Page 66 of The Risk Taker

I don’t know what the hell’s in my expression, but it sure as shit isn’t subtle. Especially when I shove my helmet into my stall harder than I mean to. It’s loud enough that a few heads glance over when I yank my hoodie on and shove the rest of my gear back into my stall.

What the fuck are we even doing?

He pulled me away from a guy, told me he hated seeing his hands on me, said he wanted to fuck me, that he wanted no one but me. And now… now he’s grabbing coffee with some girl after class like it’s no big deal?

I told him I’d wait and I meant it. But I didn’t expect waiting to mean watching him pick someone else. I didn’t think patience would come with a front-row seat to him choosing a path that doesn’t involve me at all.

A tight laugh slips out before I can stop it.

My heart is hammering, and I’m trying to act like this doesn’t matter, like I’m not taking every single word and twisting it until it hurts. But the ache is already in my chest, sour and hot and growing with every second he keeps looking at me like he doesn’t get it.

“Congrats, Hayes,” I say, forcing a smirk. “Hope you get laid.”

His eyes snap to mine and narrow just a fraction. I look away and sling my bag over my shoulder. I’ll shower at home. I can’t stand here another second.

I don’t wait for a reply. Don’t want one. I’m already pushing through the locker room door and heading down the hall.

This is exactly why every queer guy I know told me to never,everfuck around with a straight boy. Because it always comes to this. Them dipping their toes in the water with you, touching you like you’re the first sip of something they didn’t knowthey wanted, then turning right around and choosing the safe, straight option that was waiting for them all along.

I’m almost at the exit when fingers wrap around my wrist, halting me.

I glance back and see Nathan standing there, his hockey pants still clinging to his legs and some sneakers he must’ve slipped on fast. His chest rises like he just ran out here and it makes me pause. His lashes look darker when they’re wet, the pink flush high on his cheeks from practice. He looks good. Too good.

Fuck. Snap out of it.

“What do you want, Hayes?” I ask, tired as hell.

“It’s not a date,” he repeats, holding my eyes.

I swallow hard. I want to believe him. God, do I want to. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” I say, shrugging. “If you like the girl?—”

“I don’t,” he cuts me off. “Not like that. She’s nice, yeah, and we sit together in class, but I never… I never thought about her that way.” His throat moves as he swallows and he looks downright wrecked. “I was too busy trying not to lose my mind over the picture you sent me.”

A slow grin starts tugging at my mouth before I can stop it. “Is that right?”

He exhales through his nose. “I don’t want her.”

The words light up something in me. “Then don’t go.”

His eyes slip closed for a second and he shakes his head. “I can’t. I might not be into her, but she’s a really nice girl. I can’t stand her up if she thinks it’s a date. I’d feel like an ass.”

My God, he’s such a saint.

“So you’re still going?” I ask, and I hate how obvious the disappointment sounds.

He nods, guilt written all over him. “But I’ll tell her I just want to be friends.”

I hum, arching a brow. “And is that whatweare?”

His brows pull together. “What?”

“Friends.” My head tilts, dragging my eyes over his face. “Is that what you’d call us?”

“What else would we be?” he says a little too fast.

I step closer. Close enough that our forearms almost brush. Close enough that I can feel his breath hit my skin.

“Friends don’t picture their friends naked, Hayes.”