“Geno? Are you okay? Physically,” Sid asks, which is good, because Zhenya doesn’t think he can put into words how he’s feeling emotionally. He imagines saying, The person I’ve loved for ten years finally took me to bed last night, but it turns out he didn’t want to, and now I can read his mind. No, thank you. “Feel fine,” Zhenya answers. “Even head feel fine.” And suddenly he realizes how fucking odd that is: he was concussed, and the room is brightly lit – he should be hiding under a blanket right now. He narrows his eyes and asks, “Sid, why head feel fine? What happen to concussion?” Sid takes a halting step closer to the bed and says, “Our bond, it’s—it’s a healing bond.” “Holy mother of God,” Zhenya breathes. So. They’re definitely not breaking the bond, then.

Beau has a good feeling about this season.

Sometimes he wakes up sucking on his fingers, rutting his hips into the bed. He’ll be right on the edge of coming, the wet head of his dick trapped between his hips and the sheets, but he can’t, he can’t, not without – not without something pushed up inside, something stretching him open.

There’s an honor system to it: don’t pick too far below your weight class unless you’ve got an excuse, or too far above unless you’re trying to make a statement; if you’re going to pass or whine about it too much, be prepared to pay for it next time; if you’re going to be a dick, the guy you’re picking better deserve it.

He feels something touch his foot, his ankle, but when he looks down nothing is there. It’s tadpole season, and in the shallows, around the reeds, they skitter about beneath the surface.

"I just wanna see it," Noah says.