The crackle of the slightly shitty air conditioning is perfectly clear. I don’t dare breathe for fear of the noise it’ll make. The cat’s finally out of the bag.
From May’s side, sheets rustle, and then, a barely audible hum. Is it shock? Is she shocked? I can’t completely make out the sound. Part of me hopes she doesn’t totally hear me, but I keep going.
‘I never said anything, you know. When I had the chance back then. Sometimes I wonder what things would be like if I had said something. If maybe we wouldn’t be pretending right now.
‘And I came back, and it’s just … It’s so messed up, and I feel like I keep making it messed up. I … May, I wanna make it right by you. You deserve that. You’re owed that. I’m so, so fucking sorry.’
I wait, I wait in hope that maybe she’ll say something, maybe she’ll say what I want her to say. Maybe this is my do-over, this dumpster fire of a confession in a mediocre college hotel room in Albuquerque. But all I hear is her breathing, steady, quiet, even. No words.
I tell myself she’s probably fallen asleep. She probably didn’t hear any of that stuff at the end. And if she did, she’d have been too sleepy to remember it. She might think it’s a dream. Maybe.
I roll back over to face the wall to my left.
I don’t fall asleep for another two hours.
Chapter Seventeen
Mayday
May
‘Sometimes I just wonder what things would be like if I had said something. If we wouldn’t be pretending right now.’
I think about it all the time. There have been countless nights where I’ve stayed up living in a world where CJ Bradley and I addressed our feelings. I spent weeks bouncing between wanting him to have an exceptionally rough practice and take a mean crosse to the face, wanting him to have this ‘eureka’ moment where he figured out he screwed up a good thing, or even wanting him to have the biggest of big goals at his first game simply so that I’d know he was happy and content. Only now, years later, I find out that he’s been thinking about the same things. It’s a damn cruel twist of fate.
I pray he stops talking then and there, but the fool is gettingemotional, and I don’t know how to feel about it when he says, his voice a quiet rasp, ‘I’m so, so fucking sorry.’
I hold my breath with every word that comes out of his mouth. At that moment, I have no idea what to say. I’ve imagined a million scenarios where Colt comes back and finally realizes he made a mistake by leaving me the way he did, and I’ve imagined a million more where he’s rich, famous, and doesn’t give a crap about me any more.
It took a couple of wine-and-cry sessions, but I got past those alternate universes, and I moved on. I did. But never, in any of those universes, did I imagine I’d get what I’m getting right now. This confession. These feelings.
A moment passes, and I decide for the sake of my sanity that hopefully Colt thinks I’ve fallen asleep. I’m not concerned with getting the best sleep possible since I’m not playing tomorrow, but my eyes stay open for the next few hours as I contemplate everything I just heard, everything I never thought I would hear. And somehow, I think that maybe Colt is doing the exact same thing.
Next morning, my eyes flutter open to bars of sunlight cast through the room by the slats in the so-called blackout curtains. I’m quite warm and cosy … toasty, even. Getting out of bed would be a crappy move right about now, I think to myself as I hum contentedly and burrow my way back into Colt’s arms.
COLT’S ARMS.
OH MY GOD.
I recoil so fast I think I’m going to knock Colt out cold, throw a punch right at his very muscular chest. There’s no match for us to worry about, but suddenly, I’ve never wanted a gameto arrive sooner. I need something to take my mind off whatever thehellI’ve apparently got myself into.
Oh my god. Oh my god. I try my best to disentangle myself without waking Colt up. Our legs lie across one another’s, and there’s a mess of pillows every which way, not at all resembling the wall we’d put together last night. Colt’s arms are ridiculously strong and ridiculously difficult to move from. His hair is all tousled, sticking up in funny directions, a crease mark tracing its way along his cheek. He mumbles in his sleep just as I’m finally creeping off the bed, and I freeze in my tracks, eyes wide. Shit.
Thankfully, the guy doesn’t stir, completely passed out as he is. I let out a quiet sigh of relief and head towards my bag to grab a sweatshirt and running shorts. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Albuquerque has brought out cheerleaders and a full student section for this match. It’s never drawn too much of a crowd – after all, it’s a major rivalry game in a women’s sport, which means virtually no one makes an effort to learn about it, except maybe the lovesick Ronny Casamento – but I think I know the reason the school’s suddenly rolling out the red carpet. The reason, unfortunately, stands right beside me with eyes wide and arms flailing, a crowd of admirers behind him in the stands with phones out.
‘THROUGH!’ Colt and Coach yell in unison, pointing in the exact same direction. ‘RUN IT THROUGH!’
Maddie obliges, and in a split second, has made it through the defence to smack an absolute bullet of a goal into the net. She raises her crosse, and although the Albuquerque homecrowd isn’t having it, our team cheers harder than anyone on the field.
Colt whoops, his wavy hair rustling about in the warm wind, as he claps loudly. ‘Go get ’em, Maddie!’
‘You make a good team player when you try,’ I can’t resist prodding him.
He smirks, getting one last clap in. ‘Maybe that’s somethingyoudidn’t notice back in high school.’
‘Oh.’ I cough awkwardly and raise an eyebrow. As if I’d buy that. ‘You were a ball hog. I watched enough of your games to figure it out.’
