“What are you doing?”
I glance from the mirror I was using to knot my tie over to where Oakley is standing in my doorway dressed in…jeans.
Well, God fucking damnit.
“Changing, clearly,” I mutter, stripping the tie from around my neck and grabbing a pair of jeans and a thermal from my closet. The only thing worse than being underdressed for an occasion is being overdressed.
“Dress clothes just to go to dinner?” Oakley muses, stepping into my room and closing the door behind him.
“Did you forget the world I come from?” I arch a brow at him over my shoulder as I unbutton my shirt and return it to its hanger. “A suit and tie for dinner was my life growing up.”
His nose wrinkles up in the way I love. “Sounds fucking terrible.”
It wasn’t so bad. Not the clothes part, anyway. Sometimes it’s nice to dress to the nines. It was the company I could’ve done without.
“How’d you get in here anyway?” I ask, changing the subject as I strip back to my boxer briefs. I can feel Oakley’s penetrating stare on every inch of visible skin, causing goosebumps to break out across my entire body.
“Hayes,” is all he says, and when I look up, I find him crossing the room and taking a seat on my bed. There’s a pensive look on his face before he adds, “He didn’t look very surprised to see me, actually.”
This right here is a moment I’ve been dreading—and it has nothing to do with the anxiety of meeting his family for dinner.
“Probably because…he knows.”
Oakley’s reaction isn’t what I expected. I was almost certain he’d be pissed and call the whole thing off. Which is exactly the last thing in the world I want, hence my delay in telling him.
But he’s not pissed. In fact, he smiles a little and shakes his head. “He figured it out, didn’t he?”
I nod, slipping into a pair of dark wash jeans. “I never mentioned anything to him obviously, but he’s seen you here a lot lately. I guess he put two and two together somehow. Said if we’re going to keep fucking like wild animals at all hours of the night, we need to take the party to your place sometimes.”
I leave out the part where Hayes definitely caught us kissing a few weeks ago, which was confirmed when he mentioned knowing about Oakley and I sleeping together. And the only reason he hadn’t said anything was because he wanted me to say something about it to him first.
But then we kept him from getting decent sleep one too many times, and he couldn’t keep quiet any longer.
A sharp, disbelieving laugh comes from Oak. “Damn.”
I shove my arms in a new shirt and yank it over my head. “You don’t care if he knows?”
If I’m being honest with myself, I’m glad someone knows. Makes it a little more real. But I know how Oakley feels about this being kept private, just between us.
Which is why the shake of his head catches me by surprise.
“We were kidding ourselves by thinking absolutely no one would find out. And if you trust him to keep it to himself, then it’s fine by me.” He pauses, fucking with the snapback resting backward on his head. “It’s better than all my roommates finding out, you know?”
Yeah, I’m sure Braxton in particular would be thrilled to know his bestie is boning me seven ways to Sunday.
My fingers twitch as I fix my hair in the mirror again, a slight irritation rushing through me. Of course I’d have to change what I was wearing and ruin it when I’d just gotten it to lay just how I like it.
Come on.
“Are you nervous?” Oakley asks, pulling my focus to him instead.
He must be noting my actions as a nervous tick. And he’d be right. Because, yeah, I’m nervous. Really fucking nervous, and not just because Oakley’s dad was an all-star forward in the NHL for years. It’s because they’re his family, and I’m realizing their first impression means a lot to me. A lot more than it probably should, all things considered.
My lack of answer must give me away if the way Oakley’s gaze softens is any indication.
Rising from his place on the bed, he closes the distance between us. His hand smooths the errant strand of hair I was fucking with before moving to cup the back of my neck. “It’s just dinner, Quinn. Don’t worry.”
I swallow and plaster on a smile. “I’m not nervous.”
His brows furrow, and he releases the hold he had on the back of my neck. “Cut the shit right now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This,” he says, lifting his hand and brushing his thumb over my lips. “The fake, plastic smile you use when you’re pissed or uncomfortable or lying.”
My mouth drops slightly, floored he’s picked up on something…I didn’t even realize I did.
His lips form a tight line and he pulls his phone from his back pocket. “We’re gonna cancel and order in pizza instead.”
Pizza and the night with Oakley in my room sounds fucking heavenly, actually, but cancelling last minute on people rarely leaves a good first impression. The very thing I desperately want.
“Absolutely not.” I grab his phone before he can finish whatever text he was typing, pocketing it in my jeans. “We’re going tonight, come hell or high water.”
Oakley’s lips quirk in an amused smirk. “Okay, well then you need to just relax. They’re just people; my dad included.”
“You say that, but…”
“But nothing, Quinn. They’re gonna love you.” He wraps his fingers around my wrist and tugs me into him before placing a kiss on my temple. “Now, c’mon. We’re already running late.”
My jaw locks with another round of nerves.
Fantastic.
Dinner isn’t at a restaurant like I thought it would be. It’s at his parent’s house.
Oakley’s childhood home, which happens to be the exact opposite of mine. It’s a nice, large home out in the suburbs, about forty-five minutes from campus. It’s basically the American dream home, complete with a two-car garage, big backyard for barbecues, and a covered front porch with rocking chairs on it.
Fucking rocking chairs.
They’ve got the two kids, and when I pointed out the only thing they were missing was a dog, Oakley corrected me, saying they had a dog at one point, but it turned out his brother is severely allergic, so they couldn’t keep it.
“Oh no, an imperfection in your perfect little life,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. Which only made Oakley laugh more.
And to make matters more domesticated, some fancy caterer or a housekeeper didn’t make dinner for the five of us. Oakley’s mom did it herself.
“I feel like I’ve been shot into an alternate reality,” I murmur to Oakley as we sit down at the kitchen table beside one another. My gaze connects with his. “Am I in The Matrix right now or something?”
His lips twitch in a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say but I’m yours, except…I’m not actually his. Not really, anyway. Not in the way this whole coming home for dinner and meeting the parents thing makes it seem.
Or the way he places his hand on my thigh beneath the table makes it feel.
Which he promptly removes the second his parents enter the dining room.
Having never been the type of guy to go home and meet anyone’s family—save for Hayes’s, because he’s my best friend—I expect this entire thing to go poorly. Very poorly. To the point where I assume I’ll never be able to speak to Oakley again afterward.
Which is why I’m pleasantly surprised the three of them make me feel like I’ve belonged at this table my whole life.
Oakley’s mom, Janet, asks me about school and where I grew up, and the weirdest part is, the questions don’t seem hollow. Like the small talk you’re supposed to make with dinner guests, knowing full well you won’t remember a thing they said once they leave. She genuinely wants to know more about who I am, where I came from, and where I hope to go next. Things…I don’t even think my own mother knows about me.
Even Logan engages in some of the conversation, chatting with me about anime, my motorcycle, and some other things us black sheep have in common. And Oakley’s right, we get along pretty well.
And then there’s Oakley’s dad.
He’s got the same penetrating stare both Oakley and Coach have, but with him, it’s almost magnified. Like he can see right through my skull, finding each and every mistake or terrible thought I’ve ever had, only to flip through them like a goddamn magazine.
It’s unnerving.
Which is why my stomach rolls when Janet leaves for the kitchen to put away the leftovers, leaving the four of us at the kitchen table to chat about hockey. And seeing as it’s Logan’s least favorite topic, he goes silent and pulls out his phone, leaving Oakley, his father, and I to talk about the one thing in the world he can’t stand.
“The two of you are working together well on the ice this season. Considering the history you two carry, I was surprised when Travis mentioned putting you together on one line.”
Wow, it’s weird hearing someone call Coach by his real name.
“Yeah, we were pretty skeptical about it too,” I say, glancing over at Oakley.
He gives me a small, private smirk. “Understatement of the year.”
Trevor lets out a laugh. “That coach of yours must see something the rest of us didn’t, because it’s probably the best thing he could’ve done for the team. I mean, the two of you are unstoppable as a pair.”
“I have to agree,” I tell him, nodding. “I don’t think we would’ve made it this far if it weren’t for Oakley and I learning to, uh…work through our issues and get along. Both on and off the ice.”
Oakley’s hand squeezes my thigh beneath the table, making the little tilt of my lips grow into a grin that’s impossible to hide.
“So I’ve realized,” his dad says, eyes floating between us. “Not saying you’re a bad kid by any means, I just never thought I’d see the two of you being civil, let alone Oakley bringing you home for dinner randomly.”
“Believe me, sir, it’s the last thing I thought would happen too.”
“Guess Oakley finally listened to me, deciding to chase after another player at his level to help make him better.”
My brows furrow, “I’m not sure I’m following. Oakley’s level is so far above mine—”
“There’s no need to be modest here, Quinton. Your stats this season are fantastic. Neck and neck with Oakley’s, actually. Sure, your minutes in the penalty box could be lower,” he says, giving me a knowing grin, “but overall, you’re a tight, solid player. Any team in the league would be lucky to add you to their roster next year.”
I gape at him, because…this is coming from a ten-time all-star who played in the NHL for twelve years. And he’s sitting here telling me I have what it takes to wind up in the league too.
Granted, I’ve heard the same thing from Oakley and Coach too, along with plenty of other highly respected people in the community. But this is fucking Trevor Reed we’re talking about.
“I, uh…thank you,” I tell him, not sure what else to say.
“Don’t thank me, you’re the one who did all the hard work. It’s difficult to hold onto an average of just under two points per game, but somehow, you are. Then there’s the number of goals you’ve scored in general, not to mention the number of assists you’ve given both Oakley and Rossi this season…” He pauses, shaking his head. “Numbers don’t lie, and if you continue putting these up for the rest of the season, you’ve got a great shot of going high in the draft this year. If you’re planning to enter, of course.”
I clear my throat and nod. “I do, yeah. So any tips would be…appreciated.”
He leans back in his chair. “Do you have an agent lined up?”
“I don’t,” I say slowly, and I immediately know it’s the wrong answer. Coach had mentioned something recently about a few agents being interested in speaking to me, but nothing ever came of it. And from the way Trevor is looking at me, it might be time to take the future into my own hands instead of waiting for it to come to me.
Especially if entering the draft cuts the cord between me and my parents for good.
“Well, it’s still very impressive, I’ve got to say.” His focus shifts from me to Oakley and back again. “I can see why Oakley thinks you’d be a good—”
A loud bang comes from beneath the table, the wooden surface shaking with impact, and Logan turns to glare at his brother.
“That was me you just kicked, jackass,” he snarls.
“Logan,” their mother warns from the kitchen.
“Sorry, Loge,” Oakley murmurs absently. Only he’s not looking at his brother when he says it. Instead, he’s in a stare down with his father at the other end of the table.
My eyes ping-pong between the two of them, doing my best to decipher what the hell is being spoken silently in their stares. I think I catch a subtle shake of the head on Oakley’s part before he breaks eye contact with his father, looking at me instead.
“We should probably get going soon,” he murmurs before glancing out the bay window of the dining room. “It looks like it’s started snowing, so I’d like to get back to campus before the roads are shit.”
“Language, Oakley,” his mother chides, poking her head in from the other room.
He winces beside me at her glare. “Sorry, Mom.”
“You’d better be,” she says, popping back in the kitchen. She returns a few moments later with two Tupperware containers of leftovers, handing one to each of us. “These are for the two of you. Pop them in the microwave for a couple minutes and it’ll be ready to go.” She pauses and looks at me, a hint of a sparkle in her brown eyes that reminds me an awful lot of Oakley’s. “I personally think it tastes even better reheated.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Oakley says before pulling her into a hug.
She wraps her arms around his shoulders and squeezes. “Of course, sweetie. We’ll see you after the game this weekend.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
The sight of their embrace forms a knot in my throat, and suddenly, I feel like an interloper on a private moment between them. But the feeling doesn’t last long, because when Oakley’s mom is done with him, she turns and hauls me in for an embrace of my own.
One making me feel more at home than I’ve ever felt before.
After she releases me, I give Oakley’s father a handshake goodbye and wave to Logan, the normal Midwestern pleasantries exchanged before we leave. Meanwhile, Oakley pulls his dad in for a quick hug before going over to his brother and bopping him on the head like he’s Little Bunny Foo Foo.
The entire thing is so foreign—the whole night has been, actually. But it’s also something I could see myself getting used to very easily.
“That was…” I trail off, shaking my head in awe as we walk down the snow-covered sidewalk to where Oakley’s car is parked on the road.
I don’t have words to describe it. I just know I want more of it.
Of feeling like I belong somewhere.
“Was it okay?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for Dad putting you on the spot like that, but I promise he meant well and—”
I cut him off with a bruising kiss, because there’s nothing else to say here. Nothing else to think or do other than kiss him more. Pin him against the door of his car and kiss him harder. Deeper. With as much passion and gratitude as humanly possible.
Leave him breathless, the same way he does me.
Constantly, and at every turn.
