Page 41 of Melting the Ice

He sure didn’t feel like just an acquaintance the other night, when your tongue was in his mouth and his hand was on your dick.

Ian rolled his eyes, but his face was still full of teasing delight. “This gonna be one ofthoseroommate situations, Dean?”

“No. No. Definitely not.”Yes.

“It would be okay if it was,” Ian pointed out kindly.

“Funny how it doesn’t matter if I’m fucking my male roommate now, but God forbid I care too much about my future and don’tsmileenough on the sideline.”

“I know,” Ian said sympathetically. “It’s fucking nuts, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Dean griped.

“But if it’s not like that—”

“It’s not,” Dean interrupted him before he could continue.

Ian just laughed. “Of course not. Well, keep me posted. And bonus points, if this roommate makes you smile and look like youjustdid when you told me about him . . .see more of him, okay?”

That was a fucking joke, considering that Dean had just spent the last few days making sure their paths literallynevercrossed. But before he could say anything else, their waitress arrived, two checks in hand.

Ian was scrupulous, making sure never to overstep the NCAA rules that forbade him from giving anything of any monetary value to Dean before he’d officially signed with him.

And Dean? Well he wasn’t about to let some faceless organization that half the time felt like it was out for his youth and his blood all while it took in hundreds of millions of dollarsbecauseof guys like him do anything to fuck him over even more.

“I mean it,” Ian said as Dean pulled a few dollar bills out of his wallet. “You actually looked like arealperson the moment you brought him up.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean grumbled.

“Sure. But I’m here when you want to.” Ian shot him a knowing grin.

But Dean already knew that he wasnevergoing to want to talk about it.

About the easy way they’d begun to know each other over a dozen or so passing conversations they’d shared.

About Friday night’s experiment.

About the heat and the knowing look in Brody’s eyes when he’d knocked on his door yesterday.

About Brody, at all.

And definitely not about how he didn’t know what the fuck to do about any of it.

Chapter Seven

Ian’s words echoed throughhis mind through his two afternoon classes, and even though his attention span was usually great, Dean found himself unable to focus.

The thoughts followed him through the quick dinner he grabbed before practice.

Then to the gym, after.

And then, because fate was pointedly laughing at him, it dumped the very subject of his unruly thoughts right in front of him.

In the gym.

Shirtless.

Muscles straining as Brody worked his lats on one of the machines.

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