He nods. “Need anything else?”
Yes, about a million questions answered and twenty-four hours of uninterrupted sleep. I know my game is improving doing these extra workouts and practices with him, but between them, regular practice, work, and classes, I’m nearing burnout.
“I’m good,” I yawn and set my backpack down in front of the bed. “Thank you for letting me stay. I’m sure you’re not supposed to have a player in your house, so I’m sorry you’re breaking the rules for me.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I didn’t follow them.”
I arch my brow, but he brushes it off.
“I’ll let you get some sleep then.” And without another word, he turns and walks back into the living room. I feel naked standing in this strange, unknown place not only physically, but also emotionally. He’s not my friend, not a boyfriend or someone I’m going to hook up with. He’s my coach, and here I am in his guest room, and I’m just supposed to think that’s normal? And how could he just walk away so quickly?
Honestly, I don’t have the brain power right now to begin to untangle any of that. I slip my coat off and hang it on the back ofthe door before tiptoeing out to the guest bath. Luke is nowhere to be found, and most of the lights are already out.
The bathroom is just as plain as the rest of the apartment. I quickly wash my face, find a tube of toothpaste in the drawer and scrub my teeth with my finger, and throw my hair into a quick braid.
Back in the guest room, I check my phone one more time and still no text from Grace. There’s a charger at the bottom of my backpack, and I plug it into the wall and hook my phone up.
I might be exhausted, but that doesn’t stop me from doing a little bit of snooping before I crash. The sliding doors to the closet open silently, thank God. I expected it to be as empty as the rest of his apartment seemingly is, but no. It’s so stuffed to the brim with things that I’m shocked nothing comes crashing to the floor.
Jerseys are hung haphazardly across one of the bars. I flip through them as best as I can, but it’s hard to see them all since they’re packed in so tight. One in particular catches my attention, and I pull it out to take a better look.
The royal-blue material is a stark contrast to the white-and-cherry-red details of the New York Flash logo and designs. I’ve never held a real NHL jersey before, and I thumb the material between my fingers, thinking about the things this uniform has seen. I flip it around to find HOLLOWAY in block letters on the back, along with the number 64.
“I should’ve known you wouldn’t just go to sleep,” Coach’s voice rumbles behind me, and I instantly turn red. Fuck, did I not shut the door all the way? He’s always catching me at times I don’t want him to.
“Sorry,” I murmur and reach to hang it back up. But his hand is suddenly on mine, and sparks skitter along my skin at the contact.
Just as quickly as he makes contact, he pulls away, and suddenly I’m cold all over. He clears his throat, and when I look at him through my lashes, he almost looks embarrassed himself. “Don’t apologize. That jersey could use some time to breathe.”
I glance down at it. “Why do you keep it tucked away? I would’ve thought you would have it framed or something.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Maybe one day.”
Maybe when it stops hurting him.
“Were you always sixty-four?”
“No.” He reaches around me, brushing his chest against my shoulder, and I’m frozen, unwilling to move even when I know I should. This close, the smell of his cologne overrides all the sleepiness and completely commands all of my senses. He smells fuckinggood. Grabbing a green-and-silver jersey from the rack, he turns it around. “This is one of my high school ones. I was thirty-two.”
“Me too!” I exclaim. “Then when I came to Haulton I had to switch to thirty-three, but all throughout high school I wore thirty-two.”
The smallest trace of a smile crosses his mouth as his dark eyes spark with something I can’t quite pinpoint. “No shit?”
“Shit.” I smile, and he ducks his head, hiding his amusement. It sends a thrill through me, despite the exhaustion. “Guess all the cool people wore thirty-two in high school.”
“I wouldn’t push it.” He snorts and hangs the jersey back up. I hand him mine as well, and he jams it into place.
“What other fun stuff do you have in here?” I crane my neck, trying to peek into all the nooks and crannies. There’re trophies, sweatshirts, T-shirts, custom sneakers and pairs of skates, mugs and trinkets from various teams, but overwhelmingly a lot of Flash merchandise. But shoved to the back of the tallest shelf, like he wants it as far away as possible, is a mask.
I gasp, and Coach follows my eyeline. He steps forward and doesn’t even need to go on his tiptoes to grab it. When he pulls it down, he cradles it as gently as someone would a newborn baby, but his expression is darker than it was moments ago.
“Here.” He holds it out to me, and I take it gingerly, our fingers brushing in the transform. I peek at him to gauge his reaction, but he seems lost in his own head.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, turning it over in my hands. The base is pearl white, but it provides a canvas for the red-and-blue designs. On one side is a mix of various New York City staples: the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State Building. It blends seamlessly around the back into a graffiti-style 64. On the other side are the lightsabers he had once mentioned. They’re in a cross, like they’re mid-duel, one a vibrant red and the other a cobalt blue. “That’s incredible.” I run my fingers over the sabers, tracing the X they form.
“It’s my favorite design I had in my entire career.” He sounds choked, like the words physically hurt him. His hands are balled in the pockets of his sweatpants, like he’s trying to cling to some semblance of control over his emotions.
“This deserves to be on display,” I say softly. “Not tucked away like that. It’s art.”
