Chapter 4
Milo
Isettle myself onto the couch, letting it swallow me as I pick up a book from the side table and begin reading. I have a hard time focusing, though, as thoughts of Beau begin to filter through my mind.
He’s been here a week, integrating into my life. He got all his stuff from the hotel that first day, and I told him he could move the rest of his things from his storage unit in Texas, but he declined, saying it was mostly furniture that wouldn’t really fit in here anyway.
Boarding school and away games are the only times I’ve had roommates in the past, and I’ve always hated every second of it. I like my space. I like my routine. I like not having to hide my boners when they pop up seemingly out of nowhere, because they always show up at the most inconvenient times.
But I don’t seem to hate having him here.
I haven’t seen him look at apartments, and honestly, I haven’t pushed him to. I kind of like having him in my home. I like how he takes up space, how he’s entirely himself.
I don’t think he’s straight, not anymore, but I also haven’t been brave enough to ask him.
I’ve caught him watching me, caught his reaction to me simply existing.
I don’t know. I think he might be interested in me.
Just the way his eyes follow me as I move through the house makes me think that maybe I’m onto something.
What would I even do if it turns out he’s interested in me?
We haven’t spent a ton of time actually together, and I think today I’m going to change that.
It’s been a long day. Training camp is well underway, and I don’t know about Beau, but I’m exhausted.
I want to just relax, spend the night in, maybe enjoy each other’s company. Or at least find out if we can.
Aside from that first night when Beau interrupted my reading, we haven’t been in the same place in the house for more than maybe five minutes. I haven’t actually even seen him in the kitchen. He’s mostly kept to himself.
I know the feeling, the need to be in a new place by yourself and just let yourself be. Let yourself feel. Not only is he new to my home, but he’s new to this state. He moved away from the only home he’s ever known.
I did a little googling the other day. He was born and raised in Texas, in a small town in West Texas. Sweetwater, I think, is what it’s called. Small, compared to the giant megacity, Dallas, where he’s lived for the past almost ten years.
And he was in a relationship for those ten years. He actually might still be in it. The internet seems to think he still is. That’s one of the things I want to get to know.
My stomach does an unhappy little flip at the thought of him still belonging to someone else.
Because I have been watching him. Day after day, catching snippets of him simply existing.
Of him playing video games and getting so focused he has to blip his tongue out to help himself concentrate.
Of him humming some country song in the morning when he drinks his coffee on the back porch.
And of him singing along with the radio, very off-key but without a care in the world.
Because the way he’s been watching me, the way those eyes have followed me when we are in the same room .
.. Those eyes are full of hunger. It looks like a hunger that doesn’t really match the “happily taken” headline I skimmed, and that contradiction sits uneasily in my gut.
If he’s trying to be discreet, he’s failing miserably.
Although, to be fair, I’m pretty sure I’ve been looking at him with the same intensity.
My cheeks heat thinking about it. Thinking about watching him.
Fuck, at the rink, after a long day of skating and conditioning, he has managed to catch me off guard every single day. I’ll be sitting at my stall, slowly pulling off my uniform, and he’ll walk up to me, a towel slung low around his waist, dark curls dripping.
He never comes over for very long, just enough to catch my attention and leave me wanting more of him.
Just yesterday, he asked if we could start carpooling to the rink together.
I guess his truck is getting up there in age, and I don’t blame him for maybe occasionally wanting a ride in a more durable vehicle.
Though you’d be hard-pressed to find me in that truck, so I imagine carpooling will mostly be me driving.
Then I was picturing the tension between us in that tiny space. Thinking about those heavy looks. He’ll give me one glance and have me leaping from my seat into his lap.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes ten. I’m letting my thoughts get away from me this early weekend morning when I hear the front door open.
Beau, dressed only in a pair of basketball shorts and a loose tank top, walks into the living room.
His skin is glistening with sweat, dark curls stuck to his head.
His cheeks and chest are flushed an overheated red.
He turns a little, pulling out a headphone, and I swear I see something shining on his chest. He must be wearing a chain or something.
“Hey, roomie.” He smiles broadly at me, all teeth and crinkled eyes. I like his smile quite a bit, so I match it.
“Hey yourself,” I say back, knowing I want more of him than these little snippets but not entirely sure what I’m going to get.
I look down at the coffee table, covered in books and candles and… Oh!
“Hey, Beau,” I call out right as he starts walking away.
“Yeah?” He quirks a brow, still breathing heavily. His chest rises and falls with each staggered breath. He must have run hard to still be so winded.
“I know this is out of left field,” I start, leaning forward to snatch the deck off the table, “but would you be interested in playing cards later?” I can feel my own cheeks flushing, warm and pink. This is stupid. He’s not going to…
“I’d love to.” He smiles at me, warm and sweet. I feel my smile growing, beaming at him. “I just need to go shower first, and I’m all yours.”
If only.
He comes out of the bathroom in a pair of breathtaking gray sweatpants.
They hang loosely off his body, the faintest outline of his, ahem, package on full display.
I can feel the blush start at my cheeks and bloom down into my chest. I quickly look down to where I’m shuffling the deck, hiding the flush from him.
I roll my eyes internally. Could I be any more of a cliché?
When I look back up, though, he’s smiling slyly like he caught me with my hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. I guess in this case, my hands are my eyes and his crotch is the cookie jar.
He flops down next to me on the couch, letting loose a lengthy sigh. His curls are still dripping, making the collar of the T-shirt he’s wearing soaking wet.
“You’re not going to be able to do that come winter,” I say, pointing to his wet head of hair. “You’ll freeze to death two steps out the door.”
He laughs, shaking his head and letting the water droplets fly. I cover my face, trying to protect myself from the onslaught of wet he unleashes on me. I find myself laughing too.
“Thanks for the warning, Frosty. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind in January.” He rolls his eyes, but he still has a smile on his face.
“Try November.” I laugh a little harder. What a Texas boy. “We actually get winter when it’s supposed to start, and not for one month out of the year.” I smile a teasing smile, and he meets it.
“So,” he says after a beat of us just smiling at each other, “what card game do you want to play?” I’m shuffling the deck, and he’s watching me, watching my hands move cutting the deck, holding the cards at the ready, and letting them mix.
“I’ll be honest, we weren’t a games family.
My parents were not the biggest on spending time together when I was growing up. ”
A pang of sympathy, sharp and sudden, hits my chest. My fingers, busy shuffling the deck, still for a second.
“Oh? My parents kind of made us when I was a kid,” I muse, thinking about my own family and the loud, uncomfortable game nights we would have.
They always ended with my mother throwing down her cards and leaving in a huff.
I want to pull at the thread he left bare about his family but don’t want to pry.
I want to know him, sure, but I want to know what he’s willing to show me.
I don’t want to poke around where I don’t belong.
“Yeah, my parents just didn’t really like each other all that much.” He nods slowly, and I don’t breathe. What more will he tell me?
After a moment of quiet, I decide to gently encourage him on.
“They stayed together for you?”
He barks out a laugh, shaking his head.
“No, no,” he says, still biting back his laughter.
“More like they stayed together for their own selfish reasons.” He holds up one finger.
“My mom stayed to keep appearances up.” Then he puts up a second finger.
“And my dad was too drunk to be able to notice that they were unhappy. That we all were unhappy.”
He leans back, throwing his arms behind his head and letting himself get comfortable. His eyes close as he sinks into the couch. I wait a moment, unsure what to say. I don’t think there’s anything I can say.
“Go Fish?” I ask.
“What?” he asks, one eye popping open.
“The game? We can play Go Fish.” He smiles at me.
“Yeah, we can play that one.”
It turns out that two hockey players playing cards is not the best idea. We’re a highly competitive group of guys, and even if it’s just the two of us, Beau has almost flipped the coffee table at least three times.
“I asked you for twos three turns ago!” he seethes at me.
“I didn’t have twos then; I just drew them!” I retort. “You have to hand them over.” I lay my palm flat for him to place the cards on, which he does, begrudgingly.
“I still think you’re cheating,” he grumbles at me, holding his cards tightly in his hands while I lay down my pile of twos.
“I promise I’m not.” And I’m not, but I’m sure my promise doesn’t mean all that much to a guy I just met a week ago.
But he nods and keeps playing.
“Do you have any fives?” he asks.
“Go fish.” I smile, and he glares at me, but picks up his card. His face lights up.
“Oh, I got a five. I get to go again!” He smiles widely before his face pinches, and he sticks his tongue out at me. He would be so awful at poker. The thought makes me smile too.
He bites his lip as he decides what to ask for next, and the look is just so sexy. I watch as that full bottom lip is worried between his teeth and think about biting it myself. I must be staring at it for quite some time, because when I look up, he’s watching me.
That bitten lip turns up into a smile, and I feel myself flush, so obviously caught. But he doesn’t say anything, simply continues to play.
“Any jacks?” he asks, and I hand him three.