Rubbing my sternum and looking away from the one who caught my attention—not Marcos, unfortunately, although for a moment I thought it was—I turn back to Micky. We’re seated on the lawn outside of the computer sciences building, backs against a tree as we pass the time until practice. Micky bites into a sandwich, notices me watching him, and holds it out to me, eyebrows raised in question and offer.
“I’m good, thanks.” I wave away the sandwich, and then smile when someone calls my name from across the lawn. Micky rolls his eyes.
“You know everyone,” he comments. “Doesn’t that exhaust you?”
It doesn’t, really, but I get where he’s coming from. I thrive on the energy of being in big groups of people. I love to talk, and truthfully, I like being the center of attention. Micky, who had a fucked-up childhood, is so used to making himself small and quiet, any socialization ends up being too stimulating for him. I can’t imagine how he plays hockey in front of a sold-out arena without entering cardiac arrest, I really can’t.
“Sometimes,” I reply with a shrug, “but mostly I enjoy it. I grew up on a ranch—always people around, and always things to do. Alone time wasn’t really a thing.”
He thinks about this for a second, taking a big bite of his sandwich and chewing.
“I wish I grew up on a ranch,” he says thoughtfully.
“Well, you can come visit any time. We never say no to an extra pair of hands to do chores. We can get your big ass on a horse.”
Micky blushes at that, shaking his head but looking pleased. The strangest things seem to make him uncomfortable, which is why I haven’t yet disclosed what went down at the party with Marcos. If an invitation to come to the ranch makes him blush, I can only imagine what he’d make of my impromptu dick-sucking adventure.
Frowning, I look down at my cellphone, lying in the grass next to my outstretched leg. I didn’t ask for Marcos’ number and I’ve been kicking myself ever since. Finding him on campus is like finding a needle in a school full of needles, and even though I know I could just ask Max Kuemper about him, I’m hesitant to immediately take that route. What if Marcos didn’t tell his roommate about what happened? What if I accidentally out the man? No, better to just leave it alone for now. Maybe seventeen minutes is all that was in the cards for us.
Micky’s sandwich wrapper crinkles as he balls it up and lobs it toward the trash can. He grins when it goes in.
“Ten points,” he declares. Snorting, I climb to my feet and hold out a hand to help him up. Once standing, I slap his butt, which makes him scowl beneath the blush.
“Come on, let’s start walking. We don’t want to be late for practice.”
“No,” he agrees, looking worried at the mere thought.
When we get over to the practice rink, none other than Max Kuemper is walking up the path with his buddy Henri Vasel. Beside me, Micky immediately slows down as though wanting to walk slower so as not to catch up with them and have to talk. It’s useless, though, because we’ve already been spotted.
“Good afternoon, Micky and Bas!”
I smile at Vas’ cheerful greeting. I fuckinglovethis guy.
“Hey, Vas!” I call back. “Kuemper!”
Max Kuemper raises his hand in a very small, very uncomfortable-looking wave. Putting a hand in the middle of Micky’s shoulder blades, I propel him forward. Vas beams at us.
“How are we today?” he asks, looking at Micky. Vas reminds me a bit of a mini-Coach Mackenzie. Always looking out for everyone, but doing it with a smile whereas Coach usually utilizes scare tactics. They make a hell of a team.
“Fine, how are you?”
Vas moves closer to Micky to talk to him, patting me on the shoulder as he passes. Kuemper falls into step beside me and I desperately try to think of a way I can ask about Marcos.Hey, so how about that roommate of yours?How’s he doing? Has he said anything about me?
Cringing at myself, I clear my throat.
“You excited for the game tomorrow night?” I ask instead, because hockey is a hell of a lot safer of a topic than Marcos.
“Yeah. I like playing Minnesota. They’re always tough.”
I nod. I’m not surprised to hear that Max Kuemper prefers playing the teams that give him a bit of a challenge. I glance over at Micky, who hates playing Minnesota for the very same reason.
“Do you miss playing forward?” Kuemper asks tentatively, as we reach the arena. I reach in front of him to grab the door, and he flinches away as though not wanting me to touch him.
Pretending I didn’t notice, I wait for them all to pass through before I follow and fall back into step with him.
“I don’t really care what position I’m in, I’m just happy that I get to play,” I answer truthfully. “I like being on the team. What about you, Kuemper? Going to join us back on D someday?”
He smiles, recognizing this for the joke it is. I’m pretty sure it’s the first time a smile from him has ever been aimed in my direction.
