Like, give me a textbook on musculoskeletal injuries or an interactive lab on soft tissue rehab protocols and I’ll be the first guy in the room and the last one to leave. I’ll memorize nerve pathways for fun. I enjoy that shit. I can rattle off every ligament in the ankle and tell you exactly which ones are most prone to injury during a lateral cut on the ice. I could do that for the rest of my life and still find new things to get excited about.
Medical stuff? Athletic training? Sports physiology? Fuck yeah. Sign me up.
But you stick me in some gen ed hellhole, like history or anthropology, and suddenly I’m reconsidering all my life choices and calculating how long I can stay in this class before my brain officially starts leaking out of my ears. I get that it's supposed to make me well-rounded or whatever, but I don't need to know the full cultural history of Mesopotamia to wrap an ankle.
Sorry, not fucking sorry.
So yeah, when I first got to Northern, I made a very calculated decision to knock out just enough gen-eds to satisfy the prerequisites for my major, and then I tunnel-visioned my way into every pre-med and sports science class I could possibly sign up for.
It was beautiful. I was efficient and productive and really goddamn happy in my classes.
But now, because karma is a bitch and so is academic advising, here I am, a fucking senior, trudging my way across campus towardIntro to Anthropology. I’m already dreading every goddamn second of it. The thought of sitting through lectures about burial rituals or ancient spoon designs or whatever this fucking class is about makes me want to crawl inside my hoodie and disappear until graduation.
I’m not even inside the building yet when I hear someone call my name.
I turn, already preparing to fake a polite smile, and, of course, it’s Griffin fucking Thatcher.
Because the universe hates me.
Now, I’ve met Griffin a few times. He’s Hughie’s teammate, and I think they were close back in freshman year before they both got swallowed up by the black hole that is university level hockey.
But Griffin and I? We don’tknoweach other. We’ve exchanged maybe ten words total. Definitely not enough for him to be calling out to me like we’re old buddies or something.
Oh and there’s the ever present horrifying and shameful crush I have held for the guy since I first laid eyes on him. It’s…embarrassing to say the least.
Still, I manage to keep my voice steady as he jogs over. “Uh, hey.”
And look, this is maybe not the best time to bring it up, but for the sake of full transparency? I consider myself bi-curious. I’ve kissed guys before. Nothing I regret.
But there’s this category of guys that messes with my brain a little. Not because they’re just attractive, but because they’re that kind of magnetic, testosterone-drenched, “he could bench press you and then apologize sweetly after” kind of hot.
And Griffin? He fits that category to an obnoxious degree.
He’s taller than me and I’m no short king, I’m six-one on a good day. But Griffin’s got that extra couple of inches that makes you look up just enough to notice the line of his jaw and the way his t-shirt clings to his chest.
And speaking of the shirt…it’s tight black withHawks Hockeywritten across the front. His frame is wide and built like a goddamn freight train, thick biceps stretching the sleeves and broad shoulders that definitely haven’t missed a day in the gym...ever. His dark brown hair is damp, sticking to his forehead from whatever run he just finished, and his face, Jesus Christ, he’s gotdimples. Big ones. The kind that show up when he smiles all wide and friendly, like he doesn’t know what that smile does to people.
Or maybe he does, which somehow makes it worse.
And now he’s standing in front of me, looking like a Calvin Klein ad and breathing hard from his run, while I’m just trying to remember how to function like a regular human being and not some idiot whose brain short-circuits at the sight of pretty men.
“Hey!” he says, voice way too cheerful for someone who should, by all rights, be exhausted. “Hugh mentioned you’ll be our trainer this year.”
“Oh. Uh, yeah,” I respond, showcasing my razor-sharp wit and stunning vocabulary.
Jesus Christ. This is why I don’t speak to attractive athletes. I lose all ability to seem like a functioning fucking human.
Griffin nods and he’s still smiling. He’s also still being aggressively beautiful which is annoying as fuck. “That’s fucking awesome. He always talks about how great you are, so I wondered if we’d ever get the chance to have you.”
Have me. Please just take me right here.
Okay. Nope. No. Absolutely not.
Where the fuck did that thought come from?
“Yeah,” I say instead of launching myself off a metaphorical cliff. “I, uh, actually got stuck with baseball at first, but Hugh asked your coach to pull me over. Guess I got lucky.”
“I think we’re the lucky ones,” he says. And then, because I wasn’t already having a hard time keeping my dick in check, he winks at me.
