Chapter 9 Some Strings Attached #2
As soon as that rubber beauty drops between us, I exploit my size to barge into his personal space and snatch the puck, hurling it a far distance behind me to my teammates.
I don’t even have the chance to pat myself on the back as the game rushes into motion, forcing me to beetle over to the opposition’s side.
The disc bounces between Mustangs before somehow landing in front of me, and Crew’s screaming at me to dodge an incoming attack from some cracked-out speed demon.
When my rival makes a swipe at me, I split sideways, skating like I’m running out of time, straining my muscles to the point where I’m going to feel it tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t waste all my energy before the second period.
Everything is disjointed in a fishbowl around me, and when I do eventually lock in, I’m only a few feet away from the Sabertooths’ goal line. A familiar choreography. A goal I could make with my eyes closed.
But the funny thing about life is that even when you’ve reached the mountain’s peak—staring at a golden horizon only viewable from an insurmountable altitude—there’s always something trying to dismantle everything you’ve worked so hard for. And that something?
Leif fucking Kennedy.
Some invisible force compels me to look up, and when I do, I spot Staten talking in close proximity to the only man I’ve ever been jealous of. I don’t know what they’re saying. I didn’t even know he’d be here tonight.
My heart doesn’t have the chance to crack before I’m up close and personal with the boards, my whole world listing sideways as I fall into oblivion.
STATEN
Fifteen minutes earlier.
I think I’ve lost my mind, or my brain has been hijacked by some extraterrestrial parasite—it’s the only explanation. Why else would I be wasting my Friday night at a hockey game, surrounded by tipsy college students and ostentatious fanfare that’s an insult to school spirit everywhere?
Hockey buzzards (I’ve dubbed them) screech about every penalty the referee makes, acting personally victimized by each play gone wrong. Narcissistic attention-seekers who swear that they could do a better job than the goddamn professionals.
As much as hockey doesn’t float my boat, I’d rather be here than slow cooking in a cramped auditorium that stinks of body odor and ripe wieners.
I can’t stop thinking about the whole fake dating fiasco that went down in the library.
That’s the reason I’m here tonight—to talk to Knox after the game.
He’s in breach of literally every single rule of our nonexistent contract.
If I wasn’t so hurt by Leif’s pathetic attempt at a “friendly” outing, I would’ve turned down Knox’s ludicrous display of affection.
I know the situation is a little more nuanced, but technically, I never said outright that Knox and I were dating.
Does that make it less true? Ugh, probably not.
I can’t believe this is my life right now.
I wasn’t prepared to handle this nationwide risk of a catastrophe. I have an A in English, not theater.
Needless to say, things between Leif and I have been…
strained. Distant. Quiet. Our friendship has never been any of those things before.
I don’t know what he’s thinking, and I know that reaching out to him will probably just make things worse.
I feel like I’ve lost my best friend. And I guess in some sick, twisted way, I have.
Hassie—one of the first friends I made in my freshman Biology class—excuses herself as she inches down the length of our row, a motley assortment of candy in one hand and a gigantic slushie in the other.
She double-fists both like they’re her only saving graces, finally plopping down in her unofficial seat after navigating an inconvenient undergrowth of limbs.
“Sorry that took me so long. The line was insane,” she says, setting her drink down and lodging a packet of Skittles between her teeth so she can sweep her dirty-blonde hair into a messy ponytail.
I huddle further into my sweatshirt, silently cursing the person responsible for keeping this walk-in freezer below fifty degrees. At least there isn’t a gale of wind terrorizing me. “You’re good. The game hasn’t even started yet.”
Ponytail secured, she plunks the colorful bag into her lap. “I’m also sorry I couldn’t make it to Dusky’s when you invited me. I had to study for my Anthropology exam.”
Hassie is a part of Leif’s and my friend group. In total, there’s three of us. I introduced her to Leif after she and I spent Biology class bonding over how convoluted the curriculum was. We all got along super well from the beginning.
Hassie is very extroverted—maybe more than Leif, which is saying something—and she’s always down for an adventure, especially if it includes free booze.
She helps get me out of my comfort zone, which isn’t an easy feat.
She’s also too sweet for her own good, lacks self-preservation instincts when it comes to male attention, and is the one person in this universe whom I can rely on come rain or shine.
I, um, haven’t told her about my feelings for Leif. I just don’t want to fuck up the dynamic, you know? Plus, this crush was always only going to be my sin to bear.
Hassie offers me a box of Sour Patch Kids, feline eyes surveying me with a suspicion that seems to split my cold body open on a mortuary table, practiced hands digging in viscera to see what makes me tick. “Two years in, and you’ve never once come to a hockey game with me. You feeling alright?”
My muted guilt is ironically louder than the clamoring anarchy around us, and my heart shudders in my chest. I decline her sugar-coated reprieve. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I just…I just thought a change of scenery would be nice.”
Oh, and no, I haven’t told her about my little arrangement with MU’s very own man whore. Friend of the year.
“Right,” she muses, her aquamarine irises akin to an ocean frilling around a rocky outcrop. Something lurks beneath the surface but refuses to break the tension. She tears a small hole in her Skittles packet and tosses them down her gullet.
Is she on to me? She seems on to me. Keep it together, woman.
I chew the tissue of my cheek. We’re not seated far away from the plexiglass, which means that Knox’s suggestive flexibility teases my subdued appetite, his legs bent behind him in a frog pose that I don’t think I could assume even given the right instructions.
He bounces a few times to stretch his hips—his groin flush against the ice—and I hate the way that blistering want flares in my belly.
I tip my head upwards, staring at an empty chasm instead of an open-ended sky. Peace is a privilege ungranted, further disrupted by the bothersome ping of Hassie’s phone.
She glances down momentarily, the blue light from her screen shining across her face and emphasizing the smile growing between her rosy cheeks.
“Leif should be here any minute,” she tells me, doing a terrible job of exorcising the unease that pulses inside of my stomach like an overlooked ulcer.
Hang on…what?
I try to digest the words that just came out of her mouth, but it’s like my auditory nerve and brain are oceans apart. “Leif is coming?” I croak, knotting my hands into fists under the concealment of my oversized sleeves.
Even with Hassie’s aptitude for calling me out on my bullshit, she still seems thankfully oblivious. “Duh. The three of us haven’t hung out in weeks. I miss you guys. I’m thinking we hit up a 7-Eleven after the game and then marathon the new season of Love Island.”
Leif is coming. To the game. In a matter of minutes. Jesus fuck. I’m not prepared to confront him. In fact, I was more than happy with pretending like my problems never existed and hoping that they just went away on their own. Clearly, I’m about as delusional as Knox is.
I can’t believe Hassie would betray me like this.
What am I supposed to say to him? Do I go along with Knox’s far-fetched plan in hopes that it’ll make Leif want me more?
Do I come clean? The cons for each decision are endless, and my nerves rub together like exposed wires, erupting into a firework of sparks that impairs my sensibility.
I don’t even have the chance to rehearse some default chat options before Leif Kennedy himself is commanding the attention of some nearby basketball fans with his unignorable presence. However, he couldn’t be less interested in entertaining his diehard devotees.
He deadpans, “Staten.”
I match his apathy with tailored indignation. “Leif.”
He stands before me with no interest in taking a seat, blocking the rink for the rest of the unfortunate spectators perched behind us.
It doesn’t take long for Hassie to acknowledge the arc of tension between us—about as destructive as the fluttering embers of a livid fire that hitchhike on gusts of wind, sprinkling their burnt coals over untouched terrain.
“What are you doing here?” I ask stiffly.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he parries, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I thought you were going to be at the mathematics competition.”
“I thought you were going to be on a date at your favorite restaurant.”
Leif and I have never fought before. I didn’t think it was possible. Clearly, I’ve been on a streak about being wrong. The amicability I’ve grown to love about him is nowhere to be found, instead replaced with an aloofness that strikes a chord within me.
My lips unsuction to respond, but my illusion of autonomy is quickly fractured in multiple places at the unforgiving hands of the last person I ever thought would be responsible for my impending heartbreak.
“Let me guess: you’re here to support your new boyfriend, right? The one you didn’t tell me about?”
Hassie flips her lid. “What?!”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snap, the hairs on my neck standing up as a primitive rage rampages through my veins.
There’s an imperceptible tick to Leif’s jaw, a jilted look buried deep in his russet eyes like an uncut gem amidst heaps of charred rubble. “Sure looked like it.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Of Knox Mulligan? Please. He’s nothing but a flashy showboat who doesn’t have one working brain cell in that big head of his.”
Poor Hassie can’t keep up, her neck practically on a permanent swivel. “Hang on, you’re dating Knox Mulligan?!”
I bare my teeth at him, my lips pulled back in a snarl as I ignore the well-intentioned blonde by my side. “Don’t be an ass, Leif.”
A growl is lured from his throat—one that’s been newly awakened in the black hole of his belly. It vibrates through his muscular stature and pulls his tendons tight, the imposing size of his body eclipsing my line of sight. “Don’t be stupid, Staten.”
All etiquette flies out the goddamn window as I rise to a stance. “Excuse me?”
I’m expecting the commencement of an all-out war on what was once neutral territory—even loading the chamber of my figurative machine gun with a slew of fighting words in case things turn south—but then Leif and his irksome peace-keeping ploy have to throw another wrench in my plans with a ceasefire.
The frustration in his expression dies, as does the erected distance between us.
His voice softens to a near-whisper, and it slips through the unguarded cracks of my defense like a shadow-run blitz.
“I just…I just mean that you’re an intellect, and he’s a meathead.
You two aren’t compatible. You two aren’t even from the same universe.
He could never give you what you truly want. ”
What I truly want? You’re what I want, Leif! It’s always been you! You’ve just been too blind to see it, and I…I don’t know how much longer I can take being your invisible sidekick.
Knox is a lot of things, but at least he notices me.
The cold wicks away my unshed tears, my small, unimportant voice tremoring while sadness coils around my body in the same way mangrove roots catch on bloated carrion floating through a dense swamp.
The first step in decomposition; the first step in being forgotten.
With my mouth thinning into a line, no words fly airborne before the floodlights wink to life, and the Mustangs’ anthem rocks the entire arena, reminding me that my fake boyfriend—the one who saved my ass when I didn’t ask him to—is seconds away from taking the ice.
Knox and I couldn’t be farther apart from each other, but Leif is the one whom I don’t recognize.