I could see him doing the math, because it was the same math that I used to do when I was in the closet at Saint B's. I put a hand on his chest. “Look, I’m putting my shoes on. And my jacket. So if someone sees me in your bathroom, they’ll just assume that I’m on my way home. You know — after pissing out the beer that real men drink while they watch the game on T.V.”
He nodded. But I could see the reluctance in his eyes.
“I didn’t see a soul,” I said when I came back into his room.
Graham lay on the bed in his boxer shorts. His expression was sheepish. “Didn’t mean to make a federal case out of it.”
I kicked my shoes off and dropped my jacket and jeans over his chair. Then I flopped onto the bed beside him. “Look, I know how it is. But I need you to trust me a little bit. I would never expose you.”
His smile was rueful. “You could have outed me your first day on campus if you felt like it.”
“Never,” I said. “Even when you wouldn’t look at me, I never wanted to do that. I’vebeenouted, G. Nobody deserves that.”
He propped himself up on an elbow. And I let myself admire the curve of his bicep. Tonight, I was allowed to do that. “Nobody?” he asked. “How about that television pastor who preached that gays should all die of AIDS, before he got busted for soliciting men in a public bathroom?”
“Okay. Maybe him.”
We laughed, but then things got serious again. “If you could undo it,” Graham said. “If that asshole never outed you at Saint B’s, would you rather be back in the closet?”
“Nope,” I said immediately. “It sucked to be outed, because I never got a chance to make that call for myself. But now I know who my real friends are.”Even if there aren’t too many of them. “There’s nobody in my life who doesn’t know.”
“There’s nobody who reads theSports Illustratedwebsite who doesn’t know.”
I grinned at him. “Okay, so I no longer have even a shred of privacy. But tomorrow, when you’re skating a little funny, I’ll be the only one who knows why.”
Graham turned his face away and blushed. Fuck, Ilovedthat blush. I scooted closer to him and pulled him into a hug.
And he let me. Then we were kissing again. Graham’s fingers slid into my hair, and he chuffed out a satisfied sigh between kisses. It was almost more intense than the fucking. We’d taken the edge off our desire. So this wasn’t a frantic let’s-get-naked-before-I-come-to-my-senses moment. Every slide of his lips against mine was loving and deliberate. We made out like two people who had all the time in the world, and every moment of it was delicious.
A little later, I set my phone to wake me up at five in the morning. Then, for the first time in my life, I fell asleep in Graham’s arms.
—February—
First Touch: an action which stops the puck so that it may be passed to a teammate.
—Graham
During the weeks that followed, I could not believe my own luck.
Pinch me,I thought to myself as I collapsed into yet another sweaty heap, tangled up with Rikker. My body was heavy with the delicious exhaustion that comes from intense sexual gratification. I rested my head on his thigh to catch my breath.
But Rikker wriggled out from under me, turned himself the right way around, and dropped his head onto my pillow. He slid one of his muscular thighs between mine, hiked his body closer, and kissed me.
It was a lazy, satisfied kiss. Just one of hundreds I’d received since we’d become lovers again. Life in the bedroom was very, very good.
Of course, in order to accommodate my paranoia, we followed a complicated set of rules at all other times. Under no circumstances would Rikker and I leave Capri’s together, for example.
Tonight, I’d left after my third beer, drifting out without saying goodbye to anyone. (My interest in drinking had plummeted now that my interest in sex had done the opposite.) When I’d made it into the Beaumont courtyard, I opened up a messaging app that I used only to communicate with Rikker.Just got home, I sent him.
Climbing the stairs, my anticipation began to build. Rikker probably wouldn’t answer my text. And some nights — if he was super tired — he didn’t show up.
Tonight, as always, I’d really hoped he would.
After unlocking my room, I always flipped the latch to keep it open. I brushed my teeth in a hurry, and then climbed into bed in a T-shirt and boxers. Then I pulled a copy ofSports Illustratedoff the bedside table. But I didn’t have much patience for reading. My mind was on Rikker, and I hoped like hell that he was on his way up my stairs. Just thinking about him, I usually had to slide my hand down into my boxers and grip myself.
Tonight, when I’d heard footsteps on the stairs, I started to stroke. And then my door opened, with Rikker filling it. I watched him click the lock back into position and close the door. Then he turned to me. And when he saw what I was doing, his eyes flared. “Hands off that,” he rasped. “That’s mine.”
I’d complied, and then sunk back against the pillows. Rikker dropped his jacket onto my chair. Then he hauled his shirt over his head.
