I brace myself for a door slam but it never comes.
He’s being ridiculous—I mean if Iwasn’tlying, I could have messed the dates up. I could have gotten a later flight so I could enjoy Japan a little while longer. Much better company. Besides, there’s no way he knows for sure that I’m lying. He hasn’t realized I’m not actually going to the library to study. I work my ass off! And he’s upset because he had to cancel drinking with his hockey buddies. Like any of them need an excuse to do that.
I leave the bag of chips on his bed and unpack the rest of my suitcase. Before I head to class I send Christos a message.
TwinkleTop:Miss you already
Chapter
Sixteen
It’sa good thing I gave him his Christmas present before finals because we’ve barely seen each other despite me spending more time on campus than usual. Maude insists we can catch up on practice during winter break. I’d much rather eat shit failing a quad than read another primary source, but I know she’s right and my grades matter more right now.
I’ve traded the rink for my dorm room, hunkering down to perfect my essays and color-code my notecards just right. It’s been quite enough in my dorm room. Normally, Terrence begs me for study help, but we haven’t spoken since the whole arrivals debacle.
I hit submit on my last paper of the semester and slump in my chair. Checking the time, I realize I haven’t moved from this spot in four hours. I deserve a reward. A big, furry reward.
I drive past Christos’ place and park as per usual. Before I hop out of the cab, I notice a text notification. I’ve shut off all other notifications on my phone since the Grand Prix win. I’d delete the apps if I didn’t have to post sponsorship content. I’m expecting something from Maude but am surprised to see Leroy’s name pop up.
Hey man, I know you and Terrence aren’t talking but it was a massacre out there. I think it would mean a lot if you talked to him.
I’d forgotten they had a game tonight.
I wrack my brain trying to remember what team the Dingbat’s faced off against. I’m still blanking when I click on a college sports article I find online. In big bold letters, the score of 0-4 makes me gag. We’d been on a winning streak since October. Scrolling down, it looks like we lost to the Chesapeake Bay Warriors, the best team in the Eastern college hockey league. I think. Terrence complains about them enough, so they must be good.
I hop out of my car and start walking. The team will bounce back from this. They’ve had way more embarrassing losses. Plus, Christos is a good coach, I’m sure they’ll win the next one.
I knock at the door and there’s no answer. I check the driveway, wondering if maybe he went out for some consolation beers with the guys, but his car is here. I knock again and this time the door opens, He’s still wearing his coach sweats. He steps back into the living room, keeping the door open for me to follow. I shut the door behind me.
The air is stale, lacking warmth and the smell of spices I’ve come to expect. Which is fine, it’s not like I come here for meals.
He flops onto the couch, eyeing the empty space between his open legs. I straddle his hips, leaning into him and reaching for his jacket zipper. “You want a distraction?”
I tug at it when he touches my hand. Under his breath he says, “Not tonight…”
That’s fine, it’s not like I come here for sex.
I settle on the couch cushion beside him. His copy of To Frost the Thaw is on the coffee table. I flip it open, searching for the dog eared page. “You almost done?”
He grunts, “Working on it.”
I slam the book shut. “What’s up with you?” I wouldn’t act like this if I didn’t make the podium. I’d welcome the distraction if I came back from the Grand Prix in fourth place. Assuming he’d want anything to do with me if I wasn’t an Olympic hopeful.
His head shoots up, snapping at me. “It goes against your rules.”
I wish he’d take those sweats off. It’s like the nylon has possessed him, making him act like the macho-man coach I’ve seen on campus, but never here. Never when it’s just the two of us.
“We don’t need to talk, I already know about the game.”
My hand rests on his shoulder. “Doyouwant to talk about the game?”
“Is that allowed?”
I roll my eyes. “Christos, come on.”
I study his face, but it’s like studying a concrete block, all rigid edges with a dull exterior. “The rules of this arrangement is we don’t talk about work. I’m pissed about work. No one wants to deal with that, so why should you?”
I’m not sure why his word choice offends me so much, but I spit it back at him like a bewildered professor reading an essay to a failing student. “Arrangement?”
