Page 39 of Two Guys One Puck
“Christ. How old are you?” I rub my forehead suddenly, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
His face contorts. “What are you talking about?”
“If you were in khakis right now, I’d think you were going to give me some American father lecture about safe sex.”
Seaborn glances down. “I don’t look like a dad. What is wrong with you?”
“Is your vibes. Not my fault you have dad vibes.” I shrug, refusing to elaborate. “Are we going to have some big conversation now where you scold me?”
“Are you into that?” he asks, cracking a smile.
“Do you want me to be?”
“I don’t fucking know—you brought it up. And I’m too young to be a dad.” Seaborn shudders.
“With all those puck bunnies you fuck, you can’t be sure you’re not.”
He holds up his middle finger. “Fuck you. I told you it had been awhile for me too.”
“So I’m wrong about how you usually are?”
“Well…no. But how did you know?” Seaborn is a little pissy, which I find cute. It makes the freckles on his nose stand out when he scrunches his face.
“You know how players are with gossip.”
“Worse than old housewives.” He rubs a hand over the back of his head. “I didn’t know I was so talked about.”
“I did ask.” I don’t know why I’m admitting this.
“What?”
I lift my shoulders again. “I’m not ashamed of it. After the kiss, I had questions.”
“What kind of questions?” He’s grinning now.
“Mostly why you’re an insufferable prick. And then I tried to find out if you’re into men. Subtly, of course,” I add before he can accuse me of starting rumors with my questions.
He doesn’t, though. He just nods. “And what did you find out?”
“That you get around but don’t date.” I think back on anything else that might be interesting. “You seem well-liked.”
“Who has time to date with our schedules?”
“You obviously have time to pick up women. That’s a game in itself. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah, but everyone does it. It’s like not drinking. We all know that’s not good for us, but it’s hard to be on the team and not do what all the other guys are doing.” Seaborn seems almost embarrassed about it.
“Is all the beer. It makes Americans slow and bloated. Takes you out of your game. You must be like my people and only drink clear liquor. Is how we stay sharp.”
He scoffs. “With your genes, I bet you can drink a liter of it and not be hung over.”
“There are good parts about Eastern European.”
I sit on the bed and take my trainers off, tossing them over by the door.
“You really just going to leave them there?” he asks exasperatedly.
“What?” I glance at my shoes.
