Chapter 11 Olive Branch
Chapter eleven
Olive Branch
Jameson Sinclair
Walking away from Marigold while she was hurting was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
If I didn’t think I’d make everything worse, I would have stayed.
But if I had, I would have ended up giving into my instincts.
The ones that tell me to pull her into my arms and never let go.
I don’t think she would have appreciated that, given how she essentially told me she wasn’t going to ever forgive me.
I slam a puck into the empty net. Practice is over, but I didn’t get out all of my pent-up emotions during it, so I changed out of my pads and stayed behind.
The team probably thinks I’m trying to impress Coach, but it’s more for me than it is him.
There’s a maelstrom simmering beneath my skin.
I’m liable to snap if I don’t get it out in a healthy way.
It’s not anger so much as it is this choking hopelessness that I can’t seem to shake.
A vise grip that tightens with every conversation between me and Marigold.
When I go to remove the puck from the net, it keeps sliding away or getting caught. A frustrated growl escapes me. I slam my stick against the bar of the goal over and over until it snaps. Chest heaving, I lift it again.
“What did that stick do to you?” Nash’s voice carries over the ice.
I drop my arms and look to the player’s box where he’s standing. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his sweats. He looks relaxed as ever, unfazed by my display.
“Not in the mood,” I grunt, and start to pick up what’s left of my hockey stick. My hands are freezing from coming back out on the ice without gloves.
Coach won’t be happy if he finds out I broke team property like this. I’ll have to take some money out of my savings and bring it to him along with my apology. If I did impress him by staying late, that’s ruined now.
“You know, when we first met, I thought you fit the stereotype of a future enforcer. Big, brooding, violent.” I grimace at his words. “Then we roomed together, and I realized you’re a pretty chill guy, you just play things close to the chest.”
“Let me guess,” I say as I skate over to him. “You’ve gone back to your first impression.”
He shakes his head.
“No, now I think you don’t just keep to yourself, you bury everything real deep so no one else gets to see it.”
I sigh and slide through the open bench door.
“Are you going to ask me any questions, or are you just going to philosophize until I want to throw something at you?”
Nash chuckles. “If I ask, will you answer?”
I rake a hand through my sweat-dampened hair.
“It depends on the question, I guess.”
“Why do you take out your emotions on the ice instead of—I don’t know—talking about them with your roommate?”
I stare at Nash. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and crosses his arms over his chest. No sign of backing down in his expression.
“I was never very good at talking about feelings. I learned over time to share them with my best friend, and that was ruined, so now I’m not too keen on opening up again.” The words come out before I can censor them. “There. Satisfied?”
“Ah, so this is about Red. I figured as much.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I wanted to see if I was right.”
I roll my eyes and plop down on the bench to take off my skates.
“Look,” Nash says as I trade my skates for shoes. “I know I’m not her. And that we don’t know each other all that well—though I’d like to point out that is solely your fault.” I shoot him an unamused look. “But I’m here for you. I can be a good listener.”
“When you’re not talking someone’s ear off, maybe,” I grouse.
He laughs. “Touché.”
I put the rubber guards on my skates, then toss them into my duffel and stand.
“Thanks.” I rub the back of my neck. “I’ll try to talk about things more. I guess.”
Nash cringes. “You really are terrible at this.”
I shove him, making him laugh.
“Wanna go get some food?” he asks instead of staying on the topic, which I appreciate. Because he’s right—I am terrible at this sort of thing. Marigold made it easy, but I think even with her my comfort stemmed from knowing her most of my life.
Sometimes I feel guilty for being the way that I am.
It’s not as though I have a reason to be so closed off.
My parents are supportive and amazing. Sure, my dad isn’t overly sentimental, but he’s never held back love.
But there’s something in me that just doesn’t do well with sharing my emotions.
I’d rather deal with the problem that causes them than talk about them.
“Sure, sounds good.”
We head out of the arena, and a realization hits me along with a gust of wind. I stop in my tracks.
“We rode here together.”
Nash glances over his shoulder. “I thought you might have forgotten about that.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask, and start walking again.
“Because you seemed like you needed more time on the ice. I figured I could see the PT and by the time I was done, you might be too.”
Guilt settles in my stomach like a stone.
“I should have remembered.”
Nash shrugs. “If it was a problem, I would have said so.”
Since he seems unbothered, I decide not to harp on it. The gesture isn’t lost on me, though, and I’ll have to think of some way to repay him for waiting.
“What did you see the PT about?”
Injuries are fairly common in hockey, so seeing a physical therapist is normal. But Nash has never complained about anything.
“My right ankle has been giving me trouble. Seems to be getting better though. Ricardo thinks I’ll be back to a hundred percent in a few weeks. Would be sooner if I could stay off it, but I don’t have that luxury.”
He could tell Coach he needs some rest, but there’s another guy gunning for his spot right now. If he took time off, there’s a chance he’d get replaced altogether.
“My shoulder is kind of the same,” I tell him in an effort to open up. “Hurts like crazy in a fight, but there’s nothing I can do besides rest and stretch.”
We get to his truck, and he unlocks the doors for us to get in. I slide into the passenger seat.
“I’d rather a hurt ankle than missing teeth, though,” he says as he starts the truck and turns on the heat.
I raise a brow.“You’d rather be injured than lose a tooth?”
“Crutches get sympathy from women. Lost teeth do not.”
I snort. “You’re ridiculous.”
I can’t help but think of Marigold. Your smile is too pretty for you to ruin it playing hockey, she used to say. The words never failed to warm my chest. If anyone else called any part of me pretty, I’d hate it. But coming from Marigold, it meant the world.
“My sparkling personality can only do so much. I need my looks, too,” Nash says, making me shake my head.
I reach into my duffel bag and pull out my phone as he backs out of the parking space. There on the screen is a name I haven’t seen since last summer.
Goldie: Do you want to meet in the library tonight to talk about the article?
To some, the text would be cordial at best. But I see it for what it really is—an olive branch. She extended it tremulously over the canyon between us.
I’m exhausted. My head hurts from overthinking. And I can’t remember the last time I got a full night’s sleep. But there’s no version of me that would be able to turn her down. I’d crawl across the Grand Canyon on my hands and knees to take that branch from her hand.
Jameson: I’ll be there at 7.