“It’s a pregame tradition,” he tells me. “We have an away game tomorrow.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I’ll be gone till Friday.” He smirks. “You can get some peace and quiet in.”
A laugh tumbles out of my mouth. “Thank God.”
“You know you’ll miss me,” he teases.
I don’t know what to say to that, given that it feels a little too close to flirting for my liking, so I just flash him an eye roll and shake my head.
“Good night, Jack,” I say, already heading toward the hall.
“Night, Abby,” he calls back. “And thank you. I mean it.”
I only pause for a second before I continue on toward my bedroom, not stopping until I’m safely tucked away behind the door. I find myself replaying the entire conversation we just had over and over in my head, trying to discern what it means for me.
It had been easier to separate things when I thought of Jack asjust another vapid fuckboy who ran his mouth a little too much—but hearing everything he had to say tonight, realizing that there may be more to him than just endless jokes and incessant flirting? That’s a Jack I don’t know how to deal with.
That’s a Jack I’m nowhere near equipped for.
Ten
Jack
We lost games one andtwo against Dallas, and for the last few days, I’ve done nothing but mope about it. Logically, I know that it’s not entirely my fault, but the fact that Coach benched me for the third period of both games makes it feel like it is. My arm has been relatively okay the last few days, actually, which feels like a slap in the face after the loss. We have our third game of round one against them at the end of the week, and sure, it’s on our home turf, and sure, there are five more chances to eke out the win and go to round two—but it feels like a bad omen, losing right off the bat.
I’ve been sitting on my couch for the last three hours, staring at old game footage as if the answers can be found there, but in all reality, I’m just killing time. Abby is in class today, not that I expect her to hang around and play therapy with me again, but I have to admit that after our talk the other night…I felt lighter than I have since before my accident. Theinitialone.
Maybe it’s because I never let myself talk about all that shit, too worried about burdening someone, about coming across as anything other than the picture of (mostly) put together for everyone around me. But it felt nice to just…be. Even if only for a short while. No judgment, no expectations, just airing my shit out to someone who had actually listened and hadn’t made me feel like a mess after.
It’s weird how part of me feels like texting her, just to see what she might have to say about the way that I’m feeling, but I know that’s a bad call. She may have been nice to me foroneevening, but she didn’t sign up to be my personal therapist.
It’sweirderthat I’m sitting here fiddling with a gift I got her, something incredibly stupid that I got in the DFW airport on the flight back from Dallas—just something that reminded me of her. I’m not even sure I’ll ever give it to her; the little armadillo key chain is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever bought. But its sewn face looks like it’s made up into a perma-frown, and it made me laugh, reminding me of her a bit.
The fact that I’m holding my phone, contemplating texting Abby still when it buzzes, means that I jolt a little though. I pull open the text message, frowning when I see what it says.
Ian:You busy?
I roll my eyes.
Me:busy with your mom
Ian:Do you want me to break your other arm?
Me:wow. I am definitely telling Christine about that mouth of yours.
Ian:Get off your ass and come with me today.
Me:…to?
Ian:St. Michael’s. I have some ice time scheduled with Kyle.
I’d almost forgotten Ian was still doing that. I don’t even know how he finds the time in the middle of all this.
Me:kinda busy over here
Ian:I know for a fact you’re sitting on your ass watching old game footage and moping. It would do you some good to get out of the apartment.
