No Cooper in sight.
No one knew if he was coming.
I tried calling him, but it went directly to voicemail.
An hour later, I’m in bed reading when my phone buzzes, a text from him coming through.
Cooper
Is my therapist on call?
I’m not your therapist.
Cooper
Still on call? I need to talk to someone.
Please.
Give me five and I’ll call you.
Cooper
I’m at your door.
I hastily tug on a pair of sleep shorts. Throw my curls haphazardly into a claw clip and rush to the door. I open it, and he’s breathing heavily. A large hand pressed to the center of his chest.
“Did you run here?” Cooper nods, barely. I sigh. “Are you stupid? You played thirty minutes tonight and took a nasty hit.”
“I’m fine.” I shut the door, then follow him into my living room. “You live seven minutes away.”
There’s a layer of glistening moisture on his skin. His chocolate brown hair is disheveled, the ends of it sticking out in different directions, as if he was tugging on it after he took his helmet off.
Cooper is in a matching sweatsuit with our school’s logo, a growling grizzly bear, in the center of his chest. This is what he wears after the game—a bit of me wishes he came in his suit. He leans down, unbalanced, to untie his sneakers.
“Your socks are inside out.”
He appears dazed. Confused. Not entirely here. Broad shoulders are hunched over, making him smaller than the larger-than-life boy he is.
I take a step closer to him, and that’s when I see it. The small tremors in his hand. Tight, quick breaths—I don’t think his chest is heaving from running, he’s too in shape for that—and small hiccups. Dark lashes fall across the tops of his cheeks when he shuts his eyes.
Instinctively—I think, but I’m not too sure anymore—there are a lot of things with Cooper now that I feel called to do, maybe want to do, that I’d run away from before. I shove them aside and say something bratty to compensate as my hand reaches for his. As soon as my fingers graze the bare skin of his wrist, his head jerks away. Then it’s back on me, eyes open, and he reaches for my hand.
“Come. Sit.” I gesture to the couch.
Cooper doesn’t budge. “No.” The word cracks. He coughs, clearing his throat. “Can we lie in your bed?”
“Oh. Um.” Say no, Sutton. Say no. That rings between my ears. I have a million reasons why that’s not a good idea, and number one is that we kissed. Even if it was for practice, I think about it. Sometimes I want to do it again.
Sometimes? Okay, a lot of times.
And earlier, when he was staring at my mouth, it took all of my willpower not to ask him to kiss me again. The first time was for practice. Good, but maybe a fluke?
Cooper might be the bad kisser, not me.
Plus, it’s intimate. My room, my space.
“Yeah, sure,” I say despite myself and the common sense I pride myself on having.
