Chapter 13 #2
A brief silence settles over the table.
Then Mason looks at Calder. "You answering your phone today or continuing your mysterious little disappearing act?"
Calder leans back slightly. Outwardly relaxed. The kind of relaxed athletes learn to perform on camera. Most people probably wouldn't notice the difference. I do.
"Depends," he says. "You planning on being annoying?"
"Always."
The tension eases. A little. Then Calder's arm settles along the back of the booth behind me.
Casual enough that nobody would think twice about it.
Except it isn't really casual. Not when his teammates are standing here.
Not when he wasn't touching the booth thirty seconds ago. My pulse stumbles. Interesting.
Across from us, Mason's expression flickers. There and gone. Amusement. Understanding. The kind that says he has just solved a puzzle. Calder catches it immediately. Their eyes meet.
"Wow," Mason says slowly. "Okay. Got it."
"Smartest thing you've said all season."
Hayden chokes on a laugh. The conversation only lasts another minute before they head toward the counter.
The noise of the bakery settles back into place after they leave.
Everything should feel normal again. Instead something lingers.
Not awkwardness. Not embarrassment. Awareness.
The uncomfortable realization that people from Calder's life just looked at us and saw something immediately.
Something neither of us had bothered naming.
Like I'd caught a glimpse of the line Calder usually keeps between the rink and the rest of his life.
The line he'd spent weeks pretending didn't exist. And the strangest part was that when those worlds collided, he hadn't stepped away from me.
He'd moved closer. Calder steals one of my hash browns without asking. I smack lightly at his wrist.
"You're unbelievable."
"You weren't eating it."
"You've known me long enough to understand that's not the point."
Calder laughs. The sound catches me off guard every time. At the rink, his amusement always seemed carefully contained, like something he released in controlled amounts. Now it arrives easily. Warm. Unthinking. The difference shouldn't matter.
It does anyway.
He's halfway through a complaint about recovery drills when he reaches over and brushes a crumb from my sleeve.
The movement is so automatic neither of us seems to register it until my hand catches briefly against his forearm while interrupting him.
His eyes drop to the contact. Then lift back to mine.
Something shifts in his expression. Gone almost immediately.
Still long enough to leave me wondering if I imagined it.
At some point I yawn in the middle of a sentence. Calder slides my coffee closer.
"Drink before you pass out."
I look down at the cup. Then at him. I hadn't even realized I was tired.
Apparently he had. That should probably concern me.
The fact that it doesn't is becoming a pattern.
Especially after last night. Especially after the distance he tried so hard to put between us.
Because none of this changed. Not the attention.
Not the instinctive way he keeps track of me. Not the care.
The conversation fades naturally after that.
Calder leans back with one arm stretched across the back of the booth while traffic thickens beyond the windows.
The city slowly wakes around us. People hurry past carrying coffee cups and briefcases.
The bakery grows louder. Busier. Neither of us moves.
For a while it feels strangely similar to the rink before opening hours.
That brief stretch of quiet before the day properly begins.
The part neither of us ever seems eager to leave behind.
"My coach is going to kill me next month," I mutter.
Calder glances sideways. "Competition schedule?"
"Back-to-back travel."
"You're overloaded."
Not a question. I look at him. I'd mentioned the travel.
Not the extra conditioning sessions. Not the media appearances.
Not the fact that my calendar currently looks like somebody spilled appointments across an entire month and forgot to stop.
Apparently he had reached the conclusion anyway. Of course he had.
The conversation drifts after that. Future competitions.
Recovery schedules. The strange rituals athletes convince themselves are necessary.
Calder admits he listens to the same playlist before every game because changing it feels cursed.
I admit I've reorganized my apartment three times this month because alphabetizing things feels more productive than panicking.
He doesn't laugh. Which somehow makes the confession worse. And better. At the same time.
Halfway through a complaint about travel schedules, Calder rubs at the back of his neck.
The movement drags my attention immediately to the tension sitting across his shoulders.
Years of coaches, physiotherapists, and injury prevention lectures have trained me to notice things like that before I mean to.
I reach over and press my fingers briefly against the center of his forearm.
"Relax before your blood pressure kills you at twenty-eight."
Calder huffs a laugh. The tightness across his shoulders eases slightly afterward.
At some point the conversation fades. Not because we've run out of things to say.
Because silence has stopped feeling like a problem.
Calder scrolls absently through his phone.
I watch people move through the cold beyond the window.
Our legs remain lightly pressed together beneath the booth.
No awkwardness. No awareness. Just contact.
Familiar enough now that neither of us bothers moving away.
After a while Calder glances over. "You're thinking too loudly again."
I turn toward him. "You can tell?"
"You get that crease between your eyebrows."
He nudges his shoulder lightly against mine.
"Stop spiraling at breakfast."
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. The annoying part is that he's right.
The more annoying part is that he knew he was right before I did.
Somewhere along the way he'd learned my tells.
The thought settles quietly. No sudden panic.
No urge to immediately put distance between us.
Just a strange awareness of how naturally it happened.
Eventually Calder checks the time and exhales.
"We should probably pretend to be functional adults."
"Feels unrealistic."
He laughs under his breath while sliding out of the booth. Then he grabs my empty coffee cup and his own before I can reach either of them. Of course he does. We step outside into the cold morning air.
The city feels brighter now. Busier. Cars filling the streets. People moving with purpose. Calder falls into step beside me automatically. Our shoulders brush once. Then again. Neither of us adjusts. My street waits ahead. Neither of us seems particularly eager to get there.
At some point Calder reaches over and straightens the collar of my jacket after a gust of wind leaves it crooked. The touch lasts less than a second. Neither of us pauses. By the time we reach my place, exhaustion has settled heavily into my limbs. Calder notices immediately.
"Get some sleep before you accidentally skate into a wall tomorrow."
"You always this inspirational?"
"Only with you."
The answer arrives so easily I don't think he means anything by it.
Which is probably why it lands the way it does.
His hand brushes briefly against the middle of my back as he steps around me.
Warm. Automatic. Already gone. Then my fingers catch lightly around the sleeve of his hoodie.
Instinctive. Calder stops. We both look down.
My hand is still there. Curled loosely around dark fabric.
Neither of us lets go immediately. The moment stretches.
Not awkward. Just unexpectedly still. Then Calder looks up.
He looks tired. The sharp edges softened by exhaustion.
"Tomorrow?" he asks.
Casual. Like there has never been any question.
"Obviously."
The corner of his mouth lifts. He nudges his shoulder lightly against mine before stepping backward toward the street.
"Try not to spiral before six a.m."
"No promises."
Calder laughs. Then he's gone. I stay where I am for a moment.
Long enough to watch him disappear around the corner.
The cold settles in properly once he's out of sight.
Eventually I head toward the door. And think about the barista.
The teammates. The usual. The two sugar packets I'd slid across the counter without thinking.
I think about the way nobody questioned us.
The way nobody seemed surprised. As though they had looked at us and immediately understood something I was still trying to catch up to.
The word couple hangs stubbornly in my head.
The silence afterward couldn't have lasted more than a second. It had felt enormous anyway.
I unlock my front door.
Stand there for a moment. And realize that's the part I can't stop thinking about.
Not that she said it. Not even that Calder didn't correct her.
That neither of us did. Like the possibility had arrived before either of us was ready for it.
And instead of feeling wrong, it had felt strangely familiar.
Like something that had already happened. Something I was only just noticing.