Chapter 6: Tuesday Night

Dane did not raise his voice.

"Forty pages on the economics of ice time, due the first of December.

"You'll get the details on Wednesday morning, in person.

"I want your answer then."

He tapped the legal pad with one clean fingernail and stood.

"I'd hate for the dean to get the wrong idea about you."

He left, and the whole second floor went back to its dull hum.

Ansel stayed in his chair and did not breathe for a full minute.

On Tuesday night, at ten, he stood outside the Pioneers' house with his hands in his pockets and knocked.

Torin opened the door before the second knock.

His right hand was wrapped in white gauze to the wrist, with six stitches underneath.

He had showered, and his hair was wet, and he wore only grey sweatpants.

"You came," he said.

"I said I would."

Torin looked at him.

Then he caught the front of Ansel's jacket in his good hand and pulled him inside.

The house was dark, and the stairs creaked.

Jory's door was shut, and a game was playing low behind it.

Torin's room smelled of soap.

He shut the door and turned the lock with his bandaged hand, and the click went straight down Ansel's spine.

"Take it off," Torin said.

"The jacket."

Ansel took it off.

"The shirt."

Ansel took it off, and then the glasses, and set them on the desk.

He was nineteen years old, lean and pale, and he felt every one of Torin's eyes on his skin.

Torin was twenty-one, and he was looking at him.

"You're beautiful," Torin said.

His voice was almost angry.

"I've been thinking about this for eight weeks.

"I've been picturing it every night, and it's not close."

"Then stop picturing," Ansel said.

His voice shook, but he got the words out.

"Do it."

Torin's face changed.

He took Ansel by the hips and walked him back until his knees hit the bed.

He pushed him down on his back and stood over him.

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