Chapter 24
Too Many Men
Luke
The room was dark except for the streetlamp glow slicing through the blinds, painting stripes across Austen’s bare back.
My hands were on his waist, skin warm under my palms. He was straddling my lap, his forehead resting against mine, breathing a rhythm that matched my own.
“We should stop,” Austen whispered, though he made zero move to do so.
“Why?” I murmured, pressing a kiss to the pulse point under his jaw.
“Because you have a seven a.m. lifting block. And you need sleep.”
“I’m resting,” I lied. “This is active recovery.”
Austen huffed a laugh—a vibration I felt in my chest. He shifted, friction sparking a heat that had nothing to do with the radiator.
It had been three days since the library. Three days of this—stealing hours in the dorm, locking the deadbolt, pretending the rest of the world stopped at the threshold of Room 317.
It felt safe. It felt like we’d hacked the system.
I ran my hands up his bare spine, feeling the tension leave his muscles. For a guy who lived in his head, Austen was present when we were like this. No math. No variables. Weight and touch.
He leaned back, breaking the kiss with a contented sigh.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The pounding on the door shook the frame.
“Carter! I know you’re in there! Open up!”
Ryan.
The sound was like a gunshot in a library.
Austen froze. His eyes went wide, panic flashing white-hot.
“Shit,” I hissed.
I shoved him.
It wasn’t gentle. Pure, reactive instinct. I pushed him off my lap. He stumbled back, catching himself on the edge of his own bed.
“Shirt,” I whispered, frantic. “Shirt.”
Austen scrambled. He grabbed his T-shirt from the floor, yanking it over his head inside out. He dove for his desk chair, grabbing a pen, spinning around to face his laptop screen—currently black.
BOOM. BOOM.
“Carter! Don’t tell me you’re asleep, I can hear the radiator clanking!”
“Coming!” I yelled, my voice cracking.
I looked down. Shirtless. Jeans unbuttoned.
I scrambled off the bed, buttoning the fly with shaking fingers. I grabbed my hoodie from the floor—smelling of sex and sweat—and yanked it on.
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to tame the mess.
I looked at Austen. He was hunched over his desk, typing furiously on a computer that wasn’t on.
“Turn it on,” I hissed.
He hit the power button. The Apple logo glowed.
I took a breath. I forced my heart rate down—goalie mode. Calm. Square to the shooter.
I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door four inches. I planted my foot behind it as a stop.
Ryan was standing there, grinning, holding a greasy cardboard box.
“Pizza,” Ryan announced. “Meat lovers. And Morales is arguing that Die Hard isn’t a Christmas movie. We need a tiebreaker.”
He tried to push the door open. “Let me in, it’s freezing out here.”
I braced my shoulder against the wood. “Can’t, man.”
Ryan stopped, blinking. “Why? You decent?”
“I’m… sick,” I lied. Weak save. “Stomach thing. Ate bad sushi.”
Ryan peered through the crack. He looked past my shoulder.
“Math?” he yelled. “You sick too?”
Austen turned in his chair. His face was pale, his glasses crooked. “I… am maintaining a safe distance.” He sounded like a robot from a bad 50’s show.
Ryan looked back at me. He sniffed the air. The room smelled like peppermint soap, stale heat, and… us.
“You look flushed, Monk,” Ryan said, his grin fading. “You got a fever?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Fever. Need to sleep it off.”
“Alright.” Ryan looked at the pizza, then back at me. “Well, if you hurl, aim for the trash can, not the floor. Devon gets pissy about the carpet.”
“Thanks.”
“Feel better.”
He turned and walked down the hall.
I waited until he rounded the corner. I slammed the door and threw the deadbolt.
I slumped against the wood, my legs water.
The silence in the room was deafening.
Austen sat at his desk, staring at the blank wall. He reached up and fixed his glasses.
“That was…” he started, voice trembling. “That was close.”
He tried to laugh. It came out as a jagged exhale.
I didn’t laugh.
I pushed off the door and walked to my bed. I sat down heavily.
My hands were shaking. Not from the adrenaline of almost getting caught, but from the realization of what would have happened if Ryan had pushed harder. If I hadn’t locked the door.
He would have seen us.
And by morning, the locker room would know. Harper would know. My dad would know. Sure, I think Ryan and Javier suspected something, but they didn’t have proof.
“Luke?”
Austen was looking at me. He had turned his chair around. The fear was gone from his face, replaced by tentative concern.
“He’s gone,” Austen said softly. “We’re good.”
“Are we?”
The words hung there.
I looked at him—hair messy, shirt inside out, lips swollen from my mouth. Ten minutes ago, that sight made me want to lock us in forever.
Now, it made my stomach turn. Not because of him. Because of the target it put on my back.
“I shoved you,” I said.
“Reflex,” Austen said quickly.
“I panicked.” I rubbed my face with my hands. “If he had seen…”
“He didn’t.” Austen stood up. He took a step toward me. “We handled it.”
He reached for me.
I flinched.
I didn’t mean to. The wall was back up. The mask was back on.
Austen stopped. His hand hovered in the air for a second, then dropped to his side.
“Okay,” he whispered.
He stepped back. He walked over to his side of the room. He took off his glasses and set them on the desk, next to the puck.
“Lights out?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Lights out.”
He flicked the switch.
In the dark, I listened to him get into bed. I listened to the radiator hiss.
I touched my chest, right over the Frost Demons logo. My heart was still hammering, loud and frantic.
Entanglements.
The word floated up from the dark, heavy and cold.
We hadn’t almost been caught. It’s not like the team didn’t know I was gay. But it’s one thing to know someone is gay and something completely different to know who that guy is gay with. That’s why I’d avoided relationships at my last school. I can’t let them distract from the game.