Chapter 4
CALEB
I can’t stop replaying yesterday. I realize this makes me pathetic. Hell, all of my behavior yesterday makes me pathetic. Which almost certainly means yesterday is the last I’m going to see of Dash.
Dash Dalton, hockey illiterate, kind to dorks, and general dreamboat.
Also, almost certainly queer unless my gaydar is off. Which… I mean, it’s not like I’ve had tons of practice. But here’s the thing. If my gaydar isn’t off, and okay, sure, his roommate is team captain, so maybe that’s it, but… Did he come back for me?
Because he did come back. And sit with me. And talk to me. And stay the entire practice with me.
My heart starts doing this tutter, shaky thing that is probably fine since I’m nineteen and healthy, but might otherwise cause me to panic.
Oh my God, what is wrong with me?
And now here I am at practice again. And as if that weren’t weird enough, I’m early, here before the team has even made it onto the ice.
And yes, okay, fine. I was probably going to come to watch the actual practice anyway.
Which would all be well and good if I didn’t have my eyes glued to the entrance where Dash appeared the last two times.
“Oh God.” I bury my head in my hands and let out a groan.
“Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad. I’m here.” The voice booms up at me, deep, friendly, a little amused. Dash.
I raise my head to see him climbing the stairs toward me.
I am instantly nauseous, and I honestly can’t tell if it’s because I’ve just embarrassed myself again or because I am so happy he’s here. It’s probably both.
“Hi,” I say as he slides into a seat, just one over from mine. Because I’m slick like that.
“What’s a nice guy like you doing in a freezing cold arena like this?” He grins. Because he is slick like that. I swear to God, his eyes actually twinkle.
And I’m blushing now, and again: Mortified? Crushing? Both.
Coach blows his whistle below, and the team glides onto the ice. Thank God.
Beside me, Dash says, “So, ready to enlighten the ignorant?”
“Uh, yeah.” I give a weak laugh. I make the mistake of looking over at him. He’s smiling at me all open and friendly and... Jesus, I don’t know if my heart can take this kind of attention. Down below, the team is starting warm-up laps. “I’ll try my best.”
We watch the guys skate in silence for a minute. Well, silence for him. For me, there’s kind of a roaring in my ears. But the graceful movements of the athletes start to lull me back to something resembling normal.
“You know,” says Dash, in a softer voice now, “you don’t really have to teach me about all this. If you don’t want to.”
I look up at him, and he gives me a quiet little smile. And, hang on. He doesn’t mind if I don’t teach him about hockey? Because if he’s not here for that, then…
I feel warm all over. But, like, in a good way.
I turn back to the ice, biting back my own smile. “No, I can. I’m happy to. What do you want to know?”
“Um. Everything? Let me put it this way, I know so little, I don’t know what I don’t know.”
When I glance over at him, he looks a little sheepish. Which is... Yeah. Very cute.
“Sorry,” he continues, “I’m kind of hopeless. I’m a theater major, so I know zero about sports. Plus, no offense, but I don’t totally get the hockey appeal. I mean, it’s not like they wear tight uniforms, you know, like those little pants the football players wear.”
He arches a brow and holds my gaze. My gaydar starts beeping so loud I’m surprised he can’t hear it. Well, that answers that question.
Right. Questions. Converse like a normal person, Caleb.
I clear my throat. “Theater, huh? What, like acting?”
“Yeah. And singing. Maybe a little dancing if it’s called for…” He smiles.
“Wow, that’s really cool.” And super intimidating. He does have that vibe, though. Fearless. Magnetic. “Although that kind of sounds like my worst nightmare.”
“Yeah, you don’t strike me as the exhibitionist type,” he says. I nearly choke. “So what are you studying?”
“Oh well, I’m just a freshman. I haven’t officially declared.”
“Hey, me too. Well, the freshman part. I’ve known I wanted to be on stage since I was about five.” He bats his lashes at me, theatrically. “Okay, so you’re not official, but do you know what your major is going to be?”
“Oh. I mean, yeah, I’m pretty sure. I guess it’s been pretty clear what does it for me from a young age, too.” I hear myself, and I clam up. Oh my God, that is not what I meant. Is he going to think that’s what I meant?
But he just gives me a crooked smile.
“Okay. What if I try and guess your—probable—major?”
“Okay…”
He looks me up and down. Squints. “Alchemy?”
I laugh. “Uh, no. Surprisingly, I don’t think that one’s available.”
“Hmm. Reality TV Studies.”
“Nooo. Not really my thing.”
“Interesting.” He taps his finger against his lips. Which is…distracting. “Got it! Cryptozoology!”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing again. I swear I see Dash’s eyes flick down to my mouth. It takes a Herculean effort, but I ignore it. Mostly. “No. Just plain old English, actually. At least I’m pretty sure.”
“Oh. Cool.”
There’s a whoop of excitement down below, and I realize I haven’t been watching the practice.
“What just happened?” asks Dash.
I scan the ice. Judging by the positions of the players, it looks like they’re doing a shooting drill.
“Nice glove, Zach!” West shouts to the goalie.
“Shit. I had that corner.” That’s the center. Griff, I think.
“‘Course ya did, sweetheart,” chirps a defenseman whose name I don’t know.
I turn to Dash. “I’m pretty sure the goalie just physically caught a corner shot, like in his hand. And judging by the way they’re reacting down there, it must have been pretty impressive. “
Dash blinks at me. Then he reaches up and gives my shoulder a playful shove. “Pretty impressive jock knowledge for an English major.”
I look down at my hands, but I can’t help grinning. “Nah. I’ve just picked up a few things.”
“What, like, is your dad a coach or something? Have you been coming to practice all your life?”
Given that my dad is about as athletic as I am, that’s pretty hilarious. “Ha, no. No, mostly I just picked it up from books.” Shit, why did I say that?
But now he’s looking at me like I’m some kind of weirdo, and I haven’t even said what books. “You mean like… Hockey for Dummies?”
I laugh. “Um. No.” I size him up. But, he seems sincere, and I don’t know what comes over me—maybe it’s because of his obvious comfort with queerness.
Or because he very clearly is not a jock either.
But whatever it is, I just tell him. “Okay, so there is this whole kind of wacky sub-sub genre of romance that’s basically just dudes who play hockey. ”
“Okay.”
He’s clearly not getting it. “They play hockey and also… with each other.” I give him the most meaningful look I can muster and pray that he doesn’t make me spell it out.
“Oh. Oooh. Really?”
Thank God. I nod. “Mmm-hmm. There’s a pretty big following, too. A lot of cis-het women, actually, but also queer readers. Like… me.”
Something registers in his eyes, but it doesn’t look like judgment, or even surprise.
It’s gone so fast I don’t have time to wonder about it more.
The corner of his mouth curls up. “A dedicated fanbase, huh? That makes sense. I mean, not so much the women but, hey, I’ve always found queer men a lot more appealing than average bros, so I guess why shouldn’t they? ”
I laugh. “Right. Yeah.”
Down on the ice, there’s some more shouting and whistles, but Dash’s attention is still on me, so I just keep going.
“Anyway, all through high school, I spent my summers with my aunt Carol. She’s the librarian in this tiny little town up north, Moonlake Village.
She’d have me shelve books for her. And she keeps a lot of interesting stuff at the library.
Indie authors and small presses, not just things you’d find anywhere.
My first summer there, she had a few gay romances—MM they call them.
So I picked one up and started reading it, and it happened to be a hockey romance.
Anyway, I don’t know. It was good. And it just helped me, you know?
It made me feel like I wasn’t alone. Maybe this sounds dumb, but it kind of helped me figure out who I was, I guess?
” I shrug. “So I read another and then another. And Aunt Carol clearly noticed because she just started quietly stocking more MM hockey books. And I kept reading them. And I guess I kind of picked up some stuff about the game, too, somewhere along the way.”
“Okay, well, Aunt Carol sounds awesome,” says Dash.
I grin. “She is. I mean, by this last summer, she had three full shelves just for gay hockey romance.”
“What? How? How many of these things are there?”
“Oh, hundreds.”
He stares at me. “Hundreds?”
“Maybe thousands?”
“What?” He’s half coughing, half laughing now. “I’m sorry, there are thousands of romance novels about hockey players getting it on with each other?”
“Well,” I say, breaking into a smile, “it’s not always two hockey players.
Sometimes it’s a hockey player and a physical therapist or the team’s PR guy, but…
yeah? And sometimes it’s the NHL, or sometimes they’re in college, depends on the series.
And they’re all different in other ways, too.
Like some are dark, and some are funny. Or raunchy, or angsty, or sweet.
Or more than one of those things. There’s this one series that’s actually being made into a TV show, so that’s going to be amazing.
And then there’s your tropes, of course.
Like enemies-to-lovers or gay- or bi-awakening, which I personally think is a little overdone, or stepbrothers, which is surprisingly common.
Or my personal favorite childhood-friends-to-lovers.
Although I think it’s best when it’s actually childhood-friends-to-enemies-to-lovers because then you get the full arc of… ”
I look over at him, and he’s still listening, but... What am I doing? He didn’t ask me any of this. And he’s barely said anything. I’m doing all the talking. He isn’t interested in any of this.
“Never mind, it’s um... we should watch the practice. Oh, it looks like they’re going to do a passing drill now.”
I turn and focus all my attention on the team. I am mortified. Everything I just said is looping in my head. So much oversharing, so much nerdy fanboy word vomit. And Dash, well, I mean, he hasn’t gotten up and run away because he’s nicer than that. But oh my God, what must he think of me now?