Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Brady shook his head. “Rafe isn’t going to join your fan club any time soon, man.”
“Just hope he doesn’t murder you in your sleep,” Ty piped in. “What did you do now?”
I stretched my arms above my head, sinking into Ty and Brady’s marshmallowy sofa as I yawned. “I accidentally drank his orange juice…again.”
“Buy more.”
“Yeah, yeah. I will.”
I abruptly changed the subject to the cinnamon rolls Brady’s mom had sent and put in my two cents about Ty dealing with his own drama. The guy was head over heels for Walker, the redheaded influencer he’d been passing off as “just a friend.” Everyone knew Ty was bi, so who the fuck cared?
People made things way harder than they had to be, if you asked me.
I zoned out, fighting nausea and a blazing headache. I had to eat something real and ideally, find a quiet, dark room to hibernate for a few hours.
I stood and slipped my sunglasses on. “I gotta run. Tell your mom her cinnamon roll game is top notch.”
“Where you going?” Brady asked.
“To the fucking store to buy some fucking orange juice.”
“Good idea.”
“Hmph.”
I grumbled to myself all the way to Bear Market, still stewing over Rafe.
I didn’t get it. I wasn’t used to being hated outside of a rink. I was a friendly guy. I had buddies in every class, fist-bumped custodians, gave signed jerseys to my professors’ kids, remembered to ask about the waitress at Bear Depot’s niece’s dental surgery, and had checked in on Vincento Senior when he’d been down and out with a cold last month. I liked people, and they liked me.
I figured it was a good policy to be nice in general. Everyone was going through their own personal bullshit, so why pile on with bad mojo?
My philosophy was simple: happy = good. Spread positivity and love, and save the animosity and angst for the ice. Easy enough.
Except it didn’t work with Rafe.
I liked him well enough. Under his ever-present “just sucked a lemon” mug, I detected a sweet person who was driven and…okay, that was all I had.
I didn’t know much about my roommate. Rafe was a figure skater and a biology major. He didn’t party much, and he was possibly allergic to beer ’cause he wrinkled his nose whenever I brought a case home. Oh, yeah…and his bestie was super hot. Seemed like enough info to build a bridge, but somehow this food shit was killing any goodwill between us.
The crazy thing was that I didn’t technically need a roommate. I just didn’t like being alone. I had a dorm room to myself my sophomore year and it was so boring and…lonely. I didn’t always love my own company. I preferred being with teammates, but this year, the only guys who’d been available couldn’t legally buy their own beer. No thanks.
On paper, Rafe had been a decent fit. We had ice in common and that should have been enough. I was beginning to think I’d made a bad call, and I was five months too late to fix it.
All right. Pity party over. Time to fix this.
“Yo, Langley!”
“Hey, Gus.”
I waved and fist-bumped a few acquaintances outside of Bear Market, grabbed a cart, and headed for the refrigerated section. I loaded up with a couple of jugs of OJ, two gallons of milk, three cartons of eggs, and two packages of bacon. Make that four. I loved bacon. Yogurt was okay, too. Rafe liked the blueberry stuff—or was it plain? Or did he like yogurt at all? Fuck if I knew.
I tossed a few into the cart and studied the cheese selection. I needed more cheddar for tuna melts. The thick slices worked best with—
“Excuse me. Mind if I squeeze in there?”
“Oh. Sorry about that.” I pushed my cart forward and gave a friendly nod, which quickly turned into a double take.
The lanky brunet sidled so close, I could smell his woodsy aftershave and even a hint of peppermint on his breath. He wasn’t quite as tall as my six three, but he carried himself like a dancer with a straight spine and squared shoulders. Even in a plain navy track suit, he had the kind of innate presence that deserved a second glance. And that was before he met my gaze.
Whoa. The guy was hot.
Geek hot, if you know what I mean. His wavy brown hair was streaked with golden strands and was long enough to curl at his nape. His blue eyes were big and—fuck, I was staring.
Disclaimer: I was bi. My best friends knew, and most of my family did too. Actually, these days, I was pretty sure everyone knew.
I’d gone out of my way to keep my sexuality on the DL my first couple of years at Smithton, thinking it might hurt my chances of going pro. That ship had sailed a long time ago.