“Oh, wait here.” With one last caress he jogs over to a pile of backpacks and bags that must belong to the team. When he finds his, a deep red with a pattern similar to that of cobwebs, and jogs back a little awkwardly, body tilting to the right. “I didn’t know if we’d get a chance to eat, so I packed some snacks.” He unzips the bag, and the reason for his wonky run becomes clear. Inside he has at least a dozen bananas, some protein bars, Gatorade and an assortment of nut snack-packs. Inspecting the collection, Brady chuckles and elbows Troye.
“See what I mean about a natural leader?”
“I do,” he replied. “Knew you had it in ya, Cub. This is some A-grade, Noah-level shit.”
Adorable is the only word that could describe the blush coloring Cory’s cheeks as I pencil in another admirable quality, humility. “The NHL is going to gobble you up.” As Brady and Troye continue to heap praise up his ass, it’s clear he’s as comfortable with attention as I am.
“How is that? The NHL I mean. Even as good as you are, it must be quite the leap from college,” I ask Troye while taking a banana and Gatorade from Cory who beams like he just handed me my first born not a snack. That glee, me asking a question, and how fiercely I need to provide a distraction for Cory all taking me by surprise. I really wanted to ask how the team handled his queer, poly-relationship, but it’s probably too much for our first meeting.
Considering his reply, Troye’s eyes dart to Brady then Quinn, and it takes me a second to grasp why. Brady too, was destined for the big time before repeat concussions last season stole it away. That one look, and the smile and nod Brady offers in reply, conveys so much about their love. It’s sweet, I think to myself. Kind of makes me sick.
“Fast,” he says eventually. “A scrimmage is as intense as a Bears game, and the pressure you feel the second you slip that jersey on takes some getting used to. Thankfully I’m fucking brilliant, so it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Opening his own drink, Cory rolls his eyes. “So modest, too.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t love, and miss it, Cubs. But I’m sure having Brades and James around is consolation enough to soothe the wound.”
Wait. What?
As though he’s thinking the same, Cory looks between us, then over his shoulder, yelling, “What? Oh, yep. Coming,” to the no one who called him. With my brain still computing, I’m unable to think, and escape that fast, ‘cause again … What? Does Brady, ipso-facto Troye and the rest of Boston know the almost thing Cory and I had? Has Cory got a thing for Brady? Are those shorts, that belly flash. All that flittering around posing in the gym not for my benefit?
That would be a good thing, I remind myself. How it should be.
The light sheen of perspiration dotting my brow upgrades to a torrential downpour blinding me.
Brady, at least I think it’s Brady, edges closer, his blurred face scanning over mine. “Don’t listen to Troye, Plummy. Cory’s not interested in me.”
“Or me. He’s not interested in me,” I insist a little too earnestly. “Why would you think that? That seems highly improbable. Why? Has he said that?”
Even blurred vision can’t hide the, yeah right, expression Troye’s hitting me with. “Whatever you say, Plummy.”
It would be wise of me to shut the fuck up and leave it at that, so naturally. I don’t.
“I do say. I am a staff member. Cory is a student. Anything between us would be highly inappropriate.” Troye snorts, huffs and makes several other grunt-like noises.
“Look, I know we just met but trust me, anything worth anything is inappropriate.”
A light misting of water lands on my shoulder, drawing my gaze to the latest car rolling up to be washed. Evan is waving, guiding them into position as though he’s directing a 747 not a Jeep. Cory’s beside him, bending forward at the waist, mouth open swallowing the water flooding in from the hose poised at his lips. I know full-well this is for show. A literal thirst trap designed to fill the tip jar that’s been upgraded to a bucket. And it’s working. His audience, a carload full of squealing college girls, are lapping it up.
As am I.
Lust shoots down my spine, pitching a tent in shorts. These shorts aren’t built to shelter. There’s a bucket beside me, so I snatch it up and hold it over my … situation.
“See what I mean.” Troye smirks. “Appropriateness is highly overrated.”
Disregarding the smirked looks he, Quinn and Brady send me each time I’m within a foots radius of Cory, I linger at the car wash like a bad smell of absolutely no use until the very last bumper is buffed.
“Thanks for helping out.” Rosy-cheeked and wet from head to toe, Cory looking like every wet dream I’ll have from here on in, has found his way to my side.
“Fairly certain you would have managed without me. I filled your bucket—I mean the buckets. I filled the … Shit.” Cory grins like I just handed him the Stanley Cup.
“And you looked so good doing it. I’m very impressed with your hose handling.” In another totally unwarranted thirst trap, he then runs his hand through his soaked hair, shakes the water from his hand and grabs his phone from his backpack, fingers flying over the screen.
“Hot date waiting?” I ask nosily.
“Pfft. Nope. Not really interested in dating right now.”
“No?”
