He’s clearly not getting it. “They play hockey and also…witheach other.” I give him the most meaningful look I can muster and pray that he doesn’t make me spell it out.
“Oh.Oooh. Really?”
Thank God. I nod. “Mmm-hmm. There’s a pretty big following, too. A lot of cis-het women, actually, but also queer readers. Like… me.”
Something registers in his eyes, but it doesn’t look like judgment, or even surprise. It’s gone so fast I don’t have time to wonder about it more. The corner of his mouth curls up. “A dedicated fanbase, huh? That makes sense. I mean, not so much the women but, hey, I’ve always found queer men a lot more appealing than average bros, so I guess why shouldn’t they?”
I laugh. “Right. Yeah.”
Down on the ice, there’s some more shouting and whistles, but Dash’s attention is still on me, so I just keep going. “Anyway, all through high school, I spent my summers with my aunt Carol. She’s the librarian in this tiny little town up north, MoonlakeVillage. She’d have me shelve books for her. And she keeps a lot of interesting stuff at the library. Indie authors and small presses, not just things you’d find anywhere. My first summer there, she had a few gay romances—MM they call them. So I picked one up and started reading it, and it happened to be a hockey romance. Anyway, I don’t know. It was good. And it just helped me, you know? It made me feel like I wasn’t alone. Maybe this sounds dumb, but it kind of helped me figure out who I was, I guess?” I shrug. “So I read another and then another. And Aunt Carol clearly noticed because she just started quietly stocking more MM hockey books. And I kept reading them. And I guess I kind of picked up some stuff about the game, too, somewhere along the way.”
“Okay, well, Aunt Carol sounds awesome,” says Dash.
I grin. “She is. I mean, by this last summer, she had three full shelves just for gay hockey romance.”
“What? How? How many of these things are there?”
“Oh, hundreds.”
He stares at me. “Hundreds?”
“Maybe thousands?”
“What?” He’s half coughing, half laughing now. “I’m sorry, there arethousandsof romance novels about hockey players getting it on with each other?”
“Well,” I say, breaking into a smile, “it’s notalwaystwo hockey players. Sometimes it’s a hockey player and a physical therapist or the team’s PR guy, but… yeah? And sometimes it’s the NHL, or sometimes they’re in college, depends on the series. And they’re all different in other ways, too. Like some are dark, and some are funny. Or raunchy, or angsty, or sweet. Or more than one of those things. There’s this one series that’s actually being made into a TV show, so that’s going to be amazing. And then there’s your tropes, of course. Like enemies-to-lovers or gay- or bi-awakening, which I personally think is alittle overdone, or stepbrothers, which is surprisingly common. Or my personal favorite childhood-friends-to-lovers. Although I think it’s best when it’s actually childhood-friends-to-enemies-to-lovers because then you get the full arc of…”
I look over at him, and he’s still listening, but... What am I doing? He didn’t ask me any of this. And he’s barely said anything. I’m doing all the talking. He isn’t interested in any of this.
“Never mind, it’s um... we should watch the practice. Oh, it looks like they’re going to do a passing drill now.”
I turn and focus all my attention on the team. I am mortified. Everything I just said is looping in my head. So much oversharing, so much nerdy fanboy word vomit. And Dash, well, I mean, he hasn’t gotten up and run away because he’s nicer than that. But oh my God, what must he think of me now?
CHAPTER 5
DASH
“Good book?”
I nearly drop my phone as I turn to see Gavin, standing by his bed, apparently back from his study group meeting. The man is like a cat. A really well-built cat.
“What?” I say, sitting up and navigating away from the reading app I was in.
“Oh, sorry, I just... You were reading something and flipping pages. I thought it was a book?”
He throws his backpack down on his bed. Gavin has been surprising all the way around. Not only is he not raging with toxic masculinity, he also spends way more time studying than I would have expected for someone here on an athletic scholarship. And he’s both surprisingly friendly toward me and surprisingly perceptive. I could do without that last one right about now.
“Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah, just something a friend recommended.”
“That guy you’re always sitting with at practice?” he asks, pulling his sweatshirt off over his head.
Shit.
“Uh, yeah.”
I wait to see if there’s going to be more, but he just strips down into his t-shirt and boxers while I politely avert my eyes (not that he’s actually ever shown any discomfort about it). He climbs into bed. “Cool.”
Okay then. Nice, I guess I’m off the hook. I check the time. It’s only eleven, but I didn’t realize it had gotten that late. Gavin has super early practice. “Am I gonna bother you if I stay up? I can go to the lounge if you want.”
