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It’s an hour before his first game and Pacer Wicks is taping up his stick, concentrating on the careful roll and press, the parallel lines. Across the room, Ollie O’Meara is facing the wall, curling his shoulders forward to duck out of his hoodie. Pacer shifts his focus for a fraction of a second, his hands going still. His gaze lands on the silver chain that rests across the back of Ollie’s neck, the way it shifts and settles against his skin before disappearing beneath his undershirt.
They beat Dartmouth 2-0, and go back to the Haus to celebrate. Bitty’s about to do his first kegster and Pacer looks on until his view is blocked suddenly by Ollie, crowding close for a fistbump, a fresh beer in his hand. His wide blue eyes are glazed over and unfocused, his cheeks flushed pink. Pacer brings a hand up to steady him, the curl of his fingers falling across the back of Ollie’s neck. He can feel Ollie’s pulse under his thumb, and the thin line of Ollie’s chain through the fabric of his polo shirt.
“’Swawesome,” Pacer says as their knuckles meet, lingering while the crowd starts to cheer. Ollie tips his cup to his lips, holding Pacer’s gaze.
What Pacer remembers about stumbling back to his dorm that night is the welcome chill of the night air, the slap of their unsteady footsteps on the cold concrete, and that Ollie stops to hug him right in the middle of crossing the bridge. Pacer curls his hands against the back of Ollie’s jacket and holds on tight.
On road trips, at the back of the bus, Pacer takes the window and Ollie takes the aisle. They flip the armrest up and share a pair of earbuds to watch Parks and Rec on Ollie’s iPad in the dark. Ollie shifts to get comfortable, until he’s pressed against Pacer, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. When Ollie laughs it’s quiet; breathy little chuckles that Pacer feels more than he hears.
The lights always come up before Pacer expects them to. Ollie lifts his arms up to stretch, his eyes squeezing shut as he yawns. Pacer watches the flex of his jaw and the way his sideburns curl at the ends, in need of a trim. Ollie lets his arms down again, tugging at the hem of his shirt. Pacer catches a slight glimpse of silver just under his collar, resting against his clavicle.
Ollie saves him a seat at team breakfast, squeezing a chair in, claiming it with his backpack. Pacer drops down into it, scooting up, their knees bumping under the table. Ollie has a poetry anthology open, his eyes quickly scanning the text while he pokes at his scrambled eggs. Pacer watches the flicker of his gaze and the twitch of his eyelashes, the way he eats in stops and starts as he reads. Ollie’s thigh presses alongside his own, warm and solid.
Pacer’s parents can’t make it in for family weekend. The team squeaks out a win against Yale on Bitty’s goal at the very end of the third period. Ollie’s mom and two of his sisters are there for the game, and Ollie leaves with them right after. The dining hall has chicken tenders and tater tots and absolutely no lines at all. Back in his room, Pacer parks himself in front of his Playstation and plays Minecraft until he loses track of time entirely.
Samwell Superberry closes at midnight on Saturdays, and Pacer knows it’s a dick move for him and Ollie to show up at eleven-fifty, but they go in anyway. Ollie’s in a blue scarf that’s just a shade lighter than his eyes, and a Samwell beanie that covers his ears, a few waves of his dark hair falling loose against his forehead. They try all the flavors one by one like they haven’t done so a hundred times, and proceed to discuss in great detail whether beer flavored froyo would be gross or ‘swawesome. They get into a minor scuffle at the toppings bar after Ollie smacks Pacer in the face with a gummy worm, and Pacer tries to retaliate by putting sprinkles down Ollie’s back. The manager appears quickly, shouting at them to pay and get out, and locking the door behind them when they go.
There’s one remaining bench out front, the rest of the outdoor tables and chairs stacked and chained, stored away for the winter. When Ollie sits down beside him, he leaves no space between them at all, crowding close, trying to keep his hands tucked inside his coat sleeves. Pacer leans into him, pressing with his shoulder and his knee, and Ollie presses back.
When they finish Pacer doesn’t want to move, but it’s cold, and the stores are all closed. On the walk back he waits for Ollie to suggest something else to do, or to invite him to hang out awhile longer, but Ollie stays quiet all the way to the front door of his building. They slow to a stop and Ollie pulls his keys from his pocket.
“So, uh. I’ll see you…” Pacer says, trailing off.
“Oh,” Ollie says in surprise. He looks up and smiles a little. “Yeah, cool, uh. See you tomorrow? Or Monday, I guess.”
Pacer doesn’t get a chance to reply before Ollie is hugging him, arms sliding around his waist, pulling him close. Pacer tucks his chin over Ollie’s shoulder and hugs him right back. There are still little sprinkles in the back of Ollie’s scarf, flecks of pink and white and purple. At any moment someone could come through the door trying to get out, or walk up and need to go inside, and they’ll have to move. The thought only makes Pacer hold on tighter.
Ollie shifts just a little, turning his face so that his nose touches Pacer’s neck, just below his ear. It sends a little shiver through him, not entirely from the cold.
“Or you could come up?” Ollie murmurs quietly.
Pacer smiles. “’Swawesome.”