Chapter 12 #2
“But how will young Carter prove his value to the team?” Dane argues. We’re all standing around the table, and Logan, especially, looks tired. He had a hell of a lot of work to do in front of the net tonight.
“I think the goal that he scored in his very first Renegades game did that for him.” I look at Carter, not hiding that I’m impressed. Even Kellan didn’t manage that during his first game as a freshman, and I’ve never met anyone who fought harder on the ice than he did.
When I look over to the bar again, like I’m pulled by an invisible string, I see Chase walking toward me. Well, walking toward all of us, but it doesn’t feel like that.
If I thought that seeing one of him was overwhelming, watching two of him maneuver around the tables to where we’re loitering is a sight to behold. “I can give him a ride home,” he tells Dane when he reaches us. “We live in the same neighborhood.”
Has he been watching me tonight? Keeping track of how much I’ve been drinking? I don’t know how that makes me feel.
“Awesome,” Carter exhales, clearly relieved. He probably thinks that I’m going to throw up in his Beamer or something.
I want to protest. I don’t think that being around Chase, with the two of us alone in his car is a good idea. But it’s not for any of the reasons that he’d probably think. I’m not homophobic, honest. It’s just that I’m drunk and I may say something stupid or ask him an uncomfortable question.
Like how did he know that he was into guys and what does it mean that I can’t stop thinking about him?
I seriously consider trying to refuse his offer and getting a car, but I know that it will cause more of a scene than anything else. The team doesn’t even know that he’s not straight. And they also don’t know that I’m… what am I? Obsessively thinking about Wyatt Chase?
I do not have enough of my mental faculties to argue with anyone right now.
“Thanks,” I grunt, not meeting his eyes.
Carter doesn’t wait for the offer to be retracted, ushering the rest of the guys quickly out of the restaurant.
And then it’s just the two of us, with me feeling like I’m losing my mind in a Chili’s.
It’s coming back in waves, why I drank so much tonight.
Earlier, I’d told myself that it was because I hadn’t been expecting to see him here, but that’s a lie. I, Asher Reynolds, lie to myself. Call me a big fat liar.
The truth is that by the time I saw him tonight, I’d already been watching him for hours. He was, by far, the most interesting part of our first game of the season.
He wasn’t wearing skates, but he moved so fluidly any time he walked out on the ice. When he was keeping an eye out for injuries, he stood to the edge of the bench. He kept his arms crossed, surveying the game in front of him with a hard look on his face.
I don’t know what else to say except that I was mesmerized. And I definitely spent as much time watching him as I did the game.
I tuck my hands into my pockets and wonder if I’m swaying or if it just feels like that. “Ready when you are.”
Chase clears his throat, and I’m hyper-sensitive to the way that he’s looking at me. It makes me feel like my agony over my outfit tonight was worth it. Which is something that I never thought would float through my brain.
For as much as I know that following Chase out of his restaurant is a bad idea, this is the first time in months that something besides despair is anchoring me to this world. Interest? Curiosity? Attraction? I’m not sure. Maybe a combination of all of them.
Finally, he speaks, an interested look in his eyes while he takes me in. I want to bask in it forever. “Seems like you had a good night.”
I scoff and lean against the pillar near our table. It’s not easy, but I take my hands out of my pockets and fold my arms across my chest. “I didn’t realize that you were keeping tabs on me.”
“I feel a responsibility toward all the players on the team when I notice that they’re double fisting drinks.”
“You’re only a few years older than me,” I argue before very maturely adding, “And regardless, I don’t need a babysitter.” Does he see me as some dumb kid? My face reddens with the thought.
“But I’m over a decade older than guys like Carter,” he hits back.
“So, you’re just a responsible authority figure giving a lowly injured reserve player a ride home because they live next to one another?” I challenge. All I want to do is be closer to him which means that my body is screaming for me to push him away.
I cannot get in a car with this man. The space will be too small, and I’ll be enveloped even more than I already am by the scent of his aftershave. How did I never notice how good he smells?
I move to pull my phone out when his hand, encompassing and strong, holds my arm in place at my side. For a split second, I think about trying harder to get it out, just so he’ll keep touching me.
“Don’t make me regret all the nice things I was saying about you to the coaching staff tonight,” he chides.
Even as the compliment pings somewhere in the back of my mind, I let out a sigh of relief.
I’m glad he’s not upset with me for getting so drunk.
One bad stumble and we could be back to square one with my recovery.
And more than that, I’d hate to disappoint him.
I think about making one last desperate attempt to call a car, but there’s no point. The sooner I can get home, the sooner we can go our separate ways.
He seems to have come to the same conclusion and starts walking toward the door, nodding toward me to follow.
I walk behind him wordlessly out of the restaurant, afraid that if I even breathe too loudly, he’ll know what I’m thinking.
His SUV is parked near the back of the lot, and we each open our doors.
Once I’m inside, I lean back against the passenger’s seat. “Thank you for the ride.”
We’re pulling out of the parking lot when Chase asks me, “What did you think of the game tonight?”
The game? The game… Oh, right. That thing that I should have been focusing on instead of him. Still, I caught the jist of it. “We had no cohesion,” I say, swimming through my mind to come up with the right word.
“My thoughts, too,” he beams, like he’s pleased that we’re on the same wave length.
I want to lean into the feeling of closeness, even though it’s absolutely insane for me to be thinking like this. Chase hasn’t done anything he shouldn’t be doing, nor has he given me any reason to think that he’s interested in me.
My hands ball into fists. Is that what I want? For him to want me? Like, romantically?
Sure, my body’s reacted to his touch, but that’s all been therapeutic. Skin-to-skin contact is a real and studied essential part of human connection. I’ve just been so fucked up lately that I’m mistaking kindness and competency at what he does for something else.
And that something else is agonizing over whether Wyatt Chase is into me or not.
I press back against the headrest, looking up at the ceiling. Wondering if Chase is attracted to me is something that I shouldn’t be thinking, don’t want to be thinking, and definitely don’t have the time or energy to be thinking.
But now the thought’s solidly in my brain, and it’s wormed in there so deeply that I can’t seem to push it away.
Luckily, Chase seems content to stay silent for the rest of the ride home. When we pull up to our apartments fifteen minutes later, I’m already unbuckling my seatbelt when he puts the SUV in park.
“Thanks,” I grunt as I hop out of the vehicle and make a beeline to my door.
Unfortunately, Dane wasn’t completely wrong with his assumption that I’d be shit at inserting my key into the lock, so I’m still standing there when Chase arrives at his own front door.
“You good?” he asks, and it takes everything that I have not to unleash all of my rambly thoughts on him. That would be an absolutely horrible idea. Even in my drunken state, I know that much.
“I’m fine,” I say at the same time my key slides in the lock and I let out a relieved exhale.
I’m moments from safety when– “Asher?”
I shouldn’t do it, but I look over at him.
He’s standing with his key in his door, his face illuminated by the front porch light.
My heart skips a beat, seeing all the beautiful contours of his lips and his cheeks and his nose.
The ride home was sobering. There’s only one of him, but that somehow makes it even more intense.
And now that I’ve put words to what I’m feeling, everything is making sense in the most excruciating way.
I want Wyatt Chase.
I want Wyatt Chase.
I want Wyatt Chase.
But there’s no world in which that can happen.
Instead, I take in a labored breath. “Yeah?” I ask gruffly, unable to deal with the emotions swirling through me.
He pushes open his door, and I wonder if I imagined him saying my name.
Finally, he says, “Make sure you take some ibuprofen and drink water before you go to sleep. Rest is essential for recovery.” At least I’m not crazy, but it still stings to be reminded of the strictly professional nature of our relationship.
“Will do.” I slip inside my darkened apartment, refusing to allow myself another torturous look at him.