Chapter 12
ASHER REYNOLDS
“Why do you keep looking at the coaches like they’re going to yell at us? We’re allowed to be here, right?”
I look over at Carter, who’s working his way through an appetizer platter like he’s never had a meal in his life.
No judgment. I would probably have already finished mine, except that I’m drinking my dinner tonight.
It wasn’t the plan until we got here and I saw Wyatt Chase sitting twenty feet away from me.
I’d been looking to score some food, put in some face time with the team outside of practice, and then return to my apartment to catch Kellan’s pre-season game on ESPN.
And now? All of the confusing thoughts that have been plaguing me this week have come roaring back to the surface, and I desperately need to take the edge off.
“I’m not looking at them. I’m trying to get our waiter’s attention,” I lie, taking another sip of my almost-empty whiskey and Coke. It’s a lot better than admitting that I’m fixated on watching the way that Chase laughs at something one of the coaches just said.
I’m not used to not having all of his attention–especially where hockey is concerned–and I’m finding that I don’t like it one bit.
“But we can be here, right?” Carter presses.
He’s a freshman, and part of his initiation onto the team is that he’s tonight’s designated driver for those of us that are old enough to drink.
He’s also the younger brother of Kellan’s boyfriend, Wells, so I’m trying to make sure that he feels included without making either of us feel weird about it.
The rest of the team went to a house party off-campus, where I stopped by for less than an hour.
Somehow, I became an old man overnight. The music was too loud.
The drinks were too weak. Not to mention unsanitary.
I’m pretty sure that I saw a couple of floaties in my jungle juice.
And the idea of yelling over the voices of a hundred people pressed into a too-tiny space made me want to tear my hair out.
Which, I remind myself, I really need to cut soon.
I was grateful when Cooper shot me a sympathetic look and suggested that we go grab some food. Carter, as our chauffeur for the evening, drove me, Coop, Dane, and our new starting goalie, Logan, to the restaurant.
Unfortunately, a change in venue isn’t the distraction that I’d hoped it would be.
I still don’t know what’s gotten into me lately.
Ever since Chase came out to me, I haven’t been able to get my bearings.
Not because he’s bi. I’m just really confused.
When Kellan told me that he was dating Wells, I was genuinely happy for him and his newfound relationship.
All I wanted to do was support him and make sure that he knew I was always going to be in his corner.
But Chase came out to me and it’s… different.
I feel different. And now, I’m playing a drinking game with myself, where I take a sip every time I think about Chase and how confusing this all is. I put my empty glass down on the table. I don’t know if this Chili’s has enough whiskey, but I’m going to try my damndest to find out.
I’m already dealing with my grief and working on my return to sport protocol and trying to figure out what the hell happens after I graduate.
Now, on top of all of that, I can’t stop thinking about Wyatt Chase.
I don’t want to be thinking about him because then it makes me think about how fixated on him that I’ve become.
The last week has made me questioning my sanity even more than normal.
When I was getting ready for the game tonight and had to wear something other than my uniform, I spent at least twenty minutes trying to pick out an outfit. That’s not like me. At all. Sure, I try not to look like a slob, but as an athlete, I spend most of my time in uniform or in workout clothes.
But tonight… I wanted to look good. And I’m having a hell of a difficult time accepting who it was that I wanted to look good for.
So, it’s easier to rationalize that this was the first game that I’ve had to sit out as a Renegade since I joined the starting lineup, and it makes sense that I was trying to feel some semblance of control by putting in a little bit of effort.
I convince myself that’s the actual reason–I mean, what else could it truly be?–when I catch Chase’s stare from across the room.
He gives me a small smile and the requisite head nod of acknowledgment that guys do when they see one another.
Everything about it is normal–he’s being completely normal, goddamn him.
I’m clearly the one with the problem. His eyes on me make me hyper-aware of my body and how attuned to him that I am.
For a brief second, I think about actually taking him up on the offer to go see one of the school’s psychologists, just to work through the insanity of how I’ve been feeling.
I shake the thought away, even as I realize that it would probably be helpful for me to talk to someone about whatever the hell is happening to me.
Even knowing how crazy this is, I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s like he’s broken something inside of me, and I’m stuck in a loop. I keep trying to fit whatever is happening to me into something that I can understand, except that it’s like a puzzle piece with all the wrong edges.
What do I want from him? Approval? Connection? To know what it feels like for his purposeful fingers to drag across my skin for no other reason than because he wants to touch me?
The thought almost knocks me over, and I take a long swig of Carter’s Coke, making a disgusted face when I realize that it doesn’t have any alcohol. Then, I rub my temple and shoot another furtive glance at the coaches.
God, what’s wrong with me? I silently plead to my overactive brain.
“Dude, seriously,” Coop teases. “Did you promise to go straight home after the game or something? Is this about your injury? Or are you just too good to sit at the kids’ table anymore?” He puts french fries under his top lip and pretends to be a walrus which makes everyone laugh.
I can’t even begin to explain to him that when Chase smiled at me, I kept watching him.
And then, one of the coaches must have said something funny and I realized that I’d never really noticed the dimple in his left cheek when he laughed.
Lyla has the same one. I shake my head. The alcohol is really getting to me.
“Sorry, I guess I’m just spacing out. Thinking about how weird it is that I didn’t play. ”
The table grows quiet until Coop says, “Yeah, man. It sucks. We really missed you out there tonight.”
Even in my drunken haze, I don’t want to be a downer. “It was cool watching from up in the box though.” I’ve been making an effort not to be as lost in my misery lately. It’s not good for the guys, and I know it’s sure as hell not good for me. Still, it’s a one-day-at-a-time process.
“You’ll be back soon enough,” Coop says enthusiastically. He’s the perennial optimist on the team.
There’s a beat of silence before Logan asks, “So, what’s it like working with Wyatt Chase?”
My eyebrows shoot up, comically high, and even though my brain felt drunk before, now I realize that my body is, too.
Still, even though I know that it’s a bad idea, I can’t believe that I get to talk about him instead of just having him invading my mind all night.
But god, I’m praying that I don’t say something stupid considering I’ve already had two drinks here and a few drinks at the house party.
“He’s been great during my recovery. I know that we all bitch about there not being life after hockey, but he’s a really good physical therapist.” I’m proud at how articulate I manage to be, along with the fact that I don’t mention that he’s a big reason that I was finally able to pull my head out of my ass and focus on getting better.
I don’t tell the guys how much I owe Wyatt Chase. Or how he’s been consuming my thoughts more than hockey or my grief or what happens after graduation.
There’s so much more that I could say, but I stop myself. The words I’m trying to hold back are so intense against my lips that it’s like I can feel them, and I have to force my mouth shut to make sure that they don’t flow out.
The truth is, even if I can’t accept exactly what it means yet, I’m drawn to Chase in a way that I haven’t felt with anyone before.
The problem is that I’m not really sure what I’m going to do about it.
Making poor decisions is the answer to the question that I’ve been asking myself for the last hour.
I’ve gone from buzzed to drunk to teetering on the edge of not being able to walk in a straight line.
My vision is fuzzy around the edges, and the restaurant’s clearing out.
It’s like I blinked, and suddenly the place is almost deserted.
It’s close to eleven, which is our unofficial team curfew.
Coach is fairly lax on game nights when we don’t have anything the next day, especially if he doesn’t get any reports the following week about the team.
Carter holds up his car keys, and even when I squint, I still see two sets of them jangling against his palm. “Everyone ready to head out?”
We got our checks a few minutes ago, and I’m finishing my latest drink. It’s my fifth or sixth here–I haven’t been counting. But damn is my tolerance gone.
Coop stands up with a flourish and looks at Carter. “My chariot awaits.”
“Sorry that I live so far away. I can call an Uber,” I tell the guys. I fumble with my phone and almost drop it. My hands are not obeying me very well. Add it to the list of body parts that are betraying me lately.
Carter flashes me a grateful smile, but Dane protests. “Carter promised door-to-door service.” Then Dane looks at me. “And I don’t trust that your drunk ass will be able to unlock your front door without help.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m relaxed.” I swing my arms out at my sides. “See?”