“Finley,” Zach says, a careful edge in his tone.
I focus on Zach’s words instead of the ugly memories. Hearing him state his attraction so plainly warms the dead place inside of me. His voice drowns out the others.
“Old habits die hard,” I explain. “There’s been a lot of strides in the sport, but when I was younger, it was pretty damn toxic. And my coaches weren’t exactly wrong. It’s easier to do certain elements when you’re small and light. I’ve had to change my routines to accommodate changes in my body.”
Zach glances back at the TV where the next video in the queue is playing—me at the Olympic Trials not long before my elite gymnastics career ended. The makeup and glittery leotard fooled so many people, but all they needed to do was look closer. If they had, they’d recognize what I see— a girl barely holding it together, burdened by the heaviness of her limbs, exhaustedafter self-medicating and pushing herself to the absolute brink for the dream she’d always had.
Zach’s right. I looksad.
“Your routines are cooler now,” Zach says after watching me double-pike off the balance beam.
I snort, my hand flinging toward the TV. “My routines are nowhere near as difficult as these.”
“Says who?”
“The code of points.” When Zach stares blankly, I explain. “It’s like the rulebook. The judges use it to grade us.”
“Screw them.”
“You know, back then I might have if it would’ve helped.”
Zach’s brows shoot to his hairline.
“Joking. But I had this desperate desire to win at all costs. I think sometimes I hated the sport as much as I loved it. You ever feel like that?”
“Sometimes.” Zach leans back on the couch, shoving his hands behind his head. “I made hockey my entire life, gave up so much for it because I love playing. I enjoy it more than anything else, and sometimes, I resent it for the same reason. Because here I am on the sidelines, thinking about what I’ll do if this is a career-ender. I hate how much I need it, you know?”
I nod, his words speaking to a part of myself I don’t reveal to anyone. Most people haven’t wrapped their life around something, breathing it every waking moment, so they can’t relate.
“I know exactly what you mean.” I clear emotion from my throat, needing a break from this conversation. “Well, I showed you mine.”
Zach scoffs. “You’ve seen me on the ice.”The clip of him getting concussed.
“That doesn’t count,” I protest. “Please?” I flutter my eyelashes, adding apretty pleasewhen I’m met with extended silence.
Zach blows out a breath. “Fine. But for the record, I’m not a total pushover who will give in every time you look at me all cute like that. Because I’m not. I’m agreeing to show you this video because watching some asshole take me out on the ice doesn’t accurately represent my skill.”
I laugh, charmed by his rambling answer. Zach manages to make me laugh, swoon when his smile lights his eyes, and painfully crave him between my legs. A combination I didn’t even think could exist.
“Whatever you say,Calder.”
“How do you know I won that?”
The Calder Memorial Trophy goes to the best rookie of the year, and the man down the couch from me won it two years ago. Handily. Zach ridiculously downplays his skill. He smiles in a way that has my stomach flipping.
“You look me up,High-flyer?”
Heat kisses my cheeks while I run my hand along my jaw. “Oh, are we giving each other nicknames? I’ve got a few oth—”
Zach’s hand lands on my mouth, muffling my words. My body freezes as awareness sparks, my lips tingling from his touch. He doesn’t pull away, his hand lingering on my face. I run my tongue along the inside of my lips, fighting the temptation to lick his palm, to push him to break the tension between us.
I swallow hard, becoming more affected the longer our eye contact persists. Zach slowly pulls away from me, but his gaze drops to my lips. What would it be like to kiss him? I didn’t let myself experience it two years ago, but dammit, I want to know now.
He reaches tentatively for my face, his thumb tracing my cheek. I wet my lips, willing him to lean forward.
The alarm beeps and the front door swings open behind us.
Zach throws himself to the other end of the couch, snatching the remote as Kennedy’s lilting voice filters through the air. “Briggsy, where are you?”
