It takes what feels like a good few minutes of slack-jawed ogling, and pawing hands, before I can speak.
“You. You?—”
“I carved you into my tree.” He points to the haphazard
Cory’s bofriend”
emblazoned across his pecs. “It’s your present. I’m your present.”
“You shaved Cory’s Boyfriend into your chest hair?”
“I did … You hate it, don’t you. Shit, you’re really going to hate this, then.” Looping his fingers into his waistband, he pulls down his pants, letting them fall and pool at his feet. “My original plan had been to do theboyfriendthing here, but I stuffed up the B and just made it into a heart.” Front and center in my favorite clump of dark hair ever is a JC.
Blushing again, he clears his throat. “I’ve never considered myself a romantic, and now I know why. I’ve mutilated my body. Have hair covering every inch of the bathroom, and I’m pretty sure I’ve spelled boyfriend wrong.”
“You did. It says, bofrend.”
“So, make that not good at spontaneous, romantic gestures, or shaving words into my chest hair via a mirror.”
“You are good at it.” I almost sob. “The romantic gesture bit especially. I love it. I fucking love it almost as much as I love you.” He beams. Literally fucking beams in a way I’ve never seen and steps closer.
“Happy birthday, baby.”
It’s already move-in day—five a.m. Sunday, to be exact, which means our time is almost up. Once Cory and his family move in, it’s bye-bye secret apartment hook-ups, hello back seat of the car. Still fun. Just squishier.
Since we’ve only eaten and fucked all weekend, the fridge is barren, so I’ve ordered-in some breakfast from a deli around the corner. It’s run by two Melbournites, and they do a mean Aussie Cafe brekkie. I’ve gone with an egg and bacon sandwich, and a couple of sneaky slices of avocado toast, that I’ll be eating while standing because it feels like my ass is on fire. While Cory, who’s drifted back to sleep, chose the traditional USA takeout—donuts and coffee. Pausing my doom scroll on my phone, I send a check-in message to Faith. She’s finally finished her grading, and was kind enough to give me a break this weekend. Once that’s done I get all creepy and watch Cory sleep, in particular, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
I should probably wake him. Coach and the rest of the boys will be here at seven, and we have to shower, change the bedding and open up some damn widows, ‘cause this place smells more like a medieval whorehouse than a million dollar apartment. Thing is, he looks so cute all wrapped up in the duvet. I know our future is complicated, but he really is the most beautiful creature. How did I get so lucky?
A touch of melancholy hits as the door bell rings, signaling our last meal. “Cory. Mate, wake up. The food is here.” After placing maybe twenty kisses to his perfect upturned nose, I slip from bed, toss on my sweats and head to the door.
Gaze on the carpet, I swing the door open and bend to pick up the bags … that aren’t there. What is, though, are pristine white Nikes that look eerily similar to the ones Coach Harris practically lives in.
“Morning, James. Worked up a sweat already, have we?”
“Coach!” Giving myself a head spin, I bolt upright, almost knocking him over in the process. He’s early. Forty-five minutes early. Thank God I’m not naked.
Though, you’d think I was , if Coach’s expression is anything by.
Slightly puzzled, I scratch my chest.
My shirtless chest.
The one withCory’s bofrendcarved into it.
Oh dear.
In the blink of an eye, my boss has gone from his usual complexion to one redder than Mars, and it only intensifies as booming laughter from a dozen or so hockey boys fill the hall. While I tried hard to ignore how his fists have clenched, Coach shoots a glance in that direction then turns back to me.
“I’m trying very hard to not jump to conclusions right now, James.” His voice, disturbingly calm and eerily similar to Hannibal Lecter, sends a chill to my very soul. “I think I deserve an explanation, but it’ll have to wait. I’ll hold these fools off for ten minutes and I suggest you, and anyone else who may be here, make yourselves decent.” With that, he shakes his head and turns to walk away.
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Don’t ever call me that again.”
Swallowing the rising sea of bile I feel like I’m drowning in, I close the door and fall against it, my forehead landing squarely on the peep hole, that had I used, may have averted this crisis. “Oww.”
Rumination wastes valuable seconds and only ends when a ping on my phone coincides with a violent knocking on the door. Again. “Oww.” This time it’s the food for sure, the smell wafting under the door has my empty stomach rumbling. Pity there’s no time to enjoy it. After surveying the hall for stray hockey players, I snatch the bag from the floor, let the door close once more, and make my way to the bedroom.
