“In our shorts.”
“Yeah.”
“In a public park.”
“Yeah.”
A beat of silence. Then Ryan starts laughing. It’s not the polished, controlled sound he usually offers. It’s full and messy and real, shaking through his whole body and into mine, where we’re still pressed together.
I start laughing too, because the absurdity of it is undeniable. Two college students, one of them a Division I hockey captain, lying in a park clearing covered in their own cum, one of them wearing flip-flops, the other penny loafers.
I roll off him carefully, wincing at the state of my shorts. The wet patch is extensive and unmistakable. “And for the record, that was the single greatest experience of my life, and I once scored a hat trick in the conference finals.”
“You’re comparing our first sexual encounter to hockey?”
“I’m saying youbeathockey. That’s the highest compliment I can give.”
Ryan turns his head, and even in the darkness, I can see the flush spreading from his cheeks down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. His hair is mussed, his shirt is untucked and twisted, and his khakis are ruined.
He’s never looked better.
“Oliver?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For stopping when I asked for more. For giving me this instead.” He reaches for my hand, and I give it to him without hesitation. “You were right. This was perfect.”
“We’ll get to the rest,” I promise, squeezing his fingers. “When the time is right. When I can give you everything you deserve.”
“I know.” His thumb strokes the back of my hand. “I trust you.”
Those three words hit harder than anyI love youcould. Trust, from someone who’s spent twenty years learning not to give it. Trust, offered freely, without conditions or caveats.
I bring his hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles. “We should probably get cleaned up before we drive back.”
“With what? We used the napkins with our dinner.”
I glance at the picnic basket, then down at our shorts. “Walk of shame it is.”
When I walkinto the Hockey House after dropping Ryan back at his dorm, I’m met with two grown men yelling at the television.
“GIVE HIM THE ROSE!” Gerard bellows from the couch, his massive frame taking up approximately 70 percent of the available seating. “He’s clearly the best choice!”
“He’s a walking red flag,” Drew counters, jabbing a finger at the screen where a perfectly coiffed woman in an evening gown is clutching a single rose. “Did you not see theway he talked about his journey? Nobody talks about journeys that much unless they’re hiding something. He’s not there for the right reasons.”
“You’re too cynical, Drew. Love is about taking chances!”
I try to slip past them toward the stairs, moving with all the stealth my hockey training has given me. Which, admittedly, isn’t much—I’m built for power, not subtlety—but hope springs eternal.
I make it approximately three steps before Gerard’s head swivels toward me. “Oliver! You’re back! How was the?—”
His eyes drop. His mouth falls open. Drew follows his gaze, and I watch in real time as his expression transforms from mild curiosity to unholy glee.
“Holy shit,” Drew breathes.
I look down at myself. At my shorts. At the very visible, very obvious, very incriminating stain spread across the front of them.
Why did I wear this color? Why didn’t I wear something dark, something forgiving, something that doesn’t broadcast to the entire world that I had an orgasm in a public park? These shorts hide nothing. These shorts have betrayed me in my hour of need.
