by Eden Finley
“I know.” I rest my head against his. “Dumb hockey. Dumb thesis.”
“Agreed. You understand though … that I can’t blow off practice?”
“Yeah, of course. And”—I bite the inside of my cheek—“the thing is, when I’m busy, time becomes the last thing I worry about. I don’t realize how much I’ve missed you until I’m with you again.”
Foster narrows his eyes as his hands tighten on my hips. “That almost sounds like you don’t miss me at all.”
“I can assure you that’s not the case. Have you already forgotten my need for attention?”
“I do like it when you’re needy.”
He makes me laugh. “You’re exhibiting those alpha male traits we’ve discussed.”
His response is to squeeze my ass and stand. I scramble to grab his neck and lock my ankles behind his back.
“Y-you’re supposed to give me warning first.”
It’s interesting how deeply our animal instincts run. Every time Foster shows off his strength, I’m putty in his hands. I understand what’s happening, but the chemicals overriding my brain are addictive.
“I like hearing you squeak.”
“Excuse me, I don’t squeak.”
“You squeak, and it’s adorable.”
I pretend to scowl at him, but it clearly has no effect because he laughs.
“That’s adorable too.”
“One day you’ll be terrified of me.”
“You have no idea.” He swats my ass and I, well, I certainly do not squeak. My feet drop to the ground. “As sexy as you look right now, you need to get changed.”
“Why?”
“I wanna get out of the room for a bit. We leave for another game tomorrow which means another few days until I see you again.”
I sigh dramatically. “The ails of dating the great Foster Grant.”
“You really are a lucky guy.”
I wriggle back into my jeans and pull my hoodie on over Foster’s shirt. I shrug on my coat since it’s close to freezing outside, but I didn’t bring a hat with me, so Foster gets one of his beanies and pulls it down to cover my ears.
He studies me for a moment then drops his head back. “I take it back. I’m the lucky one.”
I will never understand.
Foster holds my hand as we cross campus. The Halloween decorations have disappeared, and the trees are prematurely strung with Christmas lights.
There are a lot of people out for a November evening. It’s fascinating. Are they not worried about the cold? Or are they determined to make the most of their nights before the snow sets in?
We’re not out for long before my nose feels like ice and we take refuge in the coffee shop I like. The one where the baristas know not to engage me in conversation. I buy our drinks since Foster did last time, and we find a corner booth. Someone is playing a guitar on the other side of the café, and with the low lighting and Foster’s warmth against my back, I feel sleepy and content.
Our drinks arrive along with a massive good luck cookie the barista says is on the house. CU and its hockey, I swear. That doesn’t stop me from splitting the treat with Foster while I tease him about all his fans.
“It’s a hardship”—he sighs—“but it got me the sexiest guy on campus, so I’m not complaining.”
I tilt my head. “Topher?”
Foster chokes on his drink. “You little shit.” His fingers dig into my ribs, and I laugh as I squirm away. “First, you know I’m talking about you. And second, you’d better think I’m the hottest guy here or we’re gonna have words.”
“I’m sorry. Did I damage your incredibly fragile athlete’s ego?”
“There’s nothing fragile about me, Zach.”
I can’t disagree there. I’m not even talking about physically, although his body is something out of my wet dreams. He’s so self-assured and confident, I can’t imagine him ever doubting anything. “Except your boyfriend.”
“There’s nothing fragile about you either.” His gaze tracks over my body and immediately my cheeks start to warm.
“What have I said about looking at me like that in public?”
“Never stop?”
“I’m certain it was the opposite.”
He scrunches up his face like he’s thinking. “Nope. That can’t be the case. I’d never agree.”
“And why not?”
“Because it makes your face turn my favorite shade of pink.”
I snort-laugh, and Foster pulls me closer so we’re facing each other and my legs are resting over his. It’s nice to hang out, as boyfriends, when I’m not worried about the end of the school year and what happens when he graduates and I’m still here. That’s so far in the future, and I’ve promised myself to take this thing one week at a time. To not overthink it.
As we sit there quietly, it’s impossible to miss the looks we’re getting. They happen no matter where we go, and I haven’t worked out why yet. My two main theories boil down to the fact that we’re two men showing affection as openly as we deserve to, or the fact it’s Foster Grant being affectionate with a man.
Either way, none of them ping my radar as being hostile, so my discomfort levels stay in check. It feels more like the curiosity that surrounds my daily life.
“What are your plans for the holidays?” Foster asks, recapturing my attention.
“I’ll fly home for Christmas like I always do.”
“And Thanksgiving?”
Oh. I’d assumed this year would be the same as the last few when I’d joined the Grants. “I, umm, had thought I’d be at your parents’. But now I realize that might be uncomfortable for you.”
“What?” He looks legitimately surprised. “Why?”
“Having your boyfriend there while trying to make sure your parents don’t pick up on it. You know Seth isn’t subtle with his teasing.”
Foster’s jaw tenses like it normally does when he’s thinking.
“I’m okay with staying here,” I assure him. “Honest. Like I said, when I’m caught up in studying, I have no idea what else is happening around me.”
“No fucking way.”
“I’m not just saying that to—”
“No. I’d never expect you to spend Thanksgiving alone. I was hoping you’d be at our place again. It’ll be a bit awkward probably, but …” The tension leaves his expression as he leans in. “It’s kinda hot to think about sneaking you into my room at night, covering your mouth to keep your sexy little noises in while I fuck you in my bed.”
“Eep.” I shift to relieve the pressure on my dick as it takes a sudden interest in the conversation. “There will be none of that.”
“It’s cute you think you’ll be able to resist me.”
“I went for twenty-one years without sex. I’m well practiced in abstinence.”
Foster starts to laugh. “That sounds like a challenge. Game on, baby.”
27
Foster
“Better make it good,” Zach taunts, his lips hovering close to mine. “It’s the last kiss you’re going to get for a few days.”
“Still think so, huh?” I wrap my arms around his back and pull him completely against me.
“Yes?” he croaks.
“Mm, sounding so confident there.” I pull away. “On second thought, if I leave you hanging, there’s all the more incentive for you to sneak into my room later.”
“Nooo.” Zach stands on top of my bed and launches himself at me.
His arms go around my neck, his legs around my waist, and his mouth lands on mine, all demanding and needy.
How am I supposed to turn him away?
We make out, kissing like we’re about to spend weeks apart instead of days in the same house.
His tongue moves along mine expertly, driving me wild and making me wonder how much trouble we’ll be in if we’re late.
Zach’s gaining more and more confidence around me every day, and I love that I get to be one of the few people who actually sees the guy behind the social awkwardn
ess.
When Zach is relaxed, he’s articulate and smart and so fucking funny.
He can ramble for hours about things he’s passionate about or subjects he’s confident in. And he’s mesmerizing when he speaks.
I moan into his mouth, knowing we have to stop but wishing it would never end.
When he finally releases me from my misery—no way was I going to stop it—he smiles triumphantly. “That should hold you for a while.”
I grip his ass and pull him against me so he can feel how hard I am. “Or you’ve made me hornier than I’ve been in a long time and then told me to keep it in my pants for four days. Did you just make this weekend easier on yourself or more difficult?”
“Fuck.”
“Mmhmm. If you don’t sneak into my room tonight, just know I’ll be thinking of you when I’m all alone in my big bed.”
“No fair. I can’t jerk off while sleeping on the floor in Seth’s room.”
“Should’ve thought of that before.” I tap his leg so he’ll release them from around my waist. “Now we’re late, and Mom’s gonna want to know why.”
“It took you an hour to style your hair.”
“Did not.”
“That’s what they’ll hear. I’m a good, innocent boy, Foster. Your parents will never believe whatever you tell them I did. Now come on, we’re late.”
I don’t know whether to be concerned or impressed by his clear manipulation. The next few days are going to be the longest of my life.
Going from regular sex to nothing is hard on its own. When the person you want to have sex with is right there and you’re not allowed to touch them? Torture.
Oh, he’s so sneaking into my room later. I’ll make sure of it.
We got snow a few days ago, the kind that sticks to the ground and turns Vermont into a winter wonderland, and the short drive home is made longer by the icy roads, but I don’t care. It gives me more time with my Zach before he becomes the quiet guy he is around my parents.
I’d love nothing more than to walk into the house I grew up in and introduce my boyfriend to my parents, but I haven’t given much more thought to the subject since I spoke to Zach about it.
Avoiding might be a better word for it.
It’s a lot easier to put it in the things to do later—or never—basket.
“Home sweet home,” I say dryly as I pull into the drive behind Seth’s matching Jeep.
“You’re still all right with me spending Thanksgiving with you guys, right?”
“Not so much.”
He looks a little hurt.
“Not being able to touch you will be torture. Torture. Why would you put your super sexy, very hot boyfriend through that?”
He cracks a smile. “I think you’re confused. My boyfriend is conceited and egotistical. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Wow, you are so falling for me. Hard.”
Zach shifts in his seat and glances at the house. “Come on. They’ll think it’s weird if we stay in the car all day.”
I don’t know why I’m stalling. Perhaps it’s the fear that I’m so smitten with the guy next to me that Mom and Dad will be able to read it.
Reluctantly, I climb out of the car and grab our bags out of the trunk.
Zach takes his from me. “Thank you, but nonboyfriend Foster wouldn’t do that.”
“I so would. Like if we were both on campus this year and not together, I would’ve driven you here.”
“Mm, true. That’s just the type of guy you are.”
The snow crunches under our feet as we walk to the front porch.
I send Zach one more smile and contemplate begging for one last kiss, but the door flies open.
“Finally,” Mom says. “I thought you were dead.”
“Always so dramatic.” I hug her. “Apparently, it’s my fault we’re late. I take too long to do my hair according to Zach.” I glance at him over my shoulder and mouth you’re welcome.
“Thanks for having me, Mrs. Grant.”
She waves us in. “You know you’re welcome here anytime. Go put your bags in the room. Seth and your father are watching football.”
“Eww,” Zach and I both say at the same time.
“Well, it’s that or the parade, so—”
“Parade,” we say, again in unison.
Mom’s gaze flicks between both of us, and I freeze up.
“Bags,” I blurt. “Uh, gonna go put my bag in my room. Want me to dump yours in Seth’s?”
“Uh … thanks.” Zach hands me his bag, and I hurry out of the entryway.
“Smooth,” my brother mumbles on my way past him in the living room, and I accidentally hit him in the back of the head with Zach’s bag.
“Would you like help in the kitchen?” I hear Zach ask Mom before I run up the stairs.
It would be so easy to drop Zach’s bag off in my room. Mom and Dad’s bedroom is downstairs. They wouldn’t even know.
My conscience makes me put it in Seth’s room though. It’s not right for me to ask Zach to sneak around.
It’s fun to joke about, but if he doesn’t want to do it, I’d never force him to. If we were to get caught, I could see it now—he’d blame himself for me being outed. I’d never see it that way, but I know he would.
That’s not something you put on someone else’s shoulders.
Even though Zach asks Mom if she needs help, like every other year when she turns him down, he joins us on the large sectional couch where we force Dad to switch between the parade and football.
Zach’s on my side of the couch, only a few feet away.
I want to pull him to me, intertwine our legs, and lie here watching mindless TV. I want to hold his hand.
My hand twitches, wanting to reach for him, and it must not be subtle.
Seth’s mocking stare burns into us, as if we’re doing a terrible job of hiding our relationship even though we’re not even touching.
I scratch my nose with my middle finger, pointed in his direction.
He only laughs at me.
“Dinner’s ready,” Mom sing-songs from the kitchen.
Seth and I fight for the seat at the head of the table opposite Dad, like we do all the time, and I come out victorious.
Zach slides into the seat next to me, and Seth takes his other side.
I give Zach a quick wink, and his cheeks turn the pink I love. If my parents don’t pick up on something between us, I’ll actually be mildly offended I was born to such oblivious people.
After we pile our plates high with food, as per crappy tradition in every TV show and movie there is with a Thanksgiving scene, Mom insists on going around the table and making us say what we’re thankful for.
Hers is always the generic, “Having both my boys home for the holidays.” Dad’s is always, “What your mom said.”
Seth is apparently thankful for four days of no classes this year, and Zach’s is polite gratitude for having somewhere to spend the holiday since he can’t afford to fly home.
Every year, I say hockey. Because, duh.
But this year I’m thankful for more than just that. I still want the NHL—more than anything—yet, there’s an answer on the tip of my tongue that’s different. It’s raw. It’s scary. It’s exciting. It’s … everything.
“I’m thankful for …” Hockey. You’re thankful for hockey. “I’m thankful Zach transferred schools this year.”
Seth snorts.
I hold my breath.
“Aww, have you boys become close?” Mom asks.
Zach looks at me wide-eyed, probably more terrified than I am.
That doesn’t stop me from reaching for his hand. “Really close. Uh, Zach and I are actually together.”
I didn’t know it was possible for my mother to be stunned speechless, but here we are.
Both Mom and Dad are staring at us, gazes flicking between Zach and me.
My boyfriend is the shade of a cooked lobster, and my brother starts shoveling food into his m
outh with a smile.
Dad turns to Seth. “How do you feel about this development?”
“Huh?” he asks around a mouthful of food. He swallows before continuing. “Well, I was worried at first, but they both really like each other, so I’m happy for them.”
Dad’s brow furrows. “I … it …” He leans back in his seat. “You really don’t care, Seth? Honestly, your mother and I have been waiting for the day you come to tell us you’re more than friends with Zach.”
Seth chokes on his food. “What?”
“Well,” Mom says, “you’re you. And he’s … him. And—”
I start laughing because the whole thing is hilarious to me right now.
“I’m straight,” Seth says.
I’m still laughing.
“Are you okay?” Zach asks.
“Yep. I come out and my parents ask if my brother is okay. Is. This. Really. Happening?”
Mom turns her attention on me. “Sorry. We … didn’t expect this from you is all.” Her eyes widen. “Not that it’s not allowed or we don’t approve. We do! Completely. We even googled PFLAG once.”
“Wait,” Seth says. “You thought I was gay? Me? I’ve brought girls home.”
“So has your brother,” Dad points out.
“I’m not gay. I’m bi. Not that now is probably the time for that conversation, but I wanted to put it out there.”
Dad looks confused again. “So you’re … bi.” He turns to Seth. “And you’re straight.”
“Not everyone fits a stereotype,” Zach says quietly. “Not including myself in that, obviously.”
I laugh.
“Sorry,” Zach mutters. “It’s not my place.”
My mom smiles at him. “It is your place. Especially if you’re making one of my sons happy.”
“Doesn’t matter which son?” I ask.
“Not at all. We’ve been waiting for this day. We just thought … Yeah … Anyway. We can still use the same speech.” She turns to me. “We love you no matter what, and as long as you’re happy, we’re happy. But if anyone gives you shit, we give you permission to … oh wait, we rehearsed it to say that Seth could recruit you to beat someone up, so … I guess you’re on your own.”
“Thanks, Mom. Really.”
Dad sits there twirling his glass of wine between his fingers.
