8. Grace
eight
He is spectacular. He’s all I fantasized about, except better. Saying that he takes my breath away doesn’t even begin to describe it. My heart threatens to fly out of my ribcage, my legs refuse to function, my hands are clammy and my vision blurred.
What is Ethan doing here? Am I hallucinating?
I mean, it’s not entirely impossible. I’ve been fantasizing so much about Ethan, I wouldn’t be surprised if my crazy brain made him up entirely. I don’t even know how I went through a normal conversation with him yesterday at the farm. It was like I was watching myself act like a perfectly sane person.
“Is this Coach Randall’s camp?” I asked Suzy Parker at the reception, when I got here a few minutes ago.
She smiled. “Coach had an emergency, but he found a replacement. Are you here for Tracy? Her mom said you’d come.”
I nodded.
“Go right in!” she said. “Quite some training he’s doing there.”
I usually try to stay away from the Arena. Chris plays here, so I do go on occasion, but not if I can avoid it.
So many memories of Ethan are tied to this place. To hockey. We didn’t always have an Arena, or a team. We got one thanks to Ethan. He was spotted by a rich tourist skating on the lake, and one thing leading to another, a year later we had a brand spanking new arena. The first game, Ethan racked up several key assists and scored three goals.
After the game, he gave me his puck.
I treasured it like anything that came from Ethan. Three years later, Ethan took us to Nationals. We traveled to Massachusetts for that. It seemed the whole town was there. When he came out in all his glory—he was already glorious back then—he pulled out the puck he’d scored the first goal with and gave it to me.
I saw stars. Felt butterflies in my belly. My stupid grin didn’t leave me for the next twenty-four hours.
Ethan had given me his puck. Again.
That had to mean something, right?
It didn’t matter that he’d ruffled my hair like I was a little kid (I was still a little kid, at the time). It didn’t matter that he didn’t sign it (what did I need that for?). What mattered, was that he’d said, “You’re my good luck charm, Gracie Bear.”
And I believed him.
He was only being nice; I see that now. It took me a long time to peel apart this crazy attraction—infatuation, call it what you want—I’d had for Ethan.
It was my fault I fell so hard for him and hurt so bad when he broke my heart.
I’d been building up to him throughout my entire life, without anyone or anything to tell me to stop making shit up.
He’d done nothing but treat me like a family friend, his sister’s bestie. Well, for most of the time. Then, things took another turn. At least in my mind they did. In his? I didn’t mean a thing to him.
I should have known that.
I did know it.
I should have understood the consequences.
I see it now. I can’t hold him accountable for what happened.
“Hey, Coach!” I say, hoping to feel detached. “How’s it going?”
He frowns at me, looking puzzled.
Look. I don’t know. I just said hi. Why is he being weird like that? I’m trying to be normal! Can’t he just say hi back or am I always, always misunderstanding this man?
“Grace…” he says.
Oh—I get it. He’s wondering why I’m here. He might think I’m ambushing him like some puck bunny. I laugh. It is kinda funny. On the other hand, he wanted to have coffee together. Like old friends. Those two words still sting, but I have to shove my feelings aside. “Oh—I’m just here for Tracy.” I lift my duffel bag, like that’s gonna help him understand. “Massage?”
Several things seem to pass across his face, like a whole storm. Rain. Sunshine. Thunder. Why is this man so complicated? Tracy is behind him, and as I descend the bleachers as fast as my cottony legs allow, I motion her to follow me to a private room. “Let’s go,” I say in a whisper, my vocal cords going on strike the moment I reach the bottom and Ethan is there.
He’s occupying the whole space, his scent of clean sweat, leather and rubber slapping me like the best and the worst memory, a surge of happiness and despair so intrinsically linked together, this might signal the end of my existence on Earth, and if it does, it won’t matter because I will have lived all the emotions I care to ever experience.
How I perform the massage, and how I get home—I do not know.
I do know that I wake up the next day with the dread of what awaits me that evening.
Another massage at the Arena, another few minutes in the inevitable presence of Ethan King, who makes me feel both alive and dead in the same breath.
But this time I’m mentally prepared. I know what’s coming. I will handle the situation like a grown-up. And so, in the car, I rehearse.
“Coach! How did the teams do today?”
I should call him Ethan, right? Not Coach. Oh god, I don’t know if I can even say his name. “Guys! Aren’t you lucky to have Coach Ethan this week?” Okay, maybe if I talk about him, it’ll go smoother. Still, I need to try the direct address.
Okay. Here we go. What could I tell him? Oh, I know. “Ethan! Do you know if Coach Randall will be back before you leave? I bet he’d love to see you.” Okay, that went well. Voice working and everything. I just need to practice.
“Ethan! Ethan! Ethan!”
By the time I pull into the parking lot, I’ve said his name a hundred times. It might seem crazy. But I’m just being prepared.
Also, today, I get to the Arena right on time. None of this being early and watching my childhood crush possess the ice like a god nonsense.
By the time I’m out of my car, I’m two minutes late. Good.
Even better, Millie is coming out of the Arena. I walk up to her, hoping to kill a few more minutes with a little chat, but she inexplicably waves at me from afar and dashes to her car.
I wave back at her, smiling, counting to ten.
Perfect.
He’ll be in the men’s locker room.
He’s not.
He’s in the middle of a wide circle of teenagers drinking sports drinks and munching on snacks that are way too healthy for kids their age (What will they be eating when they start having health issues? You gotta live, guys, you gotta live), and he says—no—he exclaims, “There she is!” like they’ve all been waiting for me to make my grand entrance.
I freeze at the door, a deer caught in the headlights of the man who always shone too bright for me. He walks toward me. Gives me his killer smile, the one that tips his mouth up on one side only, the one that creates that dimple that I very distinctly remember licking. And he hands me a to-go cup from Easy Monday with my name on it in his handwriting, not Millie’s. I know Millie’s handwriting, and this is not hers. And I used to know Ethan’s, and this is exactly like his. “Extra spicy chai with almond milk and maple syrup.”
“Oh…”
“It’s called a… I dunno. Something fancy.”
A Harvest Hug. My favorite. Harvest Hug.
“I got it delivered and hot… because it’s cold in here.”
“Oh…”
He shoves the cup in my hands, and thankfully, our fingers don’t touch, because that would have led to disaster. “And I had her use two cups because her sleeves are shit.”
Her sleeves are shit. “She has insulated cups…” I start saying, stupidly, and stop myself. She sells insulated cups (real cute ones, for what it’s worth). What am I doing? “Thanks,” I say, looking up to meet his gaze.
Mistake.
My lady parts applaud.
Big mistake.
I take a sip of the tea. It’s divine—everything Millie sells is divine—and it’s my favorite. I wonder if he asked her what I liked? Did he mention me? Or did he just say, “Hey, get me something hot. Not coffee ’cause it’s too late.” Or something like that.
I wonder.
I take another sip of tea because it helps me focus on staying sane, and not asking him silly questions like How did you know this was my favorite? But mainly because it explains why I’m not looking at him when I’m dying to and when I still feel his eyes on me.
Godhe feels good.
I store that feeling for a later time, when I’ll need it.
And again that day, the massage comes and goes without a hitch, and I get home and do what I need to do, and I’m back the next day.
This time, I don’t know why—I swear, I didn’t plan it—I’m early. Just a little bit. Like maybe fifteen minutes. “Don’t you want to go out there and watch the training?” Suzy Parker asks me.
I can’t decently say, No, watching Ethan King on the ice coaching kids with care and attention is not something I should do. “I guess I should check how Tracy is doing.”
See? That’s why I’m early. To see how my client is faring. What I’ll need to pay attention to during the massage.
I place myself away from the entrance, so I’m not in the danger zone when practice ends, the red zone of Ethan coming out, the zone where my body parts start betraying me.
I sit off to the side and try to focus only on my client. I force myself to keep my eyes off Ethan as he glides on the ice. Tracy leans into a power turn, and I notice the trembling in her thigh. She’ll need effleurage and petrissage, as well as passive stretching.
Good, I’m doing good.
Ethan’s voice guiding his team makes it hard to forget he’s here, though, so when he leaves the ice—it’s hard not to notice—I breathe easier. This is what it’s supposed to be. A private gig at the end of the day. Another way to spread the word. To build my business.
Not a full-on assault on my sanity.
Then Ethan comes back, holding something in his hand. I strive not to look, and mostly, I succeed.
He glides effortlessly across the rink. Shouts a few instructions to the kids. Then locks eyes with me (okay, I might have cheated a little and taken a peek at him) and before you know it, he’s jumping off the ice, into the bleachers, standing in front of me handing me an insulated mug from Easy Monday.
The ones you buy.
Not just any mug either, but Millie’s cutest one. Light pink with gold bears and dark green trees. I was admiring it just the other day.
“Harvest Hug. That’s what it’s called. You like it, right?” That killer smile again. That dimple.
I grab the mug and hold onto it for dear life. “Oh gosh. I… you didn’t need to do that.” I take a deep breath to say thank you, but he’s already gone, sliding on the ice, rallying the kids around him, a magnet for them too.
Eyes glued to him, I sip my tea.
Then I give Tracy her massage.
Before I leave, he swipes the mug from me. “For tomorrow,” he says. Our eyes lock briefly, his gaze tender.
But he doesn’t even wait for me to say anything. Just like that, he’s gone. Poof.
Why doesn’t he even try to talk to me? What happened to wanting to have coffee together?
Ugh. I’ve never understood him. Never will.
And now he’s ruining The Harvest Hug for me. I’ll never be able to order it and not think of him. “Selfish,” I mutter under my breath.
On Thursday their training goes on forever. My cup is waiting for me on the bleachers, and I down it, quick little sips, then stand to exit and wait near the lockers.
Ethan slides up to me. “Where’you going?”
“I’m gonna wait inside.”
“Why?”
Because I can’t keep my eyes off you. Because I’m imprinting so much of the way your body moves, the way your voice sounds, even the way your scent carries in wafts when you walk past me, I can’t sleep at night anymore. Because I need to stop the torture. “It’s getting cold.”
And before I know it, I’m wrapped in the jacket he was wearing, and he leans into me to tuck the hat he was wearing snug over my head, and this time, this time, I do think I’m going to faint because now his scent in all around me.
And I remember his scent.
I thought I was making it up but no, I wasn’t.
His scent is unique, and it’s been with me since I can remember having feelings for him that were beyond friendship.
And I definitely remember the smell that defined the best night of my life. It was his. His, mixed with sex, and nature all around us. I lock my hands around the mug he’s brought me again. It’s empty now, only a tether I use to avoid, literally, fainting.
And I feel my body relax, warm up, and melt into everything that is Ethan. Even if he’s not really here, holding me in his arms, enclosing me in his being.
It’s as close to him as I’ll ever get now.
And it’s divine.
And it won’t last.
And so I savor it for the minutes that I can.