Page 52 of He Has Pluck

“It’s not the end of the world just because you lost a game.”

“Right. It’s only a game,” he scoffs with such derision that I put a hand on his arm, and this time we’re alone, but I still feel the sharpness of his anger through his sleeve.

“It is. You’re more important than the game,” I say.

“I am the game. Are you blind? It’s all I have. All I’m about. All I’m good for.”

“Says who?”

“Says the history of my life, of my dad’s life. My dad.” He studies his shoes.

“Fuck your dad.” He whips his head up and shoots venom through his eyes with such ferocity that I back up. “No, I mean—”

“Forget it. I don’t give a crap what you mean. You only care about your career, about looking like a hero, about punishing yourself in the name of good, like a martyr. But what do you really accomplish? Nothing. Who gives a shit about your documentaries showing all the rot in the world? Does it ever change anything? No. There’s always more rot, more than ever. Maybe you help spread the rot by exposing it. Did you ever think of that?”

I’m stunned, and I try like hell to block out the slashes of truth in his words, but I’m too vulnerable and open, and I have no idea how that happened. Why him? How did he get past my defenses? He’s no one. He’s just a damn hockey player, a fucking professional athlete, the exact kind of shallow person I despise.

Except I don’t, and he’s not.

My conscience has this bright idea that I can’t ignore or hide from or run away from or snark away with attitude and icy resolve. I heave a deep breath, soaking in his scent layered with a soapy cleanness from his shower. And before I allow myself to picture him in the shower, I expose myself completely.

“I know,” I say.

His face softens, and he takes my arm and pulls me to him where he’s leaning against his car, sandwiched between it and a truck.

I rush my words now that he’s listening. “We’re both right, and we’re both wrong. Isn’t that how it always is?” I laugh because I hate this truth most of all. Because it means there’s no way to win.

“Can we call a truce?” he asks, snaking an arm around me. I drop my camera, not caring if I break a fucking lens.

“I should have come over last night. I was confused. I didn’t know what to think of…Brenna. Didn’t want to care that you have a girlfriend.”

“Had a girlfriend. I told you I broke it off. She got it in her head to come after me, but not because I invited her. She’s gone now.”

“She’s not the point,” I say, thinking poor girl. “I don’t want to care if you have someone else, and I do. That’s the point.”

He quirks one side of his mouth up. “I know. I like that you care. But hell if I know what to do with that because I got this hockey dream and these games to play, and I can’t let go—”

“Don’t let go of your dreams because of me. I’m a cynical mess, who shouldn’t be telling anyone what to do with their lives. I’m no judge of what’s right or wrong. Hell, maybe you’re doing more good for mankind than I am. You probably have more fans than I do. You make people smile and cheer and wear your fucking name on their jerseys. That has to mean something.”

“Not as much as it would if you wore a jersey with my name on it.”

“I can’t. I…” I have no idea why the idea makes me shriek inside like I’d be swallowed by a shark if I did, like I’d be gone and I wouldn’t know who I was anymore. Like if she knew, my mom would call me and congratulate me on landing a hot hockey player. “Look, I care about you; I crave you with every ounce of my body. That’s the fucking truth whether I like it or not, and I’m brave enough or stupid enough to admit it. But…we’re still not on the same team. Not meant to be. I can’t give up my dreams either. No matter how futile they are.”

He touches my hair, takes in a deep shuddering breath, and his sad eyes penetrate me, hitting me right in the solar plexus so I can hardly breathe.

“I wouldn’t want you to.” His voice is a scratchy whisper and so final and heartbreaking even though I have no idea what this means—or maybe I do, but I can’t deal with it.

“Come over to my house tonight,” I say, the plea in my voice so obvious that I don’t care if he thinks I’m begging. Because I am. Shamelessly. He shakes his head.

“I need to rest, to make up for lost sleep.” He gives me rueful smile, slides his fingers through my hair then squeezes my shoulder. He leaves his hand there when I’m bracing myself for him to let go. To let me go. “I’ll call you,” he says.

I want to believe him so much that I do. “Sure. We still have lots of narrative to cover and a whole bunch of games—”

“We’ll get through it. We’ll both get what we want.” He says this with such confidence that I believe him for no reason except that I want to. Because there’s no logic or sense or reason to believe that either of us will get what we want.

Maybe I’m not even sure what I want anymore.

He drops his hand and opens his door as I back away, picking up my camera where I dropped it. He disappears from the parking garage, and I film it because we’ll need a parting shot for the documentary. A shiver of icy cold shakes me. Doing my job gives me no comfort. It only makes the echoes of loneliness that rattle inside me seem louder.