“It’s fine. I talked to my mom. Told her everything. She made me feel okay about it,” I explain and finish my coffee. I put the mug in the sink and turn back to her.
I have an overwhelming urge to just lean in and kiss her. God, I wish I could just kiss her. I sigh.
“Later, Callie,” I mumble and give her a pat on the shoulder as I walk past.
My suitcase is already in the hall and so I just grab my keys and slip into my suit jacket, which I had left on the end of the banister. She’s leaning against the doorway into the kitchen staring at me with a look I can’t quite read.
I give her a wave and head out the door.
Chapter 35
Callie
Icurl up on the couch. It’s been snowing all day so I’ve been stuck inside and the townhouse feels cavernous and depressing—because I’m lonely. I think about calling Sam and inviting him over, but as lonely as I am I don’t want company. Then I think about calling Jessie or Rose but, well, they’re going to want to talk about Devin and that is the last thing I want to discuss.
So I turn on the gas fireplace, curl up under the blanket on the couch and turn on the TV. I don’t want to watch Devin’s game—I really don’t. I didn’t watch every single game he played before I moved here so I shouldn’t watch them now. After all, nothing has changed. I’m still just his buddy. I don’t need to see every single game he plays.
I sigh. Unfortunately, because it’s the middle of a Sunday afternoon, all the channels are filled with infomercials and bad movies. So I end up on the Thunder-Barons game by default. I make myself feel better with the fact that I didn’t watch the Tigers-Barons game the night before.
It’s the middle of the second and the Barons are down 2–0. The game seems overly intense. This isn’t a franchise rivalry so I don’t know why there is so much aggression on the ice. Also, the San Francisco Thunder aren’t known as an overly physical team—and neither are the Barons—so why are there so many hits and penalties?
When I tune in, Devin is in the penalty box. He’s never in the box! The camera focuses on him, his jaw clenched sternly and his eyes dark and narrowed. He’s rocking back and forth with pent-up aggression. The caption says “Devin Garrison, two minutes for boarding.”BOARDING?!What the hell is he doing?
I fight the urge to text him.
The game goes on and they kill off his penalty and manage to even get a goal, but the third period turns into a slugfest. There are three fights before the halfway point. And then one of the Thunder players flat-out slew foots Tommy Donahue—using his own leg to hook Tommy’s from behind, wrenching his knee. Tommy goes down in a heap on the ice and Devin goes after the guy who does it. His gloves fly across the ice and he gets off two solid right hooks before the Thunder player even knows he’s being challenged.
“Devin Garrison, calm the fuck down!” I yell at the TV. The linesman starts grabbing at the back of Devin’s jersey, trying to pull him away, while the ref tries to get in between them. Before the fight can be dismantled, the Thunder defenseman gets a solid shot off, clocking Devin across the jaw.
I jump off the couch. Devin teeters backward but the linesman keeps him upright and drags him to the penalty box. They break for a commercial as the trainer runs to the ice to deal with a still unmoving Tommy.
I pace the living room until they show Devin again in the penalty box. He’s pressing a towel up to his left cheek. When he pulls it away, there is blood on it from a small cut and I can see his cheek is already swelling.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper to his image on the flat screen.
The game ends in a 2–1 loss for Brooklyn.
I want to text him and see if he’s okay or call him and yell at him for fighting, but I don’t let myself do it. It’s not my place. I’m not his wife or girlfriend. It’s not a big deal. He’ll be fine.
Chapter 36
Devin
Iopen the door at one in the morning and carefully and quietly lift my suitcase into the hall. The house is dark and silent. I slip out of my shoes and start up the stairs, leaving my suitcase downstairs in order to avoiding making unnecessary noise.
Her bedroom door is closed. I pause in front of it. I want to see her so badly. I know—even though it makes no sense—that just seeing her will make me feel better. And she’ll have some opinion or rationale about the game that will be bold and crazy yet completely logical and it will make me smile. But I can’t. She’s not my wife or my girlfriend. She’s just my…roommate? At least that’s all she wants to be, so I leave her sleeping and head into my room.
I strip out of my clothes, leaving on just my underwear, and head into the bathroom. I study my face in the mirror. There is a small cut—it only needed two stitches—but the welt forming is pretty big and angry looking.
I head back into my room and stop dead. She’s sitting on the edge of my bed. She’s in gray capri sweats and a baby-pink T-shirt that says “Bar Star” in pink glitter across the chest. Her hair is pulled up in a sloppy half ponytail–half bun thing that girls do. In her hands she’s got what looks like a washcloth with something wrapped in it.
“Did I wake you?”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” she replies and motions me over. I walk to her and sit down beside her. She reaches up and touches my cheek with what’s in her hand. It’s cool and damp against my puffy cheek. I realize it’s ice wrapped up in the washcloth.
“Does it hurt?”
I nod. “A little. The freezing they gave me when they stitched it is wearing off.”
