“Can I stop squinting now?”
“No.Nowsmile.”
Quentin attempted a smile. It was…not the best.
“Open your mouthjusta little bit,” Joel suggested.
Quentin practically yawned.
“My god, are you beingintentionallydifficult?” Joel snapped.
Suddenly, a genuine smile flashed across Quentin’s face. “Maybe.”
“Hold that!” Joel cried, flung his arm around Quentin again, and snapped a quick selfie.
Quentin staggered beside him, nearly knocked off balance by Joel’s forceful one-armed embrace.
“Jesus, are you trying to injure me again?”
Joel wasn’t listening. He looked at the photo he’d just taken. It was slightly blurry around the edges, with Joel still in movement, leaning into Quentin with his arm around him. Quentin was still beaming, though there was the smallest hint of confusion in his expression as he glanced towards Joel.
It was a good photo. It looked natural and candid, the sort of photo that two friends reallywouldpost together.
“This is perfect,” Joel said.
“I get final approval,” Quentin insisted.
Quentin looked over Joel’s shoulder at the picture on his phone, and he was stunned. It actuallywasa good photo. Joel had managed to capture the single millisecond where they didn’t look dreadfully bored or violently annoyed with each other. They actually seemed friendly in it.
He stared at the photo for a moment longer, looking at the way that Joel was leaning into him in the picture, the way Joel’s hand gripped his shoulder, the apparent unabashed joy in Joel’s face.
Oh, dear, he thought.
“Looks perfect,” he said.
Chapter 4
Quentin
“Looks like you were getting chummy with Joel Beckett,” Henri Bellancourt said to Quentin while they were in the locker room at the Webb Practice Rink, changing into their practice gear.
“Chummy?” Quentin asked. “What is this, the 1920s?”
Henri rolled his eyes. He was twenty-three, two years younger than Quentin, and was from Québec. He spoke with a lilting French-Canadian accent and had a wicked sense of humor that he seemed to have grown into since moving to Boston last year. He was one of their newer centers and was very talented. He had a disciplined, intense style of playing. He had a high hockey IQ and could read the ice better than anyone Quentin knew. He always had complete command of the puck when it was in his possession, and seemed to have the ability to intuit his opponents’ moves before they took them. He had been well-trained, had played for a prestigious Canadian university before being drafted to the NHL, and had a promising career ahead of him. Quentin could see Henri replacing him someday as captain. He had the talent on the ice, and more importantly, he had the leadership qualities. The guys on the team listened to him.
“How was it, though?” Henri asked. “I mean, besides getting socked in the nose on live TV.”
Quentin gingerly touched the bridge of his nose. His face was still tender, ever since the accident last week. “It could have been worse,” he admitted.
“What did you think of Joel Beckett? Ilovehis music.”
Quentin pulled on his hockey pants. The other guys in the locker room weren’t paying attention to his conversation with Henri. He hadn’t told anyone else how much he’d disliked Joel, but he knew he could trust Henri. They were best friends, and they told each other everything.
(Almost everything. Quentin hadn’t said anything to Henri about his sexuality, though he knew Henri would be a good person to tell. Henri was openly bisexual and lived with his boyfriend, Cort. They were both good friends with Quentin, and they often had him over for dinner. He knew that Henri could be trusted with the secret of Quentin’s sexuality, but Quentin wanted to figure it out for himself before he brought anyone else into the conversation.)
He leaned in closer to Henri. “Honestly? I think he’s kind of a dick.”
Henri looked shocked and then laughed loudly. “Seriously? Don’t meet your heroes, I guess.”
