Hell.
There was nothing to do then except to go off to find some dinner. And — if there really was a God in heaven, like they taught us at my homophobic hellhole of a high school — more alcohol.
—Rikker
I ate a late dinner of crab cakes and lobster roll at some fish place that Coach herded us to. And then everyone walked back toward the hotel in plenty of time for our ten o’clock curfew. But I dawdled, walking down the side streets, buying myself an ice cream cone in a drowsy little cafe. I liked cities. I liked their busy sidewalks and their anonymity.
Where I grew up in western Michigan, there was only a taste of the city life. Most everyone favored the dull suburbs. When I moved to Vermont for tenth grade, I thought I’d hate the rural atmosphere. But it actually grew on me, because it was more honest than the aggressively tended lawns of my youth. There were ragged meadows, with cows munching them. There were miles of pine forest, and the outline of the Green Mountains everywhere you looked.
Still, I preferred the city. Especially a good, old one. My ex-boyfriend and I used to drive ninety minutes from Burlington into Montreal, where the drinking age (and therefore the clubbing age) was only eighteen. We had a blast finding all the gay bars and trying them out.
A group of college kids passed me on the sidewalk, laughing together. There was no denying that I was lonely, and letting it get to me tonight.
At ten o’clock on the dot, I walked into the hotel carrying my duffel bag and a heavy helping of dread. When Bella had given me my key card, she’d done it with a frown. “If you see anybody drinking before the game tomorrow, will you tell me?”
“Um, sure?” You’d have to be a pretty big idiot to want to drink before getting onto the ice with a bunch of guys who were trying to squish you like a bug.
She didn’t say anything about my rooming situation, so I was pretty sure who I’d find. Unless he’d fled, somehow.
Upstairs, the door to room 312 opened with a mechanical click, and I pushed inside. It was so dark in there that I assumed I was alone. In fact, when my eyes adjusted to the dimness it startled the crap out of me to see Graham sitting at the little table near the window, his chin parked on his folded hands.
I dropped my bag on the floor and fumbled for one of the bedside lamps. Even when I clicked it on, making a circle of yellow light on the rug, he didn’t move.
“Hola, Miguel,” I said, my voice low.
There was no response.
Seriously?Even if I could understand his reluctance to speak to me in a room full of people, ignoring me right now was asinine. He made me feel like I was starring in that movie where Bruce Willis is dead, but doesn’t know it.
Ishouldhave just headed into the bathroom to brush my teeth and pretend like it didn’t matter. But it did matter. And during the next ten seconds, my anger swelled. I was suddenlylivid, with the sound of blood pounding in my ears. Because no matter how much you might want to pretend a person doesn’t exist, you can’t do that. Especially if that person is your teammate.
Especially if that person used to be your best friend.
Crossing the room, I stood over him. He didn’t move. Not a muscle. So I raised a hand, hovering my palm over his forehead, where all that soft blond hair framed his face. I used to run my fingers through it. But I didn’t do that now. Instead, I used the heel of my hand to give his head a violent backward shove.
He moved then, because I really didn’t give him a choice. His neck snapped back until it collided with the wall, and his wild eyes met mine. But he didn’t say a word. And it made me so fucking crazy that I was close to losing it. I didn’t even plan to, but I made a fist.
“Hit me,” he whispered then. And the expression on his face held so much pain that you might think I’dalreadysocked him.
“FUCKyou,” I spat. I wanted to hit him — I really did. But the small flicker of sanity that I still possessed decided to surface, reminding me that I would only get in trouble for it. He probablywantedme to deck him so I’d get kicked off the team.
Not worth it.
Not worth it.
Just breathe.
I didn’t punch him. Instead, I reached up like a punk-ass kid and flicked him on the forehead. That’s proof right there that I was, at that moment, cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Hell, just then, I wished he’d hitme. Because then I’d have a good reason to feel this insane.
But that didn’t happen either. Instead, Graham reached up and caught my retreating hand by the wrist. Awkwardly, he pulled the back of my hand tight against his forehead, trapping it there. He closed his eyes, and heaved out a breath that had the weight of the world in it.
Stunned, I was frozen in place for a split second. My brain went temporarily offline at the feeling of Graham’s hand closing around mine. For a long second, I could only manage to take in the warmth of his palm and the trembling fingers.
Freaked out now, I jerked my hand out of his grip. Taking two steps backward, my knees hit the back of one of the beds, bringing me down to a seated position.Time out, my consciousness pleaded, trying to catch up. And all the while my heart slammed into my ribs.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.
I cleared my throat. “For what?”
