I scoff humorlessly. “I don’t need a friend. The role has already been filled.”
“Oof.” He winces playfully. “Well, I’ll be a temporary friend then.”
He pauses, his hands flexing over and over, as I’m sure he’s thinking of what to say. I’m at an equal loss for words. But maybe he’s not.
“What’s happening?”
I shrug, rolling my eyes. Tears fall over my lashes, finding the pool that’s been building in my shirt and the top of my pants. “It’s a long story.”
Gently, he bumps his shoulder into mine. “Joke’s on you. I love a long story.”
The sobs bubble up in my throat again, and I can’t stop them when they burst free, tearing through the room. I’m not going to be able to tell him this story because there’s no way I’m forming a single word in this condition. I’m practically wailing to a stranger.
I cry out, agony slicing through me, and then he does something I don’t expect. His arms wrap around me again, effortlessly pulling me into his lap. He tucks my head into the crook of his neck, holding the nape of my neck with his hand as he rocks me back and forth. Most surprisingly, I don’t stop it or fight him. I think I needed to be cradled like this more than I’d like to admit.
Everything pours out of me as I cry angrily, fed up with this entire situation. The last two years. Today. Every second in between.
Letting it all out, I exhaust myself, and he holds me every step of the way, offering a comfort I haven’t felt in a while. My parents do their best, but I think I’ve kept them at arm’s length for the most part, avoiding facing the music head-on. But at this moment, I’m raw down to the bone, vulnerable in a way I’ve never experienced.
I chuckle, probably sounding fucking insane to this kind man. But ever so slightly, I feel the pressure on my heart lessen.
Add this to the list of stupid things I’ve done today—cry into a stranger’s suit after they found me bawling in a dark room.
Eventually, my breathing starts to even out, and I feel his hand brushing up and down my back.
“Talk to me.”
I shouldn’t. I have no idea who he is, not that I can see him in this position or through the blurriness of my tears. Maybe that’s why it makes it easier to open up to him. I’m not constantly assuming what he’s thinking or going to say next.
“This is the first time I’ve been in a rink in over two years, and it terrifies me. I thought I was ready …” Honesty flows abnormally from my lips. Perhaps because I’m exhausted mentally, emotionally,spirituallyfrom how hard I just cried.
He cuts me off with a whisper, his soft, warm breath hitting my ear. “Who says you’re not?”
“I think this,” I scoff, throwing my hand out to the side, “proves it.”
He blows a raspberry, and it tickles my ear. “Your body is just processing emotion the only way it knows how. That doesn’t mean you’re not ready. It just means you still have feelings about it all, like any normal person would. But you’re here, trying, and that’s what matters most. I know you’ll get there.”
“What makes you so sure?” I murmur almost inaudibly, wiping beneath my eyes. I would try to preserve my makeup, but I’m sure it’s so far fucked that there’s no point of return. And, goddammit, I’m going to owe this guy a new suit.
Gently, he cups my head and pulls me back enough to meet his stunning blue eyes, wet with emotion of his own. He offers me a kind smile, but I don’t miss the pain behind his stare.
His touch is warm, welcoming, and far too comfortable. I want to lean into it, latch on to whatever he’s offering. I’m desperate for it, pathetically so.
My gaze doesn’t travel away from his eyes, not to his full lips, or his wavy and long brown hair, or his short and perfectly groomed facial hair. Nope, not at all. A slight wave of recognition drifts over me,but I can’t place it.
His thumbs brush my cheeks, wiping away any remnants of tears left behind.
“I know.” His lips tip up in the corner, his eyes lighting up as he says with the utmost certainty, “Because you’re ShayfuckingRooney—that’swhy.”
My lips part, my air frozen in my lungs. “What-—how …”
My brain starts processing for the first time since I came in here. He spoke to me like he knew exactly what battles I’d faced before, and clearly, that’s because he, in fact, knew.
It’s like I’m finally waking up from this dream or nightmare. My gaze is frantic as I study his face, and then my eyes explorethe rest of him rapidly—his dark suit, nice watch, all the way to the lapel pin that dons the Nighthawk logo.
But I know he’s not a coach or any staff that I’ve seen, leaving the worst scenario possible …
Oh my God.
