He doesn’t say anything, just glares at the mask like he’s trying to eradicate it from this planet. What’s he thinking right now? Is the career-ending hit replaying in his mind on a tortuous loop?
There’s a part of me that’s screaming not to do it, but I step forward until there’s barely any space between us and offer it to him. He looks at it like it’s going to burn him if he holds it.
Silence stretches, the weight of his entire dream ending before he was ready hanging heavily between us.
“One day, I hope you’ll display this as proudly as you should.”
He clicks his tongue. “Yeah, maybe one day,” he says, sounding anything but convincing. Finally, he takes it from me and quickly puts it back in its spot. But I don’t miss the tenderness in which he does, careful not to bump or scratch it on the ceiling.
When he turns back, he looks almost startled at my close proximity. I know I should step back, regain some space between us, but my feet don’t move. My neck tilts back as I look up at him. He’s about five inches taller than me, but with his broad shoulders and muscular chest, he feels bigger.
This close, I can see the shadow coming in on his jawline. He’s been keeping his face cleanly shaven in recent weeks, and I miss the stubble he used to have at the beginning of the season.
I shouldn’t notice that.
I shouldn’t notice things like his facial hair, or how the brown of his eyes looks so dark right now, they’re almost black. Or how his rich brown hair flows back in perfect waves, the portrait of the stereotypical hockey hair.
I shouldn’t notice the scar he told me the story behind, and my finger shouldn’t be twitching right now with the desire to trace it.
His eyes dance back and forth between mine, like he’s cataloging similar things about me and knowing that he shouldn’t be. Once again, I appreciate the bridge of his nose, slightly crooked. The nose of a hockey player.
My eyes drift a little further down to his lips. The dip in the middle of his top one is deep, and my own mouth tingles, thinking of what it would be like to be claimed by his.
Gravity seems to be pulling me forward, or maybe it’s the natural sway of my body as it fights to stay awake, but either way, my chest is mere inches from brushing his. Maybe I want it to. Maybe he wants it, too.
But like a rubber band snapping, he seems to break out of the spell we both fell under, and he quickly retreats to the open door. Humiliation washes over me in horrifying waves, and I cross over to the bed and sit on the edge, needing to ground myself. I pick at the chipped polish on my fingernails, unable to look at him.
He coughs and says, “If you need anything, just uh, let me know.”
“I’ll be fine,” I answer far too quickly, my voice more breathless than it should be. “Sleep good,” I add, when I can still feel him hovering.
Peeking up from beneath my lashes, I find him lingering at the door, one hand on the knob and the other pressed against the frame. The look in his eyes, the glimpse ofinterestI think I see there, makes me wonder if I’m already dreaming or just delirious.
His fingers drum against the white trim once, twice, and just as the words crawl their way up my throat and I’m about to ask him something stupid, like if he wants to stay, he says, “Good night.” The door closes with a soft click, and I’m left sitting at the edge of the bed wondering if I’m losing my fucking mind.
18
Lennon
Luke is avoiding me. Or should I say, Coach Holloway is avoiding me. It’s been over a week since I slept at his place, and he’s kept our interactions to a minimum, even canceling two of our sessions. It’s been nice to have a little extra time in my day, but it hasn’t been sitting right with me.
I woke up that morning in his guest room, the sheets smelling like him, and all I wanted to do was roll back over, burrow in, and forget everything. But instead, logic finally reared its stupid head, and I quickly got dressed, called a car, and slipped out before he even woke up. About an hour after I got back to my apartment, a text came through from an unknown number.
Unknown Number: I’m assuming you made it back home?
Me: Who is this?
I knew better than to assume that this was him. If it was someone else and I inadvertently revealed that I spent the night at my coach’s apartment, that wouldn’t have ended well for either of us.
Unknown Number: 64
His jersey number.
Me: Yes I made it home. Thanks again for letting me stay. I didn’t want to bother you for a ride home
Unknown Number: *thumbs up*
That was it. Just a simple thumbs up. I changed his contact name in my phone to64and have been trying to forget that night even happened.
