Page 39 of Line Change

Sindre looks from Nara to me. I skate toward the bucket and start gathering pucks.

“Traitor,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah. Get off the ice.”

I don’t tell him I rushed every part of my own recovery and got lucky.

Sindre leaves with Nara while I carry the bucket toward the gate. Most of the locker room has cleared by the time I make it back. Pope is standing near his stall in dark sweats and a T-shirt, rubbing a towel over his wet hair.

He lowers it when he sees me. “Haugen looked good.”

“Haugen tried to turn his rehab skate into a bag skate.” I set the bucket beside the bench.

Pope hooks the towel around his neck. “You stop him?”

“Nara stopped him. I provided emotional support.”

Pope almost smiles. “You’re good at that?”

“Ask Bobby.”

His shoulders tighten. Shit. “Okay, that was shitty.”

Pope drops the towel onto the bench. He looks surprised. “A little.”

“Don’t get used to me admitting that.”

“Wasn’t planning to.” He watches me for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”

His wet hair is sticking up in several directions, and his shirt is clinging to his chest. I remember him staring at my mouth on the porch and wish he’d taken me up on the offer. Oh well. You live and you learn.

Pope picks up his bag. “See you tomorrow.”

“Try not to enjoy playing without me too much.”

“I’ll do my best.” He says it dryly and leaves.

At home, I put on a record and try not to think about the team playing without me. The group chat fills with arguments over where to get dinner tomorrow before the game. Pope doesn’t say anything.

I mute the chat and make it through half of one side before I pick up my phone again. Pope’s contact is already open from the last time I looked at it. I type two words.

Still curious?

I send it before I can talk myself out of it.

The message sits there on my screen. I should unsend it or throw my phone off the porch and into the Sound, even though there’s no chance in hell I could throw that far.

Three gray dots appear beneath my text, and I stare at the screen.

13

BEN

Fraser’s text doesn’t make sense until my cock gets hard.

Still curious?

I stare at the two words. For a second, I’m back in his locker room after practice, looking at his wet hair and wondering why he isn’t being an asshole. Then I remember the balcony. The joint passing between us. His mouth close enough to kiss while he asked whether I wanted him to offer himself up.