I’m at my first ever Moo U hockey game. With Ian. It wasn’t hard convincing him to come with me. According to him, hockey players have the best butts. Or, in his exact words, “Hockey butts drive me nuts.”
Can’t disagree with him there.
But I’m still not sure what the heck I’m doing squeezed into the seats in the student section between Ian and a girl with41 is my # 1painted on both cheeks in the Moo U colors—green and white. Other than that I was drawn by some unexplainable, unstoppable urge to see my boyfriend-not-boyfriend play the sport he loves.
We’ve been doing the dating-not-dating thing for a couple of weeks now. Returned to the wine bar at V and V once or twice, being careful not to look like anything more than two friends meeting for a drink after my shift is over in the bookstore or study buddies working on an assignment together. Chatted for a few minutes at a Halloween party we both showed up at independently.
But aside from that—and improv class and skating lessons—we spend most of our time sneaking into my dorm room, listening to alternative music—the one genre we can agree on, since showtunes are a hard pass for him and I can’t stand that heavy metal stuff he likes—watching action movies on Netflix, and stuffing our faces with cheap Chinese food from the closest place to campus that delivers.
And having sex, of course. Lots and lots of sex.
When we’re alone and in private, it’s perfect. Adam is the poster child for the ideal partner. Funny. Kind. Patient. Honest. And the sex is off the chain.
But in class or around campus or at the wine bar—basically anywhere anyone else could see us—it’s exhausting. All the pretending we’re not into each other is killing me. It’s like the whole mess with Layton all over again.
Just like I was afraid of.
Except this time, it’s even worse. I thought knowing there’s an end date to our covert ops would make it easier—the game with Hartfield is less than three weeks away—but it doesn’t.
Which, now that I think of it, probably explains why I couldn’t stay away tonight. And why Adam has no idea that I’m here ogling, er, watching him.
The team comes out on the ice for warm-ups, and it takes my eyes all of ten seconds to zone in on him. Even in his uniform, under all that bulky padding, my secret-sort-of-boyfriend is unmistakable. He’s not the biggest guy on the team, or the fastest. But he skates with a joy and an easy grace I’ve become familiar with thanks to our time together at the rink.
“If you keep staring at him like that, people are going to suspect,” Ian leans over and hisses in my ear.
Panic wells up inside me, and I can feel the blood draining from my face. “Suspect what?”
I haven’t breathed a word to anyone about my whatever-it-is-I-have with Adam. Not even Ian. He knows about the skating lessons, but that’s it. As much as I love the guy, he can’t keep a secret to save his mother’s life. You might as well take out an ad in the student newspaper or broadcast it on the evening news.
He jerks his head at Adam, who’s standing at the boards on the opposite side of the rink, talking to one of his teammates. “That you’re hot for number twelve’s bod.”
Oh, that. Relief seeps into my pores, displacing the panic that was there seconds before. “Hot for his bod? Does anyone seriously say stuff like that anymore? You sound like you’re straight out of a bad 1970’s porno.”
“You watch a lot of 1970’s porno?”
He gives me a smirk worthy of Puck, the mischievous fairy inMidsummer Night’s Dreamhe played in Moo U’s fall mainstage production last year. He got great reviews, although I still maintain there wasn’t a whole heck of a lot of acting involved. In contrast to my nuanced, layered portrayal of Lysander.
Neither one of us were cast in any of this semester’s productions, which isn’t all that unusual at Moo U. There’s a lot of talent in the theater program, and they like to spread the wealth, making sure everyone gets some stage time. I admit to being a little ticked off at first, but now I’m grateful I have my nights rehearsal free so I can spend them with Adam.
“You know what I mean,” I say, shaking my head at Ian but still watching Adam out of the corner of my eye. He’s back to skating now, those gorgeous hockey glutes on full display as he sprints from the blue line to the goal and back again.
Ian smacks me with the foam finger he bought at the concession stand. “That’s a lot of words, but you know what I don’t hear?”
I cock my head to one side and study him silently, not bothering to respond. There’s no point. He’s going to tell me, whether I like it or not.
“I don’t hear a denial,” he says smugly. “You’re warm for his form, and you know it. Not that I blame you. That boy is fine.”
“Excuse me.” Face Paint Girl taps me on the shoulder. “Did I hear you mention number twelve? That’s Adam Serrano, isn’t it?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, mentally crossing my fingers she hasn’t overheard anything other than Adam’s jersey number.
“Are you guys, like, friends?”
“Something like that,” Ian mutters.
I take his stupid foam finger and smack him with it. You know what they say about payback. It’s a real—witch.
Face Paint Girl must be used to people whacking each other with foam fingers because she doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Are you going to see him after the game? Can you give him a message?”
