Avon Gale

“Uh, no thanks. Remember how mad I got about the spitting?”

“Right. You want ’em to swallow.” Murph winked.

“Who doesn’t?” said Hux, and they all raised their cans of beer.

“Why are we doing it again, then?”

“You like the half-dressed girls in the hot tub at the end,” Murph offered helpfully.

“You want to say something mean, huh. So I’ll hate you.”

Laurent nodded desperately.

“Stop talking,” Isaac said, and Laurent felt the relief at the simple instruction and went back to his magazine.

Laurent knew from practices that when Coach Samarin sounded more Russian, you were probably in trouble.

Maybe, but the second he could get away, Laurent excused himself, ran upstairs, turned on the water in Isaac’s bathroom and threw up everything in his stomach.

Misha’s dark eyes narrowed. “I do trust you, Isaac. As long as it isn’t about things like hair color and facial jewelry.”

“Ha.” Max cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

“You coming to our room? We were thinking pizza,” said Murph, and Isaac wondered for the millionth time if Murph and Hux knew how much they acted like they were dating.

Not even Coach Samarin and Coach Ashford said we as often as those two.

Oh, you have no idea what I want to do with you. I want to touch you, fuck you, put you on your knees, and teach you how to deep-throat my dick instead of say shit I don’t want to hear.

“Yeah,” said Isaac. It seemed safer. More succinct.

Did Laurent want to make out with Isaac or just have Isaac pet him?

How could he understand? He has the emotional maturity of a toadstool. Not all his fault. But still.