Keeping Casey (Keeping Him #1) - Amy Aislin Page 0,8

know that simply by playing it, I’m cutting my career short.”

Coach rubbed his jaw, leaning the other elbow on the arm of his chair. “You know there’ve been other players with disorders, right? Even in the NHL? Your RA doesn’t preclude you from making it to the pros. Diabetes, vertigo, blindness in one eye, colitis, MS. If those players can persevere, so can you.”

Ethan was still staring at him in shock when Coach waved a hand. “The mentorship program is available to all freshmen, whether or not they intend to continue their hockey career postcollege. You could get injured tomorrow and have to sit out most of the season, and you’d still qualify. I suggest you take advantage.”

Ethan walked out of the athletics facility a few minutes later to a starry sky and a mild breeze. Gear bag slung over one shoulder, backpack on the other, he pulled on fingerless gloves, dug his phone out of his pocket, and googled NHL players with disorders as he walked to his car.

There were security measures in place in the two student residences on campus, and Ethan was midway through texting Casey that he was here and to please come let him in when a fist cuffed his shoulder.

“Hey, man,” said Jasper—Casey’s roommate—carrying a slice of cafeteria pizza on a triangle of cardboard. “You coming up?”

At Ethan’s confirmation, Jasper swiped his student card against the sensor next to the turnstile, waved Ethan through, and then swiped it again to let himself through. In the elevator, there was a second sensor. Jasper swiped his card against that one too before hitting the button for the fourth floor.

“Thanks, man,” Ethan said, tucking his phone into his back pocket.

“Saved Casey a trip.” Jasper picked a pepperoni off his pizza and popped it in his mouth. “He was busy organizing his wall calendars when I left to get this.” He toasted Ethan with his pizza, cheese melting off the side, the scent of tomato sauce heavy in the enclosed space.

Fuck, that smelled good. Unfortunately, it was no longer in Ethan’s diet.

He’d always been good with his diet, eating hearty and balanced meals, but in the last year and a bit, he’d had to change his relationship with food. Playing around with food since his diagnosis had revealed that he felt the best and had the least amount of pain when he ate mostly vegan. If he stuck to a vegan diet, he could go weeks without swelling or flare-ups. Fish high in omega-3 was also okay. Sure, he missed cheese and bacon and deep-fried food—although he’d be the first to admit that he occasionally indulged in Casey’s cafeteria fries—and, most of all, homemade cookies. But sugar equaled inflammation. Sugar was like the guy you knew was bad for you but you kept dating him anyway. He made you feel used and abused.

Sugar was a bad boyfriend.

His online RA for young adults support group should make that its slogan.

He was chuckling to himself when the elevator doors opened. With a wave over his shoulder, Jasper continued past the room he shared with Casey and disappeared around the corner, presumably on his way to the common room on this floor.

The door to Casey’s room was open. Ethan leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, and admired Casey’s tall, slender form while he wasn’t looking. The brown hair that was thick enough for Ethan to pull should he ever get the chance; the defined arms he’d spent many an evening honing in the gym with Ethan, currently showcased by his T-shirt; the tight butt Ethan knew was underneath those loose sweatpants, leading down to long legs.

Casey stood eyeing the four dry-erase calendars he’d stuck to the wall above his bed. They ranged from September to December and listed what appeared to be his class schedule, assignment due dates, tests, and holidays, all color-coded, of course. God forbid Casey didn’t micromanage his own life.

The rest of the room was a typical dorm room. Twin beds against opposite walls, raised up off the floor to allow for storage underneath. Between them, a large picture window looked out over Glen Hill (the hill, not the college). At the foot of each bed: a simple desk and chair. Casey’s held his laptop; his class textbooks, arranged by height; a generic, white mug filled with pens and pencils; a thin binder with a sticker across the front marked Class Syllabi in Casey’s precise handwriting; and a GH-branded water bottle from their welcome-week kit. Jasper’s desk seemed