Fanboys

Chapter 12

CALEB

“Sorry, I don’t know where he went. He was out of here super early this morning,” Gavin West tells me.

His apologetic tone and look make me think he knows more about the situation than he’s letting on.

If I thought the hockey team clocking that I was fanboying over practice would be embarrassing, that’s nothing compared to the idea of a star player knowing all about how I screwed up my first real kiss.

“Okay, thanks.”

I turn to walk out of the dorm. I don't know where I'm going next because this was my one brilliant idea to find Dash.

It's not that hard to ask around and find out where the captain of the hockey team lives.

I guess I could go lurk around the theater department and see if I run into Dash.

Because that's not pathetic. Or I could be smart and take this as a sign this wasn't meant to be.

“Hey! Caleb, right?”

I cringe. Oh God, Gavin West knows my name. Fantastic!

I turn back. “Yeah?”

“Wait up, I'll walk with you. I'm heading out too.”

I almost want to laugh. Caleb of just a week ago would have been tripping all over himself with excitement over this. Not so much current Caleb. “Cool.”

West locks up the door. He shoulders his hockey bag and falls into step with me.

“Heading to practice?” It’s not the usual time. Plus, did they repair the rink?

He grimaces. “Uh, kinda? We're using the Holy Heart rink this week.”

“Oh, right.”

“Yeah, so I'm just trying to go in and get some ice time to myself before their practice.”

“Ah.” That's gotta be interesting. I wonder if he’s run into Luke Morgan over there. I am smart enough not to ask, though.

We walk in silence down the stairs to the ground floor. He’s probably thinking about hockey. I’m back to replaying the endless loop of my own mistakes. But once we're outside, West turns to me.

“Hey. I just want to say I think it's really cool that you show up at practice. I—we, the guys, the team—appreciate the support. We like seeing you there.”

“Oh. Um.” And even though I'm pretty sure this is coming more from him rather than “the guys” in general, it’s really sweet. It should make me happy to hear it. It does make me happy. But the feeling is muted. “Thanks.”

I turn to go, but he touches my arm. “And… Dash really likes seeing you. Um, there.” He says. He looks me in the eye with an intensity that’s begging me to take his meaning. I do. I just think he’s wrong.

Gavin really seems like a genuinely good guy. I see why Dash likes him.

My stomach twists. I have to find a way to stop thinking about Dash. Of course, I do nothing but that on my walk of shame (and not the good kind) back to my dorm.

I knew I was a social screw-up, but I don't understand how even I could manage to screw this up so thoroughly. He liked me. He did. I can admit that to myself now. He obviously did. And what did I do?

Well, for one thing, I clearly alienated him so much he's hiding from me now.

I mean, isn't he? Because I know enough from spending time with Dash this week to know he wouldn't normally be out of his dorm this early, unless he was trying to avoid anyone who might show up on his doorstep begging for another chance he doesn’t deserve.

Pretty sure when the team comes back to practice on campus, I'm going to find myself alone in the stands again.

Perfect. Good job. Isn't that what I wanted?

Now I can just go back to living my life in a bunch of books and forget there ever even was a real-life guy who wanted to spend time with me.

Who kept showing up to watch a game he pretty clearly wasn't that interested in.

A guy who waded through all of my awkwardness and shyness and kept coming back.

A guy who freaking read a bunch of romance books because he wanted to get to know me.

I am the actual worst.

It doesn't matter because it's over. Whatever it was, it's done. Welcome to college. Welcome to the rest of your miserable life. My eyes start to burn and, oh good, now I’m tearing up right here in the middle of campus.

I take my glasses off and blot my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie, hoping the other students passing by don’t notice me. But then something catches my eye.

A hockey jersey. One of the hockey players is apparently standing across the quad from me. And he's frozen in place. Staring. At. Me.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Great, he probably recognizes me as the idiot who sits in the arena every day at practice and is now crying in front of Student Support Services.

The tears start coming harder because of course they do. I turn, intending to, well, run in the other direction. But I’m crying and not wearing my glasses, and however it happens, I trip and end up on the ground, pain shooting through my palms as I try to catch myself.

“Caleb!” I’m disoriented and humiliated, and it takes me a minute, but by the time the hockey player reaches me in a blur of green and black, I recognize the voice.

“Dash?”

He’s crouching down, looking me over. He hands me my glasses, which I must have dropped when I fell. “Caleb, oh God, are you all right?”

I swipe at my eyes. “I’m fine. You don’t have to—” I stop as I slide my glasses back on and really get a look at him. His brows are pinched together. He looks so… worried. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

He takes my wrists and turns my hands over, inspecting them. “Your palms are scraped up. Should we take you to the Health Center?”

“God, no!” He looks taken aback, but then he nods and helps me up, a hand under my elbow. He’s being so sweet. I don’t know what it means, I don’t know what he’s thinking. It’s all too much. I can’t look at him. So I look to the ground beside him, and that’s when I notice…

“Is that a boombox?”

Dash blushes. Which is very un-Dash-like.

“Um, yeah?”

Then I stop to really consider what he's wearing: a hockey jersey (which I now recognize as the kind you buy in the campus store), about eight sizes too big for him, hanging down to the knees of his skinny jeans.

I look him over, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of my lips.

“Dash Dalton, are you actually grand gesturing me?”

He shifts uncomfortably. Also very un-Dash-like.

“I, well, I… yes?” Warmth blooms in my chest, but before I can say anything, can even think of what to say, he’s off and rambling.

“It’s—look, I’m really sorry because while I did recognize that the whole boombox thing outside the window is somewhat problematic, it didn't hit me until I was halfway to your dorm, just how problematic it is in a whole respecting-boundaries kind of situation.

And I'm really sorry for that. And also, of course, for the whole not respecting your boundaries thing.

I'm sorry for pushing, and I'm sorry for not backing off or letting you lead, or whatever it is you would have wanted.” He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I'm sorry for not just fucking asking what you wanted.”

“Dash…”

“Caleb, what do you want? If you want me just to go away and leave you alone, I will.” He takes a half step back, as if to prove he means it.

“No!” I blurt out in a panic. He stops. I reach out and touch the sleeve of his hockey jersey, running my hand along the fabric.

Along Dash’s arm, warm and solid underneath it.

“No. What I’d like, actually...”—I clear my throat, straighten my back, and make myself be brave—”I’d like to know if I can kiss you. ”

His eyes widen. Then soften. Then twinkle.

He slowly nods his head.

I slide my hand around to his back, pulling him to me. He comes willingly, pressing himself against me, tangling himself with me.

I lean in, brush against his lips. Part them. His breath mixes with mine. Then we are open mouths and sliding tongues and a warm hum of laughter and relief and promises of moments and moments and moments to come.

A tear slides from my eye, and Dash reaches fingers up to dry both our cheeks where the drop has spread between us, never breaking the kiss. His touch is so tender and sweet, I forget to be embarrassed that I’m crying again. But only because I am so, so happy.

There are catcalls again, more of them this time, because it’s broad daylight and we’re actually making out, not just touching, but I don’t care.

Finally, we break apart, but only to grin helplessly at each other.

“It's not an excuse,” Dash says after a minute, “but the shirt alone didn’t really have that much impact, and my mom may have raised me on John Cusack movies. It’s a Gen X thing.”

I shrug. “I see the appeal.”

“Right?”

I laugh. He bites his lip. God, he’s adorable. And sweet. And I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I am so grateful.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I ran away. I just… I don’t have much—or really any experience. So I got nervous, and I freaked out and… I’m just sorry.”

“No,” he smooths a hand along my cheek. “No, hey. Don’t apologize.”

“Okay,” I say softly. “But just so we’re clear, I don’t plan on doing that anymore.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Good.” He leans in and kisses me again. Softly, this time.

I melt against him, opening up, pulling him close and—

“Hang on, where did you get a boombox?”

“Oh. Um, the Theater Department props room? I should actually get it back before someone notices it’s gone.” He wrinkles his nose.

“Wait, you stole for me?” I’m grinning. I can’t help it.

“I mean, I’d prefer to think of it as temporary appropriation.”

“Oh, I see.” I run my hand along the collar of his jersey. “And this?”

“Oh, this I full-on stole from Gavin.”

I fist the fabric in my hand and pull him back to me. “Why is that so hot?”

“Mmm, don’t know, don’t care.”

We come together again, smiling around kisses, arms wrapping around each other, and everything else slipping away. I could get used to this.

Holy shit: I’m going to get used to this.

And used to having a boyfriend, right? Someone who gets me.

Someone to go to hockey games with. Someone to talk to.

Someone to—oh God, maybe do some of those things in those books that sound terrifying but also so very appealing. Because we’re doing this, he and I.

I know it won’t all happen at once—thank God it won’t happen all at once.

But even now, here, at the very beginning, where we’re just finding each other, learning each other, I know it’s what I want.

To be with Dash and figure it all out together.

I want it, and I’m not afraid. Okay, I’m a little afraid.

But it won’t stop me. I won’t let it, because this time—

Dash pulls back. “Wait. Caleb.”

Oh God, this is it. Over before it’s even started because I was getting way ahead of myself. He probably sensed it. Somehow. And he’s going to tell me—

“I really should get the boombox back.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.”

He holds out his hand. “Come with me?”

I look in his eyes. He’s not going anywhere. I can see it. And I know I can trust it. I can trust him.

I just might have to work at that a little bit.

I slide my hand into his. “Okay.”

He picks up the boombox, and we start off across campus together.

“Hey,” I say after a minute. “Do you actually have a copy of ‘In Your Eyes’ in that thing?”

“Nah. I was going to play that on my phone. The tape in here is a cassingle of ‘Baby Got Back’.”

I laugh.

“What, that wouldn’t have done it for you?” He squeezes my hand.

Honestly, though. I think pretty much any song would do it for me, as long as Dash is the one playing it.