25. Rook
Chapter twenty-five
Rook
God, I love watching her eat. There is something about a girl who enjoys food. She is so vocal with her enjoyment; the sounds making my dick ache. The memories of our night together come rushing back, playing like a never-ending reel of fantasies in my mind. All the different ways I could fuck her, feel her writhe and moan beneath me. She moans around her last bite and I picture her lips moaning around my cock.
Fuck . I adjust in my seat. The friction between my pants and my growing erection become unbearable.
“Oh, my God, I couldn't possibly eat anymore.” She sighs, contently leaning back in her chair, and I can’t help the warmth that fills my chest at the thought of making her content.
“Did you wanna go down to the beach for a while?” Though I’m dead fucking tired after the last two days, I would rather never sleep again than kick myself later as I lay in bed, wishing I’d asked for more time with her.
She frowns down at her outfit. “I’m not exactly dressed for the beach.”
“You’re perfect.” The words slip out. Her eyes widen as I stand, pull out my wallet and throw a few hundreds on the table. “Trust me?” I hold out my hand for her. Her eyes move between my face and my open hand, her answer clear when she slips hers into mine. I intertwine our fingers and shoot off a quick wave to the chef as we make our way back out to the boardwalk.
We walk hand-in-hand, away from my bike, down the concrete path. Sounds of waves crashing surround us as the wind encases us, creating what feels like our own private world.
I lead her towards the concrete steps that overlook Lake Michigan and the Chicago skyline. The sun set while we ate, and its last rays disappeared behind the horizon as we walked. The Chicago skyline now blinks to life, like tiny fireflies floating over the water.
With our hands clasped together, I guide her down the massive concrete stairs, bringing us to the edge of the water where the lapping waves gently touch the cutout parts of concrete near our feet.
She releases my hand first as she takes a seat on the step behind us. Flexing my now empty hand, I settle down next to her, our bodies close, yet not quite touching.
“Wow,” she exclaims, leaning back on her hands. “It’s so beautiful.” I hold my tongue, fighting the temptation to blurt out that the Chicago skyline has nothing on her. We sit in peaceful silence for the next few minutes, stealing glances whenever I think she’s not paying attention. Leaning back on her elbows, she closes her eyes as she breathes in the crisp air.
I use the moment to drink in the dusting of freckles across her nose, the way her long dark eyelashes fan across her cheeks. How they seem so dark in contrast to her milky white skin and pale hair. Her nose and cheeks have a hint of pink, and I silently hope it’s a blush caused by my presence rather than the cold air that’s gradually settling in.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she asks without even opening her eyes. She remains as relaxed as before, and I can’t take my eyes away from her.
“I’m sorry, what?” I shake my head to clear it from the fog that takes over when Othelia is next to me.
“Hockey,” she giggles—fucking giggles —and I find myself somehow more fucked than I was a minute ago. “How did you get into hockey?”
I look out at the water and contemplate my answer. “I was eight. My mom thought it would be good for me to have a hobby to get out of the house.”
“Out of the house?” she gently asks, as if she can sense this is a touchy subject and she doesn’t know just how right she is; the landmine she’s dancing around.
“Yeah, hockey kept me busy, training and games. When I wasn’t training with my team, I was practicing drills. As I got older, it became the escape that I craved. When I was on the ice, I didn’t have to think about all the shit at home. For those two hours, I could wipe it all out. Plus, being able to beat the shit out of people helped.” I chuckle, hoping to brighten the gloomy atmosphere, but she gazes at me as if I’m an enigma she’s struggling to solve.
I skim over the shit at home; she doesn’t need to know any of those details. She has an eager look in her eyes, as if she yearns to dig deeper, but she resists and I’m grateful.
“Music was my escape too,” she says. “My dad loved it. Music was always playing in the house. All genres. Like me, he listened based on how he was feeling. Our house was always loud and full of life. He was always singing and dancing around.”
She goes to lie back onto the step and I move fast to slide my arm behind her head, not wanting her to lie on the cold concrete. She glances up at me and shuffles closer so she’s more tucked under my arm. I rest my other arm behind my head and we look up at the stars, watching twinkle over the city.
“He bought me my first guitar. It was a beginner acoustic, but I carried that thing everywhere with me. Rian had just started getting into more competitive hockey, so Dad wanted me to have something I could focus on too. Mom was obsessed with Rian’s sport. I spent most weekends being dragged between games, half the time begging my parents to let me sit in the car so I could play uninterrupted.”
A shiver runs through her, and I pull her closer, wrapping her in my warmth. The pink on her cheeks deepens ever so slightly. The smell of coconut and vanilla surrounds me as her hair tickles my face and I find myself turning toward it and not away.
“When I wasn’t allowed to sit in the car, I would try to find a secluded part of the rink to hide in—closets, equipment sheds—and pray no one would bust in and tell me off.” I smile at the image of a miniature Othelia, hiding away in some closet with a guitar and a notepad, scribbling down lyrics while hollers and whistles pound on the other side of the door.
“Must be hard being away so much.” I know the feeling. Being away from Seattle was already difficult to bear, but it has become even more challenging since Mom’s injury. Now, I’m torn between my commitment to the game she dedicated her life to and my responsibility to be there for her. It’s a constant struggle, and every day, it feels like I’m losing it and her.
“I haven’t lived in Chicago for a long time. I packed up and left at seventeen. I’ve only been back to hang with Rian and Sloane when they haven’t been able to make it out to me. Though now I regret how much I’ve missed out on.”
“I’m sure your dad is proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”
She sighs. “He died when I was thirteen.”
I stiffen. I had no idea. She runs her hand across my chest, somehow soothing me while we talk about her loss. A weak “I’m sorry” is all I manage to push out as I look down at her.
She doesn’t say it’s okay, just continues on with her story.
“When he died, I think a bit of my mom did too. She put all her attention on Rian and his hockey and I was left on my own a lot.” I can’t look away from her. She continues to gaze up at the stars while she speaks.
“I think I remind her too much of him. So instead, she ignores me, or when she isn’t doing that, she criticizes me. Rian isn’t like Dad, although now seeing him with Layla, he is more like Dad than I have ever could’ve imagined. Sloane would’ve been so proud.” She angles herself away from me as a tear rolls down her face. I hold her tighter, letting her know she isn’t alone.
“What happened to her?” I wasn’t sure if I should ask. Rumors had circulated around the team, but I try not to believe anything I hadn’t heard directly. “Sorry, that’s probably not my place.”
“After having Layla, she felt off. She went to a doctor, but they thought she was probably just exhausted from giving birth. Turns out she had a heart defect that had never been picked up. Her heart was failing, and no one knew. Rian woke up in the middle of the night because Layla was crying. He thought Sloane was just super exhausted and didn’t hear her.”
Oh fuck.
“He went and put Layla back to sleep. When he came back to bed, he noticed Sloane’s hand dangling off the side of the bed. She wasn’t breathing. He called 911 and it took them nearly twenty minutes to get to them, something about emergency service shortages. That whole time he did CPR trying to save her.” A sob breaks from her lips and tears run down her face.
Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her against me. She tries to wipe her face on her sleeve but continues to shake as her voice breaks on each word.
“She was already gone. They think she was gone for a few hours before. She was twenty-eight and just fell asleep and didn’t wake up. How does that even happen?” I don’t even know what to say, opting to squeeze her tighter.
“Rian still won’t talk about it. He tries not to mention her or make it seem like he’s fine, but I can see the devastation all over his face. I don’t know what else to do. She was my best friend, Rook.” Her eyes shine with unshed tears, even though my shirt and her sleeves are drenched.
“You are already doing so much. You’ve put your life on hold to be here and help him with Layla.” I run my hand through her hair. Fuck, it feels so good to hold her.
Pulling out of my arms, she sits back up, wiping her face, twisting her hair to the side. “Sorry, you probably hadn’t imagined your night ending with a random crying girl in your arms.” She wraps her arms tight around herself as she stares out at the now choppy water.
“You aren’t some random Othelia. And if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.” I sit up next to her. When she looks at me, that confused expression is back.
Figuring I’ve already held her once tonight, what’s a bit more torture? I reach for her, pulling her back into the safety of my arms. She squeaks as I easily lift her into my lap and wrap my arms around her; I think she might complain, but when she melts into my hold, I relax and lean my chin against her head.
“Tell me something about her,” I whisper.
She’s silent for a while, lost in her memories before answering. “She used to write people notes.” She makes a snuffling sound but I can feel the small smile tipping up her lips as she wipes her eyes again, raising her head so I can see her face.
“What, like ‘you suck at parking’?”
“No,” she laughs. “She would carry around funny shaped notepads and if she saw someone do something nice or if they looked like they needed a pick me up, she would write them a note and try to sneakily slide it to them.” She chuckles into her cuff, eyes seeming brighter than before. “Though she wasn’t subtle at all and so many times she got in trouble with people thinking she was trying to steal something from their bag, but she still tried. She thought everyone needed a little light in their lives and you never know if that one message was enough to help someone through the day.”
A laugh huffs out of me as I think back to the first day I met Othelia. Sloane came to speak to me while I stared like a creeper through the glass at her playing with the kids.
I lean myself forward, bracing her in my arms as I pull out my wallet. Othelia stares at my hands, obviously confused at what I’m doing. I wiggle out the folded note tucked behind all my cards.
The fold lines are now more significant from the hundreds of times I have stared at the slanted words. These last few months haven’t been easy and those words have pushed me to try harder, on and off the ice.
I unfold the note, the cat face now looking a little worse for wear. Othelia gasps, her hands flying to her mouth as a sob wracks her body. Her eyes dart back and forth over the handwriting I’ve stared at every day for months, reading and rereading.
“I didn’t know where this came from. I found it in my suit pocket the first day I saw you.” Her eyes crinkle as they look up at me, the both of us thinking back to that day. “Sloane came up to me when she caught me staring at you while you played mini sticks with the kids.”
A flash of recognition crosses her face, then a frown. “You were staring at me?”
I huff out another laugh. “Rockstar, I couldn’t fucking look away.” I look out over the water. “I’ve never wanted to punch a teammate so fucking hard before.”
“What?” A laugh bursts out of her, and I stare at her, not wanting to miss a second of her beaming smile. “Maverick didn’t even do anything.”
“He made you laugh.” Her laughter now dies off as she absorbs my confession. “I was so fucking jealous of the way you smiled and laughed when he spoke with you. I think Sloane could see it and came to distract me.” Her cheeks flush crimson and I run my thumb across the words that now seem even more important, gently folding it and tucking it back in my wallet.
Running my hand down her arm, she shivers at the contact. Both of us stare out at the waves again, sitting in this moment together.
“She really was just the best human,” she whispers. “She made loving her incredibly easy.”
As I gaze at her profile, I can’t help but think that Othelia James does the same.