Chapter Twelve
Tristan
Minerva remains a mystery to me. I’ve never known a woman to bring up blowjobs in such a casual, clinical manner before. Far be it from me to deny her the data she craves, but I didn’t get the impression that she wants me. She wants numbers. Information.
Honestly? I’m still not sure how to feel about that. Because, in spite of it all, it was hot.
I arrive home from morning skate to find her in the kitchen with her laptop open beside her, conducting some sort of cooking experiment. Her eyes are glued to the video she’s playing while she kneads something in a giant ceramic bowl.
“Hey,” I say, to announce my presence.
Kepler, who was curled up on the seat of a kitchen chair—note to self: remember to check chairs before sitting to avoid squashing Minerva’s best friend—pops up and comes running over.
I’ve gotten better at identifying his moods, and this little hopping dance he’s doing right now is something he only does with people he likes.
It’s his version of welcoming me home. I kneel down to greet him, and he scrambles up into my arms so that I can hold him like the floppy noodle-baby he is.
Minerva’s response is less effusive, but just as cute. She squeaks and flails around, trying to figure out how to pause the video without getting dough on the keys. After a few false starts, she jabs at the space bar with her elbow until the video freezes.
“It’s fine if you want to keep watching it.”
“I don’t want to lose my place, though.” She scowls down at her sticky hands. “And there’s something I want to discuss with you. Give me a minute.”
I sit down in the chair Kepler just vacated and keep petting the little guy while she cleans up. “What are you making, anyway?”
“Sourdough. Maybe. With all-organic ingredients.” She puffs out her cheeks. “It’s harder than I thought it would be. I mean, it’s just chemistry, but it’s so messy.”
I bite back a joke about messy chemistry. Not the time. “Sourdough sounds good, but we can just buy it, you know?”
Minerva pouts in profile.
“I appreciate the effort, don’t get me wrong, but I promise you, bread is in the budget.”
Instead of laughing along with me, she grimaces. “I’m not charging you for my time. I want to learn it. My mother didn’t like to cook, but… it’s nice, to make things with my hands.” Her shoulders droop. “That sounds stupid.”
It hits me wrong—the way she braces for dismissal like she’s already heard it a thousand times. God, who taught her to feel stupid for liking things? “No, it doesn’t.”
“It’s just…” She lathers up her hands with soap and scrubs beneath her nails with a brush that I don’t remember buying.
Come to think of it, there’s a lot of new stuff in the kitchen since she moved in.
“My family would say that making things is for people who can’t afford to buy better.
But then, they don’t do anything worthwhile with their time.
I’d rather make something delicious, even if it won’t last, than be empty like—” She snaps her mouth shut.
Her voice goes flat there. Quiet. Like a bruise pressed too hard.
“Like Frankie?” I guess. From what little I saw, her sister does seem like a hollow person, though I’m not sure that a baking hobby would be enough to fix the problem.
“Right.” Minerva shakes herself and snaps up the dishcloth to dry her hands, which are now 100% dough-free. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about our living arrangements.”
I rock back in my chair, blindsided by the abrupt change in topic. “Oh. Yeah. What about them?”
She scoops up her laptop on the way over to the kitchen table.
As soon as she sits down across from me, Kepler lets out a meep and abandons my lap.
He disappears under the table for a few seconds, then reappears as he climbs up to drape himself across her shoulders.
Minerva pats him with one hand without looking away from the screen.
If there was any doubt in my mind who the spare human is, Kepler just set me straight.
“Per our deal, and thanks to this job, I can afford my own place.” She turns the screen around to face me. It’s a spreadsheet.
The words hit me like cold water. I knew this moment could come, just didn’t think it would be today. My eyes glaze over before I can fully register the numbers. “Oh. Um…”
“I have options. Look. I can start applying, and then I could be out in a couple of weeks. I mean…I won’t have furniture at first, but…”
“Do you want to move out?” I ask.
My throat goes tight. God, please say no.
Minerva snaps her mouth shut with an audible click of her teeth.
She stares at me for a long moment, head cocked slightly to one side, brow furrowed.
It’s the look I’d wear if someone asked me to solve a calculus problem on the fly, but knowing Minerva, she’d find the math easier than whatever she’s contemplating right now.
“We had an agreement,” she says at last.
“I’m suggesting that we could update the terms of the agreement. We’re still working together, right?”
“I’d still work for you if I moved out.”
“And if that’s what you want, great. But…” Oh, hell, I’m no good at the purely rational approach. “But I’d like you to stay. Please. Unless you want to leave.”
She tilts her head to the other side. “Hm.”
Not exactly an enthusiastic response. “How about this? You think about what you want, while I run an errand. I’ll pick up some dinner while I’m out, and you can keep working on the bread experiment. I’ll be back around seven.”
I have literally no idea what she’s thinking when she says, “Okay.” Her face is a mask.
I’ve taken slapshots to the collarbone that hurt less than not knowing what she’s thinking right now.
“Great. So, uh, I’ll see you later? And you can tell me what you think?
” I rise on unsteady legs. I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut.
I want her to stay. I want her to want to stay.
But I also know that Minerva has been through hell, and if she wants a chance to live on her own for the first time, I’m not going to stand in the way of that.
Even if I’ll miss her when she’s gone. Even if the idea of living in the condo without her sounds fucking miserable.
I make it all the way back to the car before I realize that I have no idea where I’m going. I don’t actually have errands to do; I just needed to get out of the house before I did something stupid and pathetic, like beg Minerva to stay and see where things go with us.
Not that I want access to her body 24/7. I’m on the road a lot. And dating is hard for an NHL player. But when she’s here with me, we can get to know each other better instead of one step forward and three steps back.
It’s a puzzle I can’t solve. I know about Luca. Maybe not everything, but enough. She doesn’t need another guy pressuring her to give up her autonomy.
After fidgeting around for a few minutes, I fish my phone out of my pocket and fire off a text to Camden.
Me: Need a beer and a brain. You around?
The dancing dots of a reply pop up literally seconds later.
Cam: I’m always around for beer and bad ideas, buddy. Come to my place. I have shandies.
* * *
“So.” Camden settles back in the deck chair and adjusts his sunglasses. “I hear your last brain cell left the building. Let me see how I can help.”
I snort and take a deep swig of my beer.
Camden and Dot are living with Dot’s father, Ranger, who also happens to be one of our coaches.
Cam’s got a condo in the same neighborhood as mine, but it doesn’t get a lot of action.
After the car crash last year, Ranger’s still in physical therapy, and his range of motion still needs improvement.
He and Dot spend so much time over here that they eventually decided that they should officially move in, at least until Ranger asks them to leave.
I don’t think it’s gonna happen, but Cam hasn’t let go of the condo yet.
I miss having Camden in the neighborhood, but the pool at the house is a nice perk. I stare at the water as I sort through my feelings.
“Earth to Tristan? Hello? Did you bluescreen?”
I run my hand through my hair. “A little. I think I’m in love with a girl who has no idea how to be loved.”
Hearing it out loud knocks something loose inside me. Makes it real in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
“Oh.” Camden sits up again and shoves his sunglasses onto the top of his head. “Damn. We’re talking philosophy, huh? Gimme the deets.”
“Minerva has been through some shit. Her family is, like, really fucked up.” I grasp for words that won’t betray the confidences Min’s shared with me.
“The first night she spent at my place, she had a panic attack because she wasn’t sure what towels she was allowed to touch.
She’s anxious, and she gets petrified by the most random crap, but she tries to play it cool when I ask why.
But then if I ask about the Black Death, she’ll tell me every last detail without even blinking.
” Dammit, none of this is coming out right.
“So she’ll talk to you about the stuff that doesn’t matter, but she clams up when it comes to important things?”
“I think she’d take issue with your implication that the Black Death isn’t an important discussion topic, but yes, basically. She lights up when she talks about molecules, but shuts down when I compliment her.”
Cam hums thoughtfully as he sips his beer. “Have you slept with her?”
“Dude. Not the point.”
“Do you want my help or not? I’m not asking for gossip, I want to know if you’ve been to Pound Town, and if it changed anything.”
I squint at him. “Pound Town? Seriously? Are you fifteen?”
“Answer the question.”
I glare at him, but he doesn’t relent. In the end, I just say, “Yes.”
And our intimacy means something to me. More than it probably should. More than it might mean to her. That’s the part that terrifies me. What if I’m simply another data point?
My friend’s stare breaks through. “And? Did anything change?”