5. Shay #2
Everything pours out of me as I cry angrily, fed up with this entire situation. The last two years. Today. Every second in between.
Letting it all out, I exhaust myself, and he holds me every step of the way, offering a comfort I haven’t felt in a while.
My parents do their best, but I think I’ve kept them at arm’s length for the most part, avoiding facing the music head-on.
But at this moment, I’m raw down to the bone, vulnerable in a way I’ve never experienced.
I chuckle, probably sounding fucking insane to this kind man. But ever so slightly, I feel the pressure on my heart lessen.
Add this to the list of stupid things I’ve done today—cry into a stranger’s suit after they found me bawling in a dark room.
Eventually, my breathing starts to even out, and I feel his hand brushing up and down my back.
“Talk to me.”
I shouldn’t. I have no idea who he is, not that I can see him in this position or through the blurriness of my tears. Maybe that’s why it makes it easier to open up to him. I’m not constantly assuming what he’s thinking or going to say next.
“This is the first time I’ve been in a rink in over two years, and it terrifies me. I thought I was ready …” Honesty flows abnormally from my lips. Perhaps because I’m exhausted mentally, emotionally, spiritually from how hard I just cried.
He cuts me off with a whisper, his soft, warm breath hitting my ear. “Who says you’re not?”
“I think this,” I scoff, throwing my hand out to the side, “proves it.”
He blows a raspberry, and it tickles my ear.
“Your body is just processing emotion the only way it knows how. That doesn’t mean you’re not ready.
It just means you still have feelings about it all, like any normal person would.
But you’re here, trying, and that’s what matters most. I know you’ll get there. ”
“What makes you so sure?” I murmur almost inaudibly, wiping beneath my eyes. I would try to preserve my makeup, but I’m sure it’s so far fucked that there’s no point of return. And, goddammit, I’m going to owe this guy a new suit.
Gently, he cups my head and pulls me back enough to meet his stunning blue eyes, wet with emotion of his own. He offers me a kind smile, but I don’t miss the pain behind his stare.
His touch is warm, welcoming, and far too comfortable. I want to lean into it, latch on to whatever he’s offering. I’m desperate for it, pathetically so.
My gaze doesn’t travel away from his eyes, not to his full lips, or his wavy and long brown hair, or his short and perfectly groomed facial hair. Nope, not at all. A slight wave of recognition drifts over me,but I can’t place it.
His thumbs brush my cheeks, wiping away any remnants of tears left behind.
“I know.” His lips tip up in the corner, his eyes lighting up as he says with the utmost certainty, “Because you’re Shay fucking Rooney—that’s why.”
My lips part, my air frozen in my lungs. “What-—how …”
My brain starts processing for the first time since I came in here. He spoke to me like he knew exactly what battles I’d faced before, and clearly, that’s because he, in fact, knew.
It’s like I’m finally waking up from this dream or nightmare. My gaze is frantic as I study his face, and then my eyes explore the rest of him rapidly—his dark suit, nice watch, all the way to the lapel pin that dons the Nighthawk logo.
But I know he’s not a coach or any staff that I’ve seen, leaving the worst scenario possible …
Oh my God.
Without a beat of hesitation, I stand to my feet and back up until my butt hits the wall or equipment or anything that finds me.
All I care about is that I get as far away from him as I can. Because I know exactly who he is, which makes this all the more inappropriate.
“Oh God you’re Matt MacArthur,” I groan, watching him stare at me with furrowed brows and wide eyes, like I’m a wild animal. “I can’t believe that just happened. Oh my God. You shouldn’t have come in here.”
He pushes to his feet, brushing off his pants, a ghost of a smile finding his lips. “Well, this is usually my room that I go to when I need to get away. I just wasn’t prepared to find someone else stealing my secret place.”
“Stealing?” I scoff, immediately arguing. “It was unlocked!”
He holds his hands up as he smiles. “I’m just kidding. You’re welcome to it anytime,” he offers, but I’m hoping to once again avoid this arena like my life depends on it.
“Thank you. But I don’t think that will be necessary.” I glance down, noticing the wet spots on my slacks from my tears, and then I see my makeup smeared on his clothing. Ugh. “Fuck. I’m sorry about your suit. I’ll have it dry-cleaned—”
“Don’t worry about it. Seriously. I could probably just sell it to some creep on eBay.” He chuckles.
“Okay, gross. But it’s also fair.” I giggle, wanting to smack myself in the face for letting that laugh through.
A seriousness pulls at his features. “What’re you doing here anyway?” he asks genuinely, and I drag my hand down my face.
“I was being brought on as a new goalie coach for, uhh … your team,” I tell him, the words painful to get out. How am I supposed to coach anyone in this position?
I half expect him to laugh or ask me if I’m joking, but instead, his face lights up, a smile tipping his lips.
“That’s great. You’d make a great goalie coach for me, Huang, and Roberts. I’m not surprised they asked you at all.”
“Really?” I scoff with disgust. “You can see how swell that’s going so far. I’m pretty sure the player”—I gesture to him—“isn’t supposed to comfort the coach.”
His lips turn down, and he shakes his head and takes a step toward me. My stupid self wants nothing more than to feel the warmth of his arms again.
“Look, we’d be lucky to have you. I would be lucky to have you as a coach. Are you kidding? You’re a damn legend, Rooney.”
I swallow the emotion rising back up. Something about his proximity makes me feel like someone injected me with truth serum. “I couldn’t even get on the ice.”
He shrugs as if that doesn’t even matter. “You don’t need to be on the ice until you’re ready. I know damn well you’d elevate our game by watching from just the nosebleeds. You’re on another level. Don’t forget that. You’d likely outplay me any day of the week.”
I know he’s trying to lighten the mood and brighten my spirits, and part of me hates that it’s working. “Yeah, probably.”