Being a homebody with a self-confessed athletic-wear addiction meant Tristan didn’t have much by way of fashionable clothing. He had his game-day suits, of course. Those were mandatory and custom-tailored to accommodate his height and the brawny physique he owed to a lifetime of sports and manual labor. But even his suits weren’t anything flashy: simply plain, solid colors. At heart he was a farm boy, born and bred in rural Wisconsin, and like his parents, he put more stock in comfort and durability than style. Hell, he practically lived in sweats and band T-shirts when not on the ice. He didn’t own any club wear.
On the evening of the concert, Tristan stared into his closet for some twenty minutes and considered a shopping trip before quickly vetoing the idea. As much as he wanted to look good for Professor Cruz, a brand-new outfit reeked of desperation. In the end, he settled on a navy-blue V-neck and a pair of worn jeans that perfectly displayed his ass and thighs, which Tristan knew were impressive even by hockey player standards.
When he got to Terminal West, the venue was nowhere near full. Tristan idly searched the sparse crowd as he walked the main floor and balcony, but he didn’t seriously expect to see Professor Cruz. Not this early. The opening act—a quartet of bearded men wearing skintight pants and sporting matching undercuts—had only just begun their set, belting out Beatles tunes with more enthusiasm than talent. Tristan anticipated Professor Cruz would time his arrival for when Phloydian Slip, the Pink Floyd tribute band, took the stage.
Tristan ordered himself an IPA and grabbed one of the open metal stools on the balcony, which gave him a bird’s-eye view of the concert hall. The place had been decorated in an industrial style—black beams and air ducts, reclaimed wood, concrete floors, and lots of exposed brick. He soaked in the atmosphere as the band launched into their rendition of “Love Me Do.” In spite of himself, their twangy sound had grown on Tristan. Or maybe it was the adorable way the lead singer bounced in place while he sang.
Tristan would’ve contemplated getting closer to the stage to catch the singer’s eye, if not for his entirely inappropriate crush on his professor. Well, former professor. His final grade, an A-minus, had been posted to the student portal yesterday morning. Which meant Tristan was free to pursue Professor Cruz . . . if only the man showed up and wanted to be pursued.
After a few more songs, the lead singer bowed to the crowd’s applause. “Thanks, everyone. You’ve been great tonight. We’re Revolution. We’ll be over at Stationside if anyone wants to meet us. We have T-shirts and CDs available too. Come say hello.”
As they left the stage, Tristan went to get himself another beer. His past concert experience told him it would be at least another half an hour before Phloydian Slip performed. He toyed with the idea of going over to the restaurant to meet the Revolution singer, maybe score a number. But as cute as the guy was, he didn’t make Tristan’s blood pump. Didn’t make Tristan hot like the mere thought of Professor Cruz’s broody scowl and lean, sinewy body. Tristan didn’t want to settle for someone else, not if there was even the smallest chance Professor Cruz might show up. Tristan hadn’t exactly been subtle in his invitation.
He returned to the balcony to find his stool taken. Still hopeful, Tristan wandered down to the main floor to watch the roadies as they set up various instruments and sound equipment. He sipped at his beer until the lights dimmed and Phloydian Slip came onstage. The group had clearly modeled themselves after Pink Floyd in all their seventies, floppy-haired glory, and the lead singer could’ve easily passed for a young David Gilmour.
The band opened with “Comfortably Numb.” Tristan paused near the back of the room to let the song wash over him. At his height, he could easily see above the heads of most of the concertgoers, which meant he had a decent view no matter where he parked himself.
For a time the music distracted him. Tristan swayed in place, caught up in the energy of the now-substantial crowd and enjoying the rare opportunity to hear his favorite songs played live. That wasn’t always easy for a classic rock fan whose favorite groups no longer performed, and who, generally speaking, wasn’t all that into cover bands.
But soon the novelty wore off. Tristan noticed the time and the distinct lack of one Sebastian Cruz. Like the flame of a candle, his excitement flickered and abruptly sputtered out, leaving nothing but wispy smoke in its wake.
Concerts were a lot more fun when you had someone else to share the experience with. Couples and groups of friends filled the venue. Tristan was one of the few who watched alone, conspicuous in the way he stood apart from the others.
He frowned, deposited his empty bottle on the tray of a passing server, and made his way to the bar for another beer. During the regular season he normally limited himself to two, preferring to get his carbs from food instead of alcohol, but fuck it. Training camp didn’t start for nearly another two months. After being stood up, he was due another drink or three.
Tristan snorted. Why was he kidding himself? Professor Cruz never had any intention of meeting him. He’d probably regaled his highbrow academic friends with the story of his student’s clumsy attempt to ask him out. No doubt they had a good laugh about it while drinking wine and eating canapés or whatever the hell else snobby professors did in their spare time. Tristan already knew what Sebastian Cruz thought of athletes.
He’d just flagged down a bartender and placed his order when he sensed a presence at his side. Tristan turned and found himself face-to-face with the man himself. Professor Cruz was dressed casually in dark jeans, boots, and a button-down shirt. He’d left the top two buttons undone, and Tristan’s gaze automatically went to the prominent collarbones covered in smooth golden-brown skin. All the moisture fled his mouth at the thought of putting his lips to the divot at the base of Professor Cruz’s throat. Tristan wanted to bite and lick there, inhale until the scent of sweat and man made him drunk with lust.
“Mr. Holt.”
Tristan swallowed hard. “Professor,” he rasped. Sebastian, Tristan really wanted to call him. The name appealed to him as much as its owner. Tristan wished he had the right to use it whenever he pleased.
The bartender delivered Tristan’s beer and grabbed the money Tristan had placed on the bar top. He jerked his head at Professor Cruz. “What can I get you?”
“Single malt, neat. Glenlivet, preferably. If not, the best you have.”
Of course he would drink Scotch and order it neat, the sexy bastard. Tristan pictured him as the leading man in some classic black-and-white film—crystal tumbler in one hand, a thick cigar between his lips, a plume of smoke curling around his sharp-jawed face. The image sent blood rushing straight to Tristan’s cock. Shit. There went all his bitter thoughts from a few minutes before, carried away by the rumbling bass of Professor Cruz’s voice and the sight of his dark-brown eyes and darker, finger-tousled hair.
Tristan almost sighed. He was weak—he knew it—but how could he be strong with Professor Cruz standing here looking like that? Tristan wanted to drop to his knees. Only awareness of his surroundings kept him upright.
After starting a tab, Professor Cruz inclined his head, silently encouraging Tristan to follow. They moved away from the bar to a small gap along the back wall.
“How’s the band?” Professor Cruz asked, his eyes fixed on the stage.
Tristan watched, wetting his mouth as Professor Cruz took a slow sip of the amber liquid in his glass. “They’re good, I think,” Tristan replied. “I stopped paying attention a little while ago.”
Professor Cruz glanced at him. “Why?”
Tristan smiled wryly. “I was waiting for you.”
The words made Professor Cruz turn to meet his gaze directly. They stared at each other, the air between them crackling like static. Tristan wanted to kiss him. Damn the consequences. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced an attraction so strong. It made him feel reckless.
Professor Cruz’s eyes went hot as he read Tristan’s expression. He shifted closer, invading Tristan’s personal space. Tristan didn’t bother checking to see if anyone watched them. The dim lighting made for plenty of cover, and most people were focused on the music and the band, not paying attention to a couple of horny guys standing far too close to each other.
“I tried to talk myself out of coming,” Professor Cruz said. “This is a terrible idea.”
Tristan blinked slowly. “What?”
“Us meeting like this. Just . . . this.”
Tristan shook his head, trying to clear away the fog of lust clouding his brain. It took him a moment to parse the sentence. When he did, he felt abruptly guilty.
He’d invited Professor Cruz to the concert. Sure, they were both consenting adults, and Professor Cruz was a grown man fully capable of making his own decisions—but Tristan had instigated their meeting. What if Professor Cruz had only come out of some sense of obligation? What if he was trying to make it up to Tristan for accusing him of stealing that paper? Tristan had absolutely no interest in an apology fuck. He never took what wasn’t freely offered; he wasn’t about to start now.
Tristan stepped back. “Sorry. I . . . I’ll . . .” He turned to leave, but a strong hand grabbed his wrist, exerting enough pressure to stop him.
Without speaking, Professor Cruz tugged him to his side, but kept a firm hold on Tristan’s wrist once he was there. The grip made Tristan squirm—in a good way. It called to the part of him that yearned to be restrained. Tristan wanted to feel that grip in bed, wanted to pull against it just to feel those long fingers tighten again. He refrained. Barely.
Professor Cruz nodded his approval once Tristan relaxed. He resumed watching the band as the familiar intro to “Wish You Were Here” began. Tristan had no choice but to follow suit, although most of his attention remained riveted on the enigmatic man beside him.
The rest of the set passed like a film on fast-forward. Professor Cruz bought him another beer, and as the minutes ticked by, every point of contact between them, every touch of their skin, made Tristan edgier and edgier—until he worried he might actually be vibrating with lust.
Finally, finally, Professor Cruz leaned close to ask, “Are you ready to get out of here?”
“God, yes. Fucking beyond ready.” Tristan’s briefs were sticky, damp with the pre-come he’d been leaking since he felt the tight grasp of fingers on his wrist earlier.
Professor Cruz settled his tab while Tristan waited—or rather, while Tristan shifted impatiently and fidgeted. When they stepped out into the muggy night, he turned to pin Tristan with a dark, hot stare. “I caught a cab here. Did you drive?”
Tristan shook his head.
By unspoken agreement, they started down the block, away from the smokers who were chatting outside the venue. Tristan thought about suggesting food or maybe coffee, anything to distract himself from wondering how soon they could get naked and horizontal. But as they passed a darkened loading area, the thin threads of his willpower snapped. Tristan fisted a handful of Professor Cruz’s shirt, hauled him into the shadows, and crushed their lips together.
Professor Cruz seemed startled, but only for a moment. Then his hands came up, holding Tristan’s head in place as he took control of the kiss. Tristan allowed himself to be crowded backward until a brick wall stopped his progress. Professor Cruz—Sebastian—pressed close and licked into Tristan’s mouth. He tasted warm, smoky like Scotch.
Tristan chased the flavor with his tongue, moaning into the kiss and thrusting his hips forward. There was enough of a height difference between them that his cock ground against Sebastian’s firm, flat stomach instead of his groin. Tristan didn’t care. Friction was friction, and he craved more. He ignored the nearby dumpster, the faint smell of garbage, the fact that they could easily be seen from the sidewalk if anyone cared to look.
The kiss was too good, too hot for Tristan to be distracted by such mundane thoughts.
He made a noise that would’ve embarrassed him under any other circumstances. He clutched at Sebastian’s hips, trying to get even closer, shivering at the hard press of Sebastian’s erection along his upper thigh.
He wanted Sebastian so much he felt stupid with need.
“Take me somewhere,” he panted into Sebastian’s mouth. “Anywhere. I don’t care. I want to taste you.”
Sebastian pulled back, leaving Tristan’s lips pleasantly sore and stinging. In the shadows, his eyes looked fathomless.
“Let’s go,” he said, taking hold of Tristan’s wrist again.
Tristan groaned and fought not to come in his jeans.