4. Connor #2
It’ll be a good opportunity to desensitize myself around Elliot’s new hotness. Or is it new?
I try to act natural around him, but every ‘natural’ thing I might have done with him before feels inappropriate. Like ruffle his hair or rest my hand on the back of his chair.
I settle for making conversation about what music and movies he’s into these days. Scout is her usual self, butting in every five seconds to insult me. It should help make things normal again, but for some reason, her interruptions get on my nerves.
“Before you ask, no he hasn’t heard the new ‘banging house album.’”
“Neither have I. And what’s wrong with house music?”
She snorts and shakes her head.
“Are you still doing those Russian language lessons?” I ask Elliot.
He blushes. “No.”
“What was that for, again?”
“My Dostoyevsky dissertation. I don’t think I’ll get much chance to use it unless I join the U.N. or something, so I dropped it in favor or French.”
“You’re not writing a dissertation yet, though, right?”
“No, but the sooner I start doing research, the better it’ll be.”
“He’s already alphabetizing his footnotes,” Scout cuts in.
Elliot’s blush deepens. I want to tell her to back off him, but it stopped being okay for me to tell my sister to shut up a long time ago.
“That’s cool,” I say. “I wish I could be that organized.”
“You don’t need to alphabetize footnotes, you’re a dude-bro athlete. You get a pass automatically, right?” Scout looks up from her food with a goading smile.
I work hard to keep my face neutral. Scout doesn’t know that I was put on academic probation. Even my parents think leaving Harvard was about being frustrated with my hockey coach and needing a break. No need to let them know how much of a loser I really am.
“No, actually.” I manage to keep a fake smile on my face. “ I had to do my assignments and I definitely didn’t always pass.”
“Sure,” she says.
I leave the house, shaking the image of Elliot without his glasses on—blushing—out of my head.
At least at Chase’s house I can drink. And it’s not like any of those guys made it to the NHL, either. Most of them quit hockey when they realized there are easier ways to impress girls.
I head straight for the kitchen, pour myself a beer from the keg and try to relax.
For a while, I’m able to put everything out of my mind.
No one asks about hockey. A couple of cute girls flirt with me and one of them gives me her number. While there’s no spark with any of these girls, it still feels nice to flirt and forget my problems for one night.
After drinking three or four beers way too fast, I find a bathroom and splash my face with some water. The bass from Chase’s stereo pumps through the door and I can hear people talking, waiting in line to get in here after me.
I bump into a guy I vaguely recognize out in the hallway. He has his arm around a girl who looks way more sober than he is.
“Connor Ryan,” he says, slapping me on the back. “How’s it going, man? You playing in the NHL yet or what?”
My heart sinks. The girl he’s with notices my face drop and looks awkward, but this guy’s way too wasted to notice subtle changes in someone’s demeanor.
“No, actually, I’m not doing that anymore.”
He frowns. “You didn’t get signed by Colorado? ”
“No, but?—”
“You’re still playing at Harvard?”
“No, actually, I’m not?—”
“Oh, shit man, I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I totally thought you’d be in the NHL by now.”
The girl does everything she can to discreetly shut him the fuck up, but it only makes it worse. He starts looking at her like, ‘What did I say?’
“It was good to see you,” I lie. “I’d better get back.”
I hear him calling something as I walk away, but I don’t listen. My whole body is on fire.
My friends are standing around in the kitchen, laughing and drinking beers. It’s like a rock has been dropped into the pit of my stomach. What the fuck am I doing? Did we peak in high school? Is this some sort of sad, circle jerk of people pretending they’re still someone?
I never thought I’d feel like a loser at a party full of people I know.
I thought I’d be playing in the NHL by now.
Thought I’d be able to come back home and tell everyone how awesome it is and talk about all the people I’ve met and subtly brag about sharing the ice with Sidney Crosby.
But that didn’t happen. And now instead, I have to stand there and explain myself to dicks like that guy whose name I don’t even remember.
Bypassing the kitchen, I grab my jacket and head out the side door to call an Uber.
I feel slightly better by the time the car pulls up outside the house, but that conversation back at the party still prickles at the back of my skull.
At least the lights are off in the house. I should be able to sneak in, grab something to eat so I’m not too hungover tomorrow, and go to bed. Forget this night ever happened.
I kick my shoes off and head into the kitchen. I’m not paying much attention to my surroundings until I reach the doorway leading into the kitchen and see a light on.
Elliot’s standing with his back turned with the fridge open, looking for something. His body—dressed in a loose t-shirt and pajama bottoms—is highlighted in the glow from the fridge.
Elliot’s always been on the skinny side, but he’s filled out a little since the last time I saw him. His arms are more muscular and there’s a shape to him that’s distinctly masculine. I only realize how dry my mouth is when I try to lick my lips and my tongue drags.
When Elliot turns around, he gasps at the sight of me standing there like a weirdo and drops a huge carton of OJ all over the floor.
“Shit.” I spring into action, rushing to help him clean it up. I don’t grab anything to soak up the juice, though, so I just get in the way as he snatches up the carton, close enough to smell the coconutty scent of his shampoo.
We both get up at the same time to get paper towels and bump heads.
“Ouch.”
Judging by the way he’s rubbing his temple, I’m guessing my head’s a lot harder—and more used to knocks—than his.
“Sorry,” I say, resisting the urge to touch his forehead to check I didn’t hit him hard enough for it to bruise.
“It’s okay.” He looks up at me through that mop of dark hair, causing heat to pool in my stomach.
I snap myself out of it, grab the roll of kitchen towel and hand it to him before pulling off a few of my own sheets and getting to work.
“Sorry, Eli. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s fine. I just didn’t hear you come in.” Translation—I didn’t expect you to be standing there, watching me like a fucking creep.
“I just wanted to get something to eat and then I saw you and….” What? You saw him and what? Froze? Stared in awe? “Didn’t wanna get in the way.”
“It’s your house.” He shrugs.
Shit. The last thing I want is to make him feel unwelcome in this house.
“Come on, Eli. We both know it’s as much your house as it is mine.”
He keeps his eyes carefully trained on the spill he’s cleaning up.
I try not to watch him, but I’m tipsy enough to have less self-control than usual.
His skin has this dewy look and his hair is so thick, I just want to plunge my hands into it and let them get lost. He has a really pretty nose and gorgeous, dark eyes with thick lashes. And his lips … forget hot. How the fuck did I never notice how fucking beautiful Elliot is?
He looks up and my reflexes aren’t fast enough right now to look away.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“No, um … nothing.” I get up, off-balance in more ways than one. “I should go to bed.”
I get out of there as fast as I can. Not letting myself look back.