Cyn’s eyes widen with my question, and I know I’m doomed. She takes another sip from her cute mug, both hands cupping it like it’s her only source of warmth. Considering she’s in a white tank top and white booty shorts, her curly brown hair tied up in a bun on her head to expose her neck, it probably is.
“Pardon me?” she asks after she swallows. Nearly half a foot shorter than me, she ducks her chin and makes the height difference more startling. “Are you… Did you… Why are you asking me about that gorgeous,gorgeousman?”
I push my tongue to the roof of my mouth. That isnotwhat I wanted her reaction to be. Sure, I don’t follow hockey as well as a lot of people here, and not because I don’t enjoy the game. I do. I know itdecentlywell too, especially for an American from the South. But…What, Neve?What had I expected? The captain of the Dragons would be an unknown entity? Especially to someone likeCynthia,who loves sports? Did I think maybe he’d be a guy who wasn’t very good? Someone they just threw the “C” on out of pity? Because I heard what the blond said to him.“Captain.”
I could see with my own eyes last night that he was handsome as hell. Tall, muscular, all dark and brooding. Evenhis voice, deep and low, yeah, he was sexy. And the way he held me not once but twice, his scent was hot, too. Subtle and clean, masculine but not like he’d dumped cologne all over himself.
Fuck.
Fuck.
That isnotthe part of last night I should be thinking about. Maybe my brain is broken. Coursework on abnormal psych is my favorite, and I wonder if it has less to do with random interest and more to do with me trying to understand myself.
I whip away from my friend and busy myself with grabbing an espresso glass from the top of the machine, positioning it perfectly under the spout, then twisting off the portafilter and moving it above my glass.
I press the button to start it, then reach up and open the black-painted cupboards. I grab a small glass, set it on the dark countertop, then yank open the fridge and grab the whole, grassfed milk out. It’s beside Cynthia’s oat milk and any other morning, I’d tease her about how terrible oak milk is for you like I do every single morning we find ourselves in the kitchen together at the same time. It’s a battle I’ll always lose, but maybe I like petty fights with people I love.
The whole milk is only because it takes far less of it to make my lattes delicious, which means, despite the higher calorie count as a whole, I use less.
I’m always running those numbers. Doing the food math. And my morning caffeine fix is easy, since it’s the same thing I have each day.
This morning, though, my hands suddenly feel shaky and I remember I left my phone in my room and who knows if the police have already called for me and what if they show up at my door and Cyn doesn’t know what the fuck is going on and?—
“Shit.” I accidentally spilled some of the milk on the counter.
“Got it.” Cyn is already in action, her matcha latte down, a paper towel ripped perfectly from the stand, and I hear the sink behind me as she wets it. Then she swoops in and swipes up the small mess I made.
I lift my eyes and find hers as she winks at me, her big lashes my envy, then she turns and throws away the paper towel under the sink.
I cap the milk, put it back in the fridge, then open up the top-level freezer and grab a few chunks of ice from the small machine I was eternally grateful to find built-in. Not typical in Canada, I’ve since learned. They get too much ice in a year as it is, I guess.
I make the fatal mistake of tossing the cubes in my cupbeforeletting the espresso cool in my latté, but I can’t do it over now like I might have any other morning (Virgo rising perfectionist habits die hard).
“Neve.” Cynthia’s voice is stern now, her matcha back between her fingers. “Tell me now what’s going on and if I need to plan the murder of the captain of the Drayton Dragons. It will be a shame to watch his fine ass go down, but for you, I’d do it.”
Murder.
My stomach flips.
I don’t look at her.
The espresso is done brewing and for a rare moment, there’s silence inside our home. Not that we’re ever unbearably loud. Cyn likes her Taylor Swift on high every now and then and I love my nineties hip-hop, but we keep this place our sanctuary. None of my escapades happen in this house. It would feel like an affront to Midnight Blackwell’s, too.
It’s just typically, living in a city dominated by college students,somethingis going on outside our walls, past the windows in the street below.
Now, though, it’s like all I can hear is my heartbeat.
I reach for the warm espresso glass, slowly pour it into my milk and ice, wincing as the ice crackles and I see it start to melt. Then I set the glass down, pull open the drawer under the coffee station, grab a metal straw that’s heart-shaped on the end, and plunk it into my drink. It’s always too big for the cups I use but by now, I’m used to it. I take a long sip like a drag on a cigarette, closing my eyes for a second and letting the taste of caffeine revive me.
Then I set the glass down and turn to face my friend. Her golden brown skin is pale, her dark brows furrowed as she watches me. She’s worried, and she doesn’t even know what happened.
Is it because anything to do with Faust is horrible? Why? What’s his reputation? Maybe he’s such a player she just thinks he broke my heart, but then again, she knows me better than that. I don’t let boys know I even own the organ.
I have to tell her what happened.
I almost woke her up last night when I got in after talking to Nolan, but I felt sick and I wanted to blab everything to her when we were both well-rested.
At least it seems like one of us is now.
