“Same page?” he asks softly, a slight tremor in his voice.
“Same page,” I almost whisper.
He shakes off his other glove and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me in. I drop my stick and almost trip over it as I step closer, way too eager.
But he doesn’t kiss me. He turns us around so my back is to the boards, and I grab hold of his shirt as he guides me until I’m pressed against the glass.
And then his mouth is on mine, his full weight pinning me and both hands pushing into my hair. I feel it everywhere. It takes everything in me to hold myself up.
I let go of his shirt to reach for the back of his head and pull him down to my level. His skates scrape against the ice as he struggles for balance, but he doesn’t stop kissing me. It hurts, with all the bruises on my face, but the pain is nothing compared to the total ecstasy of his mouth on me. The metal hoop in his lip clacks against my teeth, and it’s a little awkward, a little messy, and a lot frantic, but it’s easily the best kiss I’ve ever been given. And I’ve kissed a lot of people.
I don’t know if it’s the way he has me shaking, gasping, my fingers numb, or if it’s just because it’s Jaysen Caulfield.
His hands slide down to my hips, slip under my shirt, send chills through my core as they brush against my bare skin. I sigh into his mouth, grab fistfuls of his shirt again to hold steady.
My head is fuzzy by the time he pulls away, my breathing ragged. If it weren’t for his weight against me, I’d be melting into the ice right now.
It’s a feeling I could get used to. Before either of us catches our breath or says something stupid, I lean up and kiss him again.
* * *
OKAY, BUT PICKING up the pucks together after that is extremely awkward. My legs feel weak, like I just did a whole-ass bag skate or something, and I’m doing my best to stay turned away from Cauler. These joggers really don’t hide anything.
My mouth still feels numb and dry and my heart rate only slows back to normal when I’m in my sneakers and my skates are put away.
I should say something. It’d be weird to walk out without saying anything. Right? Like admitting defeat. Or maybe saying something would make him all smug. Even more than usual. I should act like nothing happened. Don’t change anything. Let him think I don’t care one way or another.
“Uh, Terzo?” Cauler’s holding the door open, looking back at me. “You plan on staying the night here or what?”
The collar of his hoodie is stretched out from where I was pulling on it. It’s obvious what he was just up to. I feel myself blushing just looking at him and tuck my chin to my chest to hide it as I follow him out.
We walk close enough that our arms touch. When he’s sure no one’s looking, he even slips his hand along the small of my back, sending chills through me.
I’ve got a thread of messages from Dorian demanding I come to the hockey house.
Dorian: Terzooooooooo
Where are you?
Hockey house now
You missed team dinner
Which means.
My room.
Is empty.
My heart’s straight-up pounding as we get closer to my building. He has to walk past mine to get to his. My window of opportunity is closing.
How do you invite a boy back to your dorm room? Last time I hooked up with a guy, it was my senior year lab partner, and we were studying in his room while his parents were outside, so I didn’t have to do any of this awkward, I don’t know, propositioning?
We walk past the front entrance of my building. My room is toward the back, so it’s not totally obvious that I’m stalling. I duck my head farther into my hood when we pass by a group of drunk people singing the alma mater in the parking lot.
As soon as they’re behind us, I suck it up.
“Do you—” I say at the same time Cauler says, “Are you going—”
We stop outside the last door to my building and face each other. I look up at him and wait for him to finish what he was saying. He licks his lips, glances around the parking lot. Puts his hands in his pockets and hikes his shoulders up.
I can feel his nerves.
He doesn’t look at me when he finally says, “Were you gonna go to the hockey house?”
“Nah,” I say. “We missed dinner.”
He swallows. “Ah.”
I shift from foot to foot. “Were you?”
“I don’t think so.”
The air between us feels dangerously charged. Or maybe that’s the anxiety. It’s freezing, but my hands sweat in my jacket pockets and my face feels hot.