Right Man, Right Time

“I think something is wrong with me,” I say to Ross as I sit next to him in the lecture hall. For such a small class size, we sure do have a large classroom.

“What’s it this time?” Ross asks as he brings his coffee to his lips.

Classes started this week. I thought it would be helpful and keep me distracted from this unsettling feeling I have pumping through me, but it’s done nothing other than frustrate me.

I haven’t really spent time with Silas since the zoo and the almost car kiss. We’ve seen each other in passing as I’ve used his gym, but he’s been busy with practice and sponsorship meetings with his agent and apparently shooting some commercials as well. I’ve been keeping up with my internship and getting ready for the new school year.

I turn to Ross. “I’m really horny.”

He nearly spits out his coffee. “Jesus, Ollie. Warn a guy.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, seeing that we’re drawing attention from around us. “But it’s true.”

“Don’t you have a fake boyfriend to take care of those needs?”

“No,” I say. “And please use your whispering voice. You never know who might be listening.”

“What do you mean, no? I thought you and Silas were getting along nicely.”

“We are. He texts occasionally to see how things are going and asks if I need his help. I tell him everything is fine, but that’s it. There’s nothing sexual about our interactions.” Nothing sexual that goes all the way, at least. It’s almost as if we’ve been edging each other, and that’s more frustrating than anything.

“Do you want it to be sexual?”

“If you were in my situation, would you want it to be sexual?”

Ross takes a sip of his coffee and stares at the classroom in front of us. “I would let that man do anything he wants to me.”

“Exactly. He’s so hot, Ross, it’s breaking my will.”

“If you like him, then just fuck him.”

“I can’t,” I say. “That’s the problem. Our situation is great right now. Plus, I know he says he doesn’t, but I think he still has a thing for his ex, and I don’t want to be caught in the middle of that. He won’t even talk about what happened between them. The last thing I should be doing is fucking his brains out.”

“And you would, wouldn’t you?” Ross asks with a smirk.

I lean in a little closer and whisper, “I want to suck his cock so hard. I had a dream about it the other night. And I’ve been itchy ever since.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

“No, but I got an email from Roberts yesterday asking how my hockey assignment is coming along. And I’m going to tell you right now. I have nothing. Absolutely nothing. I thought I had an angle for a second, but nope. I can’t think of one single thing to write, and what Roberts wants me to write about is out of the question.”

“What does he want you to write about?”

“He wants me to try to expose the Agitators owner. I know nothing about him. I haven’t even met him, and it’s going to look awfully suspicious if I ask Silas a bunch of questions about some old man who pays his salary.”

“Yeah, that won’t come off right.”

“So basically, I have nothing to write, I’m going to fail out of school, and I’ll have to live with my parents and eat my words.”

“Yeah, that does seem plausible.”

“Ross,” I say while pushing him.

He chuckles. “I think you should meet up with Silas and talk to him about it. Maybe he’ll have some ideas. And also, you can stare at him while he talks and think about all the ways you would love to suck his—”

“Good morning,” our professor says while setting his bag on the teacher’s desk.

“Good morning,” we say collectively.

Ross elbows me. “Text him. See if he’s busy.”

He’s right. Silas might be able to help me with some ideas. And yeah, maybe I miss seeing him a little bit. I always have fun with him, so it might not kill us to get together and have a moment to catch up.

I open my computer and shoot him a text.

Ollie: What are you up to tonight? Free?

As I take notes, listening to our professor, Silas texts me back.

Silas: Yup. Need something?

Ollie: Can I come over? I want to talk hockey.

Silas: Talk hockey? Am I going to need some alcohol for this?

Ollie: Probably.

Silas: I’ll stop by the store. What time tonight?

Ollie: See you around seven?

Silas: That works. Want me to pick you up?

Ollie: That’s okay. Thanks, though.

Silas: Let me know if you change your mind. See you tonight.

Whispering to Ross, I say, “I’m going to his place tonight. Going to talk all the hockey.”

“Hopefully, that’s not the only thing you do.”

Hopefully, it is because I don’t think I could handle anything else.

WHY AM I NERVOUS?

Jesus, Ollie, get it together.

You’ve hung out with this man many times.

Yet this feels different.

Why does it feel different?

Maybe because the last time I was with him, something changed inside me. The way he spoke to me the night of the family skate night. How he apologized without blinking an eye. How he took full responsibility. And how he didn’t want to leave me that night.

And then he followed it up with breakfast in bed . . .

I don’t know. I’ve never been treated like that before and found myself loosening up around him. Like in the sauna, where I didn’t mind that he saw my ass. That I was thrilled to show it to him, and even more thrilled to think about the possibility of him getting hard over it. And then his genuine kindness toward me on the anniversary of Grandma’s passing. The almost kiss.

It’s all flipped a switch inside me. I want him. The man so far out of my league . . . my business partner. Of sorts.

What is wrong with me?

Now I’m just teasing him and myself.

Because I know I’m not going to let anything happen between us. Like I told Ross, Silas has some demons to deal with, and I don’t want to be caught in the middle of them. So instead, I’m apparently just going to flaunt myself, driving us both crazy because I’m so fucking horny it hurts.

Hence the nerves.

I’m nervous that I’ll say or do something stupid, like I don’t know, accidentally trip and fall head first into his lap. Or say something like . . . can I suck your cock as an appetizer?

Urgh, I bet he has the most delicious penis ever. Thick, but not too thick, veiny . . . pierced. If he’s not pierced, I would be so freaking shocked.

The elevator dings, and I step off and head to his door. I’m glad his apartment isn’t one of those places where the elevator opens up into the actual apartment. I like knowing there’s a barrier.

I walk up to his door, and even though I have a key, I knock. As I wait, I glance down at my outfit. I chose a pair of black leggings, thick poofy socks to wear over them, and his sweatshirt because it’s chilly out today, and it’s really comfortable.

The door unlocks and opens, and when his eyes meet mine, I feel a sense of belonging. It’s odd. Like this man completely understands me despite him not knowing everything.

His dreamy eyes scan my outfit before locking gazes with me.

“Nice sweatshirt.”

“Thanks.” I smirk. “Someone left it in my dorm, and as I like to say, finders keepers.”

“It’s quite big on you.”

“The way I like it.” Gripping the straps of my little backpack, I say, “Are you going to let me in?”

“Sure,” he says as he takes a step away from the door, and that’s when I notice he’s wearing black joggers with no socks and a heather slate-gray shirt that clings to every contour of his body. It’s a simple outfit, yet for some reason, he still looks incredibly hot, especially with his hair still wet from a recent shower, showing off his eyes.

“What is that heavenly smell?” I ask as I take my shoes off.

“Got some lasagna and garlic bread from one of my favorite places.” He shuts the door, and as he walks by, he leans in and says, “And I got some for you, too.”

“Why are you so nice to me?” I ask in a joking manner, but he just shrugs and leads me to the kitchen.

“Help yourself,” he says as he pulls the food out of the oven where he’s kept it warm.

We each serve ourselves a plate and then we sit at the dining room table—which is nice because I’m usually eating on my bed or at my desk. I like my place, but sometimes a table is a nice change.

I dig my fork into the lasagna, but before I take a big bite, I say, “Thank you for this. I’m starving. All I had was a protein bar today and an iced latte.”

He glances up from his plate with a stern look on his face. “Why? That’s not enough, Ollie.”

“I was really busy. Classes and then I put in a few hours at my internship, then came here.”

“No excuse. You need to eat more than that.”

“You worried about me, Taters?”

“I am. Can’t have you fainting at events.”

“Do you have any events coming up?”

“I have a sponsorship party on Friday, but I don’t think it’s something you have to go to. I’m sure you’d rather go out.”

“But do you need me there?” I ask.

“I don’t need you there since Pacey and Holmes will be there. I can just hang with Holmes since he won’t be bringing anyone.”

I pause, slightly confused. “Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong?” Insecurity laces up my spine as I think about our last interaction and how I taunted him with my vibrator. Did I . . . did I scare him off? We haven’t hung out since then. And he’s checked in a few times, but if I truly think about it, he’s pulled away a touch.

“What?” he asks and shakes his head. “No, you’re good.”

“Okay, well . . . I’d like to go to the event if you want to take me. I feel like you do a lot for me, and I need to be able to be there for you in return. If you’re worried I’ll embarrass you, I can—”

“I’m not worried about that.” He picks up a piece of garlic bread and takes a bite.

I pause for a moment to study him. “I feel like you’re acting weird. Like I did something, and you’re not telling me.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Oliana.” The way he says my real name in such a serious tone penetrates right to my heart.

“Okay.” I pierce a saucy noodle. “Well, I’m free.”

“It’s really okay,” he says. “You’ll be bored.”

And there it is again, him brushing me off. I don’t understand. Then again, he never likes to be vulnerable, and I fear if I keep pushing him, he won’t want to open up at all, so instead, I decide to change tactics. I’ll take care of the Friday event myself.

“Do you know what was boring? My class today on data journalism. I nearly passed out in my own lap.”

He scoops up a pile of lasagna. “What is data journalism?”

“Just what it sounds like, learning how to properly use data to write accurate articles.”

“You need a class for that?”

“You would be surprised,” I say. “What did you major in?”

“Kinesiology.”

“Did you plan on doing anything with that?”

“Not really,” he answers while picking up his glass of water. “The goal was to play hockey professionally. I didn’t have a backup plan, didn’t want one. I studied kinesiology to educate myself on my body and understand how to take care of it so I could reach my goals.”

“That’s actually really smart,” I say while taking a bite of my garlic bread. “Do you think it’s helped?”

He nods. “Very much. I understand what parts of the body I need to focus on to stay healthy. I understand the recovery process, and I honestly believe it’s one of the main reasons I haven’t suffered any major injuries.”

“That’s impressive, actually. How much longer do you think you’ll play?”

“Not sure,” he says. “I still feel really strong. I can keep up with the younger guys, and my legs don’t die out toward the end because I continue to train through the season. It’s something I take great pride in.”

“I can tell. Do you ever give your body a break?”

“During the summer. That’s why I was so sore the night of the family skate event. I go at it hard during the preseason, and my muscles have to get used to the demand again. And with every new year, it seems to get a touch harder.”

“How are you feeling now?” I ask.

“Better. I’ve been able to do some great recovery and focus on what I need to focus on. Lots of ice baths and walks on the treadmill to flush all that lactic acid buildup.”

“Are the other guys as smart as you?”

“Not the young ones. They’ll learn quickly, though.” He points his fork at me. “What about you? Are you feeling sore with your new workout space?”

“I was a little sore in my inner thighs the other day, but for the most part, I feel pretty good. I used your sauna again. I hope that’s okay.”

“What’s mine is yours.”

“Which seems incredibly unfair.”

“It’s not,” he says. “We’re friends, right, Ollie?”

I tilt my head, studying him. He might not like to show his vulnerable side, but here, at this moment, I can see it. His question, sort of wondering where we stand. Maybe that’s why he’s been so distant lately. Maybe he doesn’t know, especially after we shared the almost kiss. So to reassure him, I say, “Yes. We’re friends.”

“Good,” he answers. “That means we don’t owe each other anything. You ask, it’s yours.”

“Okay, then the same would go for me. I don’t have much to offer, but if you ask, it’s yours.”

“You have more to offer than you think,” he says when he glances up at me, causing the back of my neck to break out in a cool sweat.

“Oh yeah, like what?” I ask playfully.

“You’re cool,” he says, surprising me. “I love hanging out with my guys, but sometimes it’s nice to see a different face, and you’re fun to hang out with.”

I press my hand to my chest. “Silas Taters, I can’t believe you’re offering me such a compliment. Coming from the man who nearly had a coronary when I talked about him perverting over donkeys.”

“For fuck’s sake, I thought we dropped that.”

I press my finger to the table. “Donkey pervert is the foundation of this friendship. It will never go away.”

“I thought the foundation is you randomly kissing me in a bar.”

I roll my eyes at that. “That truth is for you, me, and Ross only because he witnessed the whole thing and questioned me quickly afterward. But everyone else knows us as the people who bonded over a donkey while your fly was down. That’s something we need to hang on to.”

“Lucky me.”

“You’re right . . . lucky you.”

SILAS DRAPES his arm over the back of the couch as he casually faces me. The rest of the dinner was easygoing. We joked around. He smirked. I laughed. And it felt like things were getting back to normal, which I appreciated greatly.

Now that we retreated to the couch, I feel more relaxed and not so stiff. He seems the same as well.

“What do you do for fun, Silas?”

“Not much,” he answers. “Don’t have much fun during the season. I’m either working out, playing hockey, eating, or sleeping.”

“Riveting,” I respond. “What about when it’s the off-season? You said you go up to your cabin, right?”

“Yeah, just hang out with the boys. Play games, drink beer, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“So you don’t have any hobbies?”

“Too busy to have hobbies,” he answers.

“That seems boring. You’ve got to like doing something besides things that coincide with hockey.”

“Haven’t had a chance to explore. I came right out of high school with a girlfriend and a dream. I was going to play professionally, so when I wasn’t training or playing, I focused on Sarah. All my time was taken up with no room to spare.”

“I guess that makes sense. Well, is there something you wish you could do? A hobby you wish you could spend more time doing?”

He gives it some thought. “I’d like to cook more. Right now, I have a personal chef who makes my meals and leaves them in my fridge. He comes with me when we go to Banff, and I enjoy watching him work. If I had the energy, I’d ask him to teach me.”

“Maybe you should next summer. You won’t have hockey, so maybe have him teach you a bit.”

Silas nods. “Yeah, maybe I will.”

“See.” I nudge him with my foot. “I’m already changing your life.”

He rolls his eyes and then asks, “What about you? What are your hobbies?”

“Well, I love dancing. I do that when I want to blow off steam or just have fun. I also enjoy scrapbooking, but I haven’t done it for a bit. I have some catching up to do.”

“Scrapbooking with all those tools and shit?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No, I wish I had the room and the money for that, but right now, it’s just simple things I find that I like in magazines or pictures that I print out and write a story next to about the picture. My internship ate up a lot of my time this summer, so I’ve dropped the ball in adding clippings and pictures to my book, but I’ll catch up. I’ve stashed away everything so when I do have a moment, I can sit down and glue it all in.”

“That’s kind of cool. Do you have one for each year?”

“Yeah, pretty much. I started back in middle school. It was more of a diary at the time. My mom would purchase my magazines, and I would clip things from them that I loved or print them on the computer. Then I started using pictures with friends, and it formed more into a scrapbook than anything. They’re fun to look through because it’s like a time capsule in book form.”

“Maybe next time I’m at your place, you’ll show me.”

“Ha!” I shake my head. “No way. You’ll make fun of me for the things in those books.”

“Like what?”

“Like . . . the Timothée Chalamet phase I went through, or how whenever I see a donut in a magazine, I have this need to cut them out and paste them because I think they’re cute. And those are just two things. There’s a whole dark side to my scrapbooking of my innermost thoughts and feelings.”

“Now I really need to see these.”

I nudge him with my foot. “Never.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Did you ever write in a diary?”

“Does it look like I’m a diary kind of guy?” he asks, looking so hot with the way he raises his brow like that.

“No, but we should never discredit someone for their appearance. For all I know, you could have a secret Bratz dolls collection.”

“What the hell are Bratz dolls?”

“Never mind.” I sigh.

“Did you have these dolls?”

I wave my hand at him. “That’s neither here nor there. I think what we really need to focus on is your diary.”

“I told you, I don’t have one.”

“But if you did . . . what would you write in it?”

“As if I would tell you.”

“Come on, Silas. Share a little.”

“No.”

“Please.” I press my hands together, begging him. “I’ll be super supportive.”

He glances away. “You really want to know?”

Growing excited, I say, “Yes, of course, and I promise, I won’t laugh.”

“Fine.” He exhales sharply. “Dear Diary, Ollie is really fucking annoying. Yours truly, Silas.”

When he looks my way, he smirks. I shove my foot at him, causing him to laugh. “You’re an ass. I really thought you were going to tell me what you would write in your diary.”

“Right now, that’s exactly what I would write.”

“NAKED,” I say. “Always naked.”

“No fucking way.” He shakes his head at me.

“Yes fucking way. I love rolling in the snow, then jumping in the hot tub. The best part is when the snow gets all up in there and then melts away by the hot water. An absolute dream.”

“I don’t fucking believe you,” Silas says.

“That’s on you and your trust issues.”

“So you’re telling me, if I invited you over here for the first fallen snow, you’d go up to my rooftop, roll in the snow naked, and then hop in the hot tub?”

“Hold on.” I hold up my hand. “You have a hot tub?”

“Yes, on the roof.”

“Well, why the hell did you not tell me about this?” I ask.

“Because that’s my sanctuary. I don’t need some girl up there, naked in my hot tub.”

“Are you telling me that would be a travesty? Because you would be so lucky to see me naked in your hot tub.”

“I wouldn’t.”

I clutch at my chest. “You wound me, Silas . . . or should I say, Potato.”

“What did I say about that? Winnie is the only one who can call me that ridiculous name.”

“That’s not fair, though. I feel like I should have a nickname for you.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Well, you call me babe in front of people, so I should be able to call you something.”

“Okay, what do you want to call me that’s not Potato?”

I give it a second to think of something good, something rich and hilarious, but only one thing comes to mind for some stupid-ass reason.

“I’m going to call you fart face.”

“Over my dead body,” he roars.

“It’s a term of endearment,” I defend even though I’m chuckling.

“How is calling someone a flatulent gas cloud a term of endearment?”

“Because I wouldn’t dare call other people that. And I think it suits you. When you’re grumpy, you always look like you have a fart stuck in you. Therefore, you’re fart face.”

“Can you grow up like a few years?”

“Would you rather be called something like . . . penis breath?”

“Something is seriously wrong with you.” He shakes his head. “You can call me Silas or babe. Those are your options.”

“Ew, I wouldn’t call you babe. That feels weird to me. I like it when guys call me that, but I can’t do it in return.”

“Then Silas it is.”

“But that’s so boring,” I grumble. “How about . . .”

“Silas.”

“Ugh, fine.”

“And I swear to God, Ollie, if you slip up when we’re out together, and you just happen to call me fart face, I’m going to murder you.”

“You don’t give me enough credit. If I slipped up and called you anything, it would be donkey pervert. God, Silas, get it right.”

“SO DON’T you have questions for me?” Silas asks.

“More like . . . a conversation to have,” I say.

“What kind of conversation?”

“About hockey of course. You know, since I know nothing about it. I had some guy at work come up to me and ask if I could get your autograph. I told him to fuck off. I clearly wasn’t going to bother you with such menial things. When he left, I couldn’t stop laughing at the fact that people want your autograph.”

“Why is that funny?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe because I don’t see you as this big hockey star. I just know you as the guy I kissed in a bar who then became my fake boyfriend.”

“Well, maybe you need to see me on the ice to change that mindset.”

“Are you inviting me to a game?”

“As my pretend girlfriend, it will be a requirement to show up.” He drapes his arm over the back of the couch.

“Ew, will I have to wear one of those jumbo jerseys that looks ill-fitted on everyone?”

“Love the enthusiasm, and no.”

“Thank God for small miracles.”

He rolls his eyes. “What do you need to know? Let’s get this conversation about your favorite sport over with.”

“Well, first, I need to talk to you about something, and I don’t want you to get mad at me.”

“Why would I get mad?”

“You’ll see, but promise, okay?”

He studies me for a moment and says, “Okay.”

“So . . . when Roberts found out I was dating you, he became quite invested in our relationship. So much so that he pulled me into his office to talk.”

“Does he want free tickets or something? The man is rich. Can’t he afford them himself?”

“No, that wasn’t it. I actually found out that he has a vendetta against your owner. Apparently, Roberts was trying to buy the Agitators, and something fell through. Anyway, he hates your owner and now wants me to use my final assignment as an intern for his company as some sort of exposé to bring down the Agitators brand.”

I hold my breath as his brows draw down. “So he wants you to use me, then?”

“Yes,” I say, then quickly add, “but I’m not going to.”

He looks away and pulls on the back of his neck. I can see the visible change in his demeanor. Once relaxed in his own home, he’s now stiff and defensive. “Did you tell him no?”

I wince. “Um, not at the moment that he asked.”

“So after.”

I fidget. “Not really, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”

“That means you plan to exploit me,” Silas yells, startling me back.

“Silas, I would never do that to you. That’s why I’m here, talking to you about it.”

“So I can feel bad that you need a story and just give you permission to pass your assignment? Get the fuck out of here, Ollie.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” I say, standing up for myself. “I’m here because I wanted to talk to you about it and be honest.”

“Honest about your intentions of fucking me over?”

“What? No. Why the hell would I do that?”

“I don’t know, Ollie. Why wouldn’t you tell Roberts no?”

“Because . . .” I stumble, trying to find the right words. “I just thought at that moment that I could think of a better solution. He’s my boss, Silas. This internship, it matters to me.”

“I understand that, but you’re never going to get anywhere without integrity.”

“I told you I wasn’t going to write the article. Jesus.” I stand from the couch. “I came here hoping you could help me think of a different angle. But I guess I was wrong.” I move toward his front door and slip my shoes on. He remains seated. “You know, Silas, you can sit there and judge me all you want, but you’re not fucking perfect either.”

“I never said I was.”

“You act like it. You can’t tell me that in my position, you would have told your boss no.”

“I would have told him to fuck off.”

“Bullshit.” I laugh sardonically. “You couldn’t even tell Sarah to fuck off when you saw her at the event. No, you practically ate her with your eyes. You tell me you don’t care about her anymore, but I don’t believe it for one second. So don’t go throwing stones in glass houses. You tell me to stand up for myself, for what’s right. Well, where the fuck are you when it comes to Sarah?”

“That’s different,” he says.

“No, it’s not.”

“The fuck it is.” He stands from the couch now. “I was going to fucking propose to her. Of course there will be feelings. I can’t just shut it off.”

“Yeah, well, Roberts holds my future in his hands, and I can’t just turn off my goals and desires to make something of myself. Out of everyone, you should understand that.” I slip my backpack on and head toward the door. I glance over my shoulder one last time to see if he’s going to say something or stop me, but he doesn’t, so . . . I leave and go right to the elevator, where I press the down button.

My lips tremble, and my throat tightens as I hold back my tears. I will not cry.

Not over something as stupid as this.

Silas was being an ass, and that’s on him. I was coming here to find a solution, and he wouldn’t even listen.

That’s no reason to cry or get emotional.

It just means . . . I don’t need him.