I flip on the radio to drown out her refusals because if I listen to them, I might start to agree with them. Logic screams in mybrain to turn around, to drop her off, to forget that this idea ever even crossed my mind in the first place.
Lennon quickly hits the button, silencing the music. “Did you hear me?”
She knows I did.
“Coach, we can’t do that.”
My knuckles turn white as I grip the wheel. “It’s just for tonight so you can get some sleep. I have a guest room that never gets used.”
“This has got to be against some sort of rules,” she says, chewing on her lip.
Oh, it definitely is. “It’s just for tonight,” I repeat.
Her knee bounces nervously as she glances over at me.
“Look, if you’re uncomfortable with it, then I’ll call Alice for you and see if you can sleep at her place tonight.” I really don’t want to because for one, I don’t want to have to explain to Alice how I got myself into this situation to begin with. But also, I sort of like the idea of Lennon being under my roof for the night. Why that is, I have no fucking clue, and honestly, I shouldn’t like it. “But I’m serious. You need to rest. I’m not going to put in all this work for you, only to have you get sick or injured or burned out because you’re not getting enough sleep. Clearly, you need it. So just accept it, alright?”
She stares out the window, not acknowledging me, but at least she doesn’t try to argue anymore. And as the minutes tick by, her shoulders start to relax until she’s slumped down in the seat, already snoozing away. She looks angelic almost when the streetlights pass by, illuminating her features.
This is a bad, bad idea.
17
Lennon
This is a bad idea.
Even through the exhaustion dragging my lids down, making everything feel slightly out of motion, I still know that this is a bad idea. And by the tense set of Coach Holloway’s jawline and shoulders, he does too.
But I don’t want to take him up on his offer to call Coach Maver. And I definitely don’t want him to turn around and take me home where I know the party will be going until well past 2:00 am.
And there’s a part of me that wants to see his place. I’m curious what other pieces of him I might uncover, even as he’s oh-so-slowly been showing me more of himself. Ever since he found me watching his video and we had that conversation in the weight room, he’s been slightly more open with me. He’s dropped a few stories about how he and his brother would play hockey together growing up on a pond in their neighborhood and how their mom often had to come chasing them down to get them inside to eat or warm up. It’s hard to picture a smallerversion of him on skates, but from the sounds of it, he was stubborn even then.
I enjoy getting to know him more, so even if it’s wrong to go sleep over at your coach’s house, I’m not going to stop him.
My eyes drift shut, and I awaken a few moments later at the sound of a garage door opening. I wipe the bleariness from my vision as Coach drives us underground and parks. He shuts the engine off, and if I thought we were riding in silence before, it’s nothing compared to how quiet it is without the sounds of the motor. It stretches, turning deafening, as he stares ahead, hands still gripped on the wheel, like he’s fighting something.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He exhales and grabs his keys. “Fine. Let’s go.”
I follow him upstairs to his apartment, clinging to my backpack straps just to give me something to do with my hands, as he unlocks the door. It’s pitch black, and instead of turning on the overhead lighting, he walks around the space and flicks on lamp after lamp.
“My eyes can still be a little sensitive to certain types of lighting,” he explains.
“I’m not going to complain,” I say. “I hate overhead lighting.” My feet are glued to the floor by the entryway, as if there’s some final, invisible barrier I can’t cross. Like if I do, it’s going to set off a chain of events that can’t be undone.
Coach glances over his shoulder at me as he turns on one final lamp by the couch. “You can just set your shoes on the rug.”
My shoes. As if that’s why I’m not moving. I don’t know where to put my shoes.
I slip them off and tuck them where he said before taking a few tentative steps in.
“Better text Grace that you’re not coming home tonight so she doesn’t worry about you.” He doesn’t look happy about it as he says it, and I wonder if that’s because he’s regretting thatwe’re in this position, or that I’m going to have to lie to my best friend.
“Yeah, good idea,” I say and pull out my phone.
Me: My mom surprised me at the rink after practice and brought me home for the night. Have fun!
