In Ryan’s room with the door closed—and
locked, Dante’s sure to check the locks now whenever Mrs.
Talonovich is around—his boyfriend stretches out on the bed, easing
his legs out one at a time as if he’s an old man with arthritis in
his joints. “You okay?” Dante asks, moving the wheelchair aside and
climbing onto the bed to kneel beside Ryan.
Discomfort flickers across Ryan’s features.
“Fine,” he groans, lying back on his pillow. Sweat beads along his
brow and Dante wipes it away with his bandanna, smoothes Ryan’s
hair back, kisses his light eyebrows. One of his boyfriend’s hands
strays to Dante’s leg, brushing along his thigh to rest against his
crotch, the fingers curling behind his knee. “Are you going back
now?” Ryan asks.
He means to the rink, to practice. Dante
knows he
