, he made toast with jam and canned soup—and told Nolan to take a seat on the couch.

“Put the blanket down first,” Eli said, nodding at where a fluffy throw was folded on one arm of the couch. “In case we make a mess, it’s easy enough to toss in the wash.”

Nolan did as asked, but Eli could see the amusement on his face all the way from the kitchen.

“You do know what we just did on here, right?” Nolan asked.

“Meh. Jizz is easy enough to clean. Do you want grape jelly or strawberry jam?”

“Grape, obviously.”

“That’s the right answer,” Eli said, grabbing it out of the fridge. “I was testing you.” He brought the jelly and two glasses of water to the couch, and they ate facing each other with a tray between them as a makeshift table that held several slices of toast and two bowls of soup.

They chatted about nothing in particular. Nolan told Eli about a recent trip he’d taken to visit his mom and stepdad, and Eli told him about the two weeks he’d spent in Saskatoon with his parents during the summer. They finished their meals, but because toast and soup was about as filling as air, Eli went into the kitchen and came back with a bowl of all-dressed chips that he’d brought back from Canada the last time the team had been there for a game.

Lounging on his side, head propped on his palm, Nolan munched on the chips. He’d donned his underwear, and in deference to the chill November day, he’d flung a corner of the blanket over his legs. His upper body and one knee were exposed, as were the delicious tattoos on his arms that Eli promised himself he’d explore later. He looked like a model posing for art students in an oil painting class.

It was a good look on him.

If Eli had been alone, he would’ve done a giddy dance of happiness. His letter hadn’t just worked—it had fucking worked. He’d gambled, and it had paid off. He hadn’t imagined this, though. He’d hoped for some acknowledgment of his feelings, maybe a Yeah, let’s do dinner and a movie and see what happens.

Instead, he’d gotten Maybe you’ll let me try it out sometime?

And try it out, they had.

Spectacularly.

Eli felt like he was winning at life.

His fifteen-year-old self never would’ve believed this possible.

Hell, his twenty-six-year-old self hadn’t believed it possible until the storage room.

Nolan fucking Madolora was in his bed—couch . . . whatever—getting chip crumbs everywhere, and if Eli had his way, this couch would see a lot more activity before the night was over.