Kaden does the little happy dance that he always does when he wins a debate where he’s trying to break me out of my shell—I pretend it annoys me more than it really does.
“He never was, and you know it.” Connor joins Kaden’s celebratory hug.
“Fine,” I grumble, “get off me so I can go get ready.”
“Let’s go find you something sexy to wear. You need to have that man on his knees begging for forgiveness.” Connor should’ve been a designer with how bad his clothing obsession has become.
As we walk down the hall to my bedroom, Kaden trails behind us. “As long as he’s on his knees for something…”
Connor’s head whips around as fast as mine. “I’ve finally rubbed off on him,” he says, beaming with pride.
I pull his hands down from his face and say, “That’s Luke rubbing off on him, not you egghead.”
Connor’s dramatic gasp fills the room. “How dare you? You promised not to call me that ever again!”
My heart swells, and I feel lighter than I have in days as the three of us stumble into my room in a fit of laughter.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Kaden spins me around to face the house again when we reach the front steps. “You’re not leaving, so stop trying to get away.”
“Still not my favorite.” Kaden’s pupils disappearing into his skull sends Connor into another fit of laughter—or maybe it was my lame attempt to escape my friends forcing me to face Gabe. Either way, I’m not impressed with them butting their noses into my love life.
The door swings open before we even make it up the couple of steps leading to the porch. “Hey,” Gabe says breathlessly. “I’m glad you came.”
Luke’s phony cough breaks the silence in the standoff between the four of us.
Gabe still hasn’t acknowledged any of our friends—his eyes never veering from mine since he opened the door. “Yeah, hello to you too, Gabe,” Connor says as he and Kaden both squeeze past him in the doorway, shaking their heads.
“It’s nice to see you, Ender.” Luke decides to save his friend, greeting me and then pulling him away from the doorway.
I consider making a run for it while no one is watching…until Gabe looks back at me and I feel it—that pull. It’s like two magnetic fields demanding connection, his eyes compelling me into our own little bubble once again. Every second I’m in hisorbit, the walls that have safeguarded me all these years chip away—I love and hate it simultaneously.
“Ender, beer or wine?” Kaden shouts from the kitchen when I take my seat next to Connor.
“It’s hockey, damn it. What do you think?” I shake my head in disbelief. I’m stunned for a moment when a bottle of my favorite IPA—that you can only get from the brewery in Southend—appears in front of me. Glancing up at Gabe as he motions to me to take it from his hand, my burning desire to feel loved battles with every ounce of hurt he’s caused. I mentioned this beer to him once during our conversation the night we met, and he remembered.
I steady my hand as I reach for it. “Thanks.”
“Anything for you,” Gabe says when he takes a seat next to me.
Fuck my life.
Three minutes into the third period, and the Habs have scored their third goal, leading 3-0. I’ve already eaten an entire bag of jelly beans. They’re the only thing that keeps me from opening the floodgates holding in my anger right now. Gabe has become downright insufferable with his gloating and its grating on my last nerve. When their center performed an assist with a toe drag pass in the second period, I could taste the blood seeping from my tongue. He went on for three full minutes about how incredible the center is, and how he’s known to be the best at that maneuver. He’s also the captain of the team, so just another thing for him to gush over. If he wasn’t leaning forward, elbows on his knees, I’m sure we would see the hard-on he has for the guy.
“Shit.” Mid-third period, and another missed shot. I’m surprised the bottle in my hand doesn’t break.
“Awwww don’t worry, Bean. Your guys will eventually score.” Gabe’s leg has remained pinned to the side of mine since the beginning of the game—no matter how many times I tried to putsome distance between us—but the nudge, combined with his mocking, tips me over the edge.
“Go fuck yourself, Gabe.”
“Uh oh, someone’s a little butthurt.”
Is he really fucking taunting me right now?
“At least I’m not on my knees, drooling over some hockey player who has no idea I even exist, praying he’ll let me suck his cock.”
“Whoa! That’s a very vivid image.” He’s moved his attention from the game to me, with a quirked brow and smirk planted firmly on his face. “Have you been sitting here daydreaming about that the whole game? Or just since he scored another goal on your team?”
“You’ll be wiping that smug look off your face when you don’t make the playoffs,” I say with conviction, refusing to hold his gaze and focusing on the game instead.
