Page 27
“Shit,” I curse, darting down the hallway and bursting into the locker room, expecting it to be empty. Expecting him to have left instead of waiting for me.
But Bennett Reiner is still here, standing stiffly where he always stands when I meet him after practice. His eyes dart to me at my rather cacophonous entrance, body straightening to his full, daunting height.
“I’m sorry—”
His fists curl for a moment, neck visibly tight as he shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
It clearly isn’t, but I ignore it and reach for the careful pile of his uniform. I’ve hit my limit on male ego for the day—and if he’s this upset about me being late when this isn’t even technically my job—
“I got a dog,” he blurts. It only surprises me because he’s usually quiet, just observing while I practice his routine, never returning my polite smiles. “His name is Seven.”
“Seven,” I repeat, not looking up from my task. “Weird name for a dog. Though I’m surprised you didn’t name him Sonnet, or after some ancient white man who wrote overly structured poetry.”
My words are snippier than I mean for them to be, and the almost childlike hurt that moves across his face makes me feel worse.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, head dropping. “I’m being mean. I just . . . I had a bad day today.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “It’s fine.”
Bennett is always aware of his size, never crowding me, never touching me intentionally or unintentionally. He doesn’t move closer, only stares expectantly.
“I don’t really get along with one of the guys who works with me.”
“Is he mean to you?”
There’s a gruffer quality to his voice that wasn’t there before.
I shrug. “Sometimes. He just . . . he thinks he’s funny.”
What a beautiful turn of phrase to say that he’s a misogynistic asshole.
Bennett nods, arms still crossed as I finish the last of his pads. He helps me put them back in his cubby before we step back in unison.
His body is warm, heat still wafting off him where I’m close enough to feel it. The smell of him is heady, as it always is—sandalwood and bergamot, and something else, too, that reminds me of the water on a coastal beach.
Bennett always showers and dresses fully before meeting me after each practice, hair damp and body still flushed. His skin is always smooth, too, as if he’s just shaved.
“If he bothers you again, tell me.”
The words are steady and strong, more confident than any eighteen-year-old’s should be. His expression is as serious as his tone. It might be the harshest I’ve ever heard him speak.
“Okay.”
He waits by the door for me to gather my belongings, like he always does, before holding every door open for me until we’re out of the arena and into the lightly crisp September air. A beat of silence hangs in the air.
“Have a good night, Paloma.”
It’s the first time he’s said my name.
“You too, Bennett.”
He pauses and turns back to me, calling my name under the glow of the parking lot lights. “I think you’d like Sylvia Plath,” he says, a strange look in his eyes. But no smile, as if my relation to her might not be celebratory to him.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
