Ignoring the emotional near kiss that is potentially the sexiest thing that has—and likely will—ever happen to me, James and I are pressed together on his sofa, paying little to no attention to the Avengers movie on his TV. Snacking on a charcuterie board, I sip the fancy pants red wine James insists is delicious, but really tastes like vinegar, and try not to wince. Each time I’ve leaned forward for another cracker, I’veaccidentallyslipped closer. We’re now so close I feel the brush of every single James Plum leg hair against my skin and I fucking love it.
“So, do you know what torture Coach has planned for us Sunday, and are you coming to witness, or inflict it?”
Swirling his glass, James tilts his head side to side like he’s silently weighing up the pros and cons of answering. “Do I know? Yes. Am I coming to witness? No.” The hope inside me deflates like a balloon. Tomorrow he’ll be at Green Line for Dylan’s program, and if he was to show Sunday, I would have seen James everyday this week.
Despite that, and the almost constant inner chatter reminding me James, his mustache and I can only be friends, I can’t stop wanting more. More of him on the ice. More nights like this. More … him.
We’re so far beyond infatuation, now, it’s not funny. I’ve gone from several random hook-ups a week, to not even looking at other guys. Every time I close my eyes I see the big, broad hairy chest, glistening with cum and sweat, which means I jerk off constantly—twice before I came here—and for the first time in my life, I’m finding myself picturing a future where hockey is not my everything.
It’s terrifying, yet addictive. Basically, I’m just a bag of skin, bones and want.
Realizing I haven’t replied, ‘cause now I’m thinking about his chest again, the best I can come up with is, “The boys will be disappointed.”
“They’ll survive,” he scoffs. “Besides, with what Coach and Quinn have planned, you’ll be so swamped, no one would notice if I was there.”
“Pretty sure all of Boston could show up and I could still pick you out of the crowd.” Oh, shit. “Because you’re so hot and tall.” Shit “heywannashowmeyourroom?” SHIT!
Blushing but polite enough to not laugh at my word vomit, James rises to his feet, then holds out his hand, fingers wiggling impatiently. “Come on then. I’ll give you the grand tour. Should take all of five minutes, then you can get out of here. It’s your last Friday night before the season starts. You should be out on a date with some young buck, not stuck here with an old man and his cold cuts.”
If I didn’t l know any better, I’d swear James was angling for a compliment,andfishing to see if I’m dating. Lucky for him, I’m easy to hook. “I’m not really dating right now, and even if I was, I like my men like you like your wine, vintage.” I take his hand and let him pull me from the sofa.
“That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble one day, Kid.”
“Hope so.”
Muttering ‘Jesus Christ’ as he goes, James leads me into the kitchen, flicks on a light switch, then swings open a door he has to duck to go though. “Wow, you really do live in a basement. I thought you were kidding with the whole dungeon thing.”
“Nope. As big as this place is, there’s only three bedrooms. Neither Faith or I were keen on sleeping in Dad’s room, Dylan would never leave his room, and I would never let Faith sleep down here. Besides, having all this,” stepping from the stairs onto what looks like a painted concrete floor, he swings his arms out wide to indicateall this,then points to a white chipped paint door,“with my own entrance and all, let’s me delude myself I’m still somewhat independent.”
“It’s fucking freezing.”
“That it is.”
“And … is that a civil war costume hanging from your ceiling?”
“It is.” Now, as a man who collects Spider-Man figurines, I have no right mocking someone else’s hobbies. But there’s not a damn thing in this world that could stop my laughter.
“James Plum, are you a re-enactor?”
“Good lord, no.” He blushes. “My dad was, though. That’s his favorite unionist outfit. He’d just picked it up from the dry cleaner the day he died … which wasn’t down here,” he clarifies, guessing my immediate thought correctly. “He was thoughtful,andstubborn enough to drive himself and Dylan to the hospital before he … you know.” James’ huffed laugh is as painful to watch as I suspect it is to feel. “Bloody old fool.”
“Was he old? Like, you’re only in your early twenties, so he could have been quite young still.”
“He was still young, I guess,” he says after a trademark puff-cheeked exhale. “I mean he was fifty-four, but fit as a Mallee Bull and twice as dangerous, as they’d say back home. Didn’t like doctors, though. Maybe if he hadn’t canceled all the checkups Faith used to book for him, he’d still be here.” In a few short strides, he makes it to his unmade bed and plops himself down. I follow, of course, sitting way too close and unable to shift my gaze from his beautiful sad eyes. “But he was always putting Dylan first, you know. Didn’t matter how many times we reminded him thathehad to be okay for Dylan to be. All he wanted was Dylan safe and happy and Dylan was always safest and happiest when he was with Dad. He loved him so much.”
“He loves you, too. When he’s skating he looks at you all the time, and he has this happy little hum he does when you wave at him. It’s really sweet.”You’re really sweet. You’re incredible.I think while swallowing down the emotion that has me verging on tears before the man who’s grieving.
“Faith told me that, too. It’s nice. I always have the feeling I’m fucking everything up. I’m broke, think I’m having a heart attack on the daily, and this might sound horrible, but this isn’t exactly the life I had planned. And I don’t just mean caring for Dyl, I mean this.” Again his arms reach out to encompassthis.Only thing is, I’m not so close to him, his hand slaps against my pec and I’m quick to capture, and hold it to me. Certain he can feel the thundering of my heart, I expect him to pull away but he doesn’t. If anything he slides his fingers a touch, like he’s caressing the soft cotton of my shirt. “Do you think I’m horrible?”
“No, I think you’re extraordinary. Your mustache is quite something, too.” He chuckles then takes me further by surprise when he rests his head on my shoulder.
“I’m glad that we’re friends. And that you’re here. I’ve always found it hard to relate and connect to people, but for some reason,” he pauses, and I feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest, “It’s an unfamiliar phenomenon to me. Feeling seen, and safe to be me.”
“Because you are safe, James. You can trust me. I promise.”
“Beingfriendswith James,might actually kill me.”
I’ve just left another painfully exhilarating morning at Green Line with James, Dylan and the rest of the crew, and have me, Lucas and Sam at Beanz and Bookz. Thanks to Lotte and Quinn working here, the once nerd epicenter of campus is nowtheplace to be. Its upgraded clientele meant I never set foot inside, but Sam is a coffee snob and won’t accept a cup from anywhere else. It’s still an odd feeling to sit amongst my peers as me, not some stylized version of who I think I should be.
