38. CALLUM
CALLUM
Me:
You up?
My Tots:
Yes. Are you ok? Tough loss.
Me:
I’d like a distraction…
My Tots:
How can I help?
Me:
I’m waiting in your parking lot
My Tots:
You’re what?!
Me:
Ten mins, baby
Or else the mango smoothie gets sipped
My Tots:
*Greta Thunberg how dare you gif*
I’ll be there in seven, you barbarian.
***
“I’m here. Hand over the smoothie and no one gets hurt.”
Even if I try, I can’t stop the smile that splits my face when Alia announces her arrival.
I leap off the hood of my car and whip around to see her sauntering toward me, hips swaying gracefully.
She’s wearing dark leggings and a sweatshirt which engulfs her.
I do a double take when I realize it’s the one I’d given her at the taco festival.
Seeing her in a messy hair-bun—the kind that makes women look extra homey and delectably rumpled—wearing my sweatshirt, has my heart doing a funny little somersault.
Visions of her walking around in only my sweater dance in my mind’s eye: a sleepy Alia padding across my bedroom floor, cluttering my bathroom counter with her citrus-scented creams, sharing a coffee at the kitchen island, kissing her on the deck as the sun rises behind us. . .
I force those images to dissipate even as they form an alluring domestic picture, teasing me with echoes of a real future.
She’s going to India! I remind myself for what feels like the hundredth time.
The clock is ticking on our time together and I vacillate between denial and cowardice in acknowledging it.
As much as I avoid bringing it up, so does Alia; I wonder if it means she also isn’t looking forward to leaving.
I will my foolish heart to quit yearning for more and clear my throat.
“You look nice.”
“Speak for yourself,” she chuckles. Her eyes make a slow sojourn down my body and back, the open appreciation doing wonders for my ego. “A little overdressed for a smoothie pitstop, aren’t you?”
I’m still in my post-game suit, having come straight here instead of stopping to change. I don’t regret it, especially when her attention lingers on my chest and arms.
“You up for a short drive?” I ask, opening the car door.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I will be,” I say. It’s never great to lose on home ice but a harder pill to swallow that it was Vancouver we lost to. Worse, we racked up penalties one after the other.
DuPont was on the receiving end of Vancouver continuously high-sticking him and getting away with it.
Fucking refs were sleeping. Moore went in to defend Ben and ended up throwing gloves against Nixon Scott, Vancouver’s main enforcer.
He spent more time in the sin bin tonight than in the last seven games combined.
My passes didn’t stick, timing between Mateo and I sucked, and our defense had too many holes, leaving Theo working overtime. Overall, it was a shitshow.
Coach was rightfully pissed. The strain of the season got to us tonight, but we also let our feud with Vancouver trip us up too much. We see them again next week and can’t let their chirping get in our heads like it did today.
Alia and I catch up on our week as I drive us to my favorite lookout point.
It’s the first time in a while that I’ve been able to get away from hockey commitments to spend time with her.
She hasn’t complained, but I wish she would.
I’ve told myself not to expect it since we’re not dating.
But I’m quickly learning that applying logic to any emotion associated with Alia is a futile exercise.
As a sportsperson, she understands the demands of my career.
As a man who misses his more-than-a-friend, less-than-a-girlfriend, I wish she’d show she misses me too.
The grey area where we conduct our relationship feels constricting lately and I don’t know what to do about it.
We disembark in an unmarked parking space and I lead her around the thicket of bushes to a relatively flat, grassy area overlooking the water.
The late winter chill lingers but the ground is dry, making it comfortable enough to be outside without too many layers.
Given the time of night, we’re alone except for the occasional cries of birds flying home and the whoosh of the waves hitting the rocks below.
I dump the duffel I brought on the ground and yank it open.
The moon highlights every expression as Alia’s mouth forms a cute little ‘o’.
“Cricket bats?” she gasps, eyes widening when I pull out a rubber ball as well. She catches it single handedly when I toss it to her, in a way that tells me her body hasn’t forgotten how to play the game.
“You want to learn how to play cricket?” she asks, incredulity etched upon her face.
Resting the bat across my shoulders like I’m some big-shot champion, I shrug. “Why not? You’re determined to make bad choices, picking cricket over hockey. Figured I should know what all the fuss is about.”
“Hey now, no need for such terrible language, Mr. Finnigan,” she clucks. “We respect all sports in this house.”
“Yes, Coach,” I chant, shooting her a two fingered salute that makes her beam. “Okay, Coach Tots,” I say again, loving her little giggle. “Make me a cricketer.”
She jumps into action.
“You hold the bat like this,” she instructs, clasping both hands along the handle. “It needs a firm grip.”
“Do you have a firm grip?”
“Of course. I’ve had years of practice.”
“Is that so?” I grin. “I suppose I did find out firsthand how firm your grip is.”
Alia clues in to my teasing then, twisting her neck to stare at me. “You’re flirting with me.”
“I’m stating facts.”
She pins me with a mock frown. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Just the way you like me.”
Her lower lip curls in as she bites back a smile. “We’re here to teach you cricket.”
“Yep.” I step behind and circle my arms around her body, my hands covering hers where she holds the bat.
“What’re you doing?” she asks, laughing when I squeeze her to make sure she stays put.
“Getting ready to learn. So teach me.”
“Like this?”
“Mmhmm,” I hum, placing my chin on her shoulder, my cheek brushing hers. Unable to control myself, I turn and bury my nose in the crook of her neck, taking a deep inhale of that fresh citrus scent I enjoy.
“Kissing my neck is no way to learn cricket,” Alia murmurs.
Her voice catches on the last word and she shudders when I press an open-mouthed kiss on the exposed skin, feeling the fluctuation of her pulse under my tongue.
Her soft sigh, like she’s attempting to get her body’s reaction under control, makes me want to lose mine.
“Your fault.” I lick behind her ear, relishing her shiver. “You’re too pretty.”
She valiantly keeps her eyes on our joined hands and shakes her head gently, as if snapping herself out of it.
“Pay attention,” she says, just as she leans over, taking me with her.
I’m draped over her back, her rounded ass pressed neatly against my happy cock that has roared awake, thickening and growing hard against her lush curve.
She widens her stance, directing me to do the same, and bends at her waist a bit more.
It’s only a few degrees of change but I’m holding on for dear life.
How the fuck does she not feeling my dick stabbing her?
I’m about to rip right out of my slacks.
And then she wiggles. Full-on fucking wiggles, practically twerking against my aching cock, giving it a lap dance that makes me whimper pathetically.
“Jesus fucking Christ, stop moving. How do you not feel what you’re doing to me right now?”
The look she slants over her shoulder is wholly innocent. I wouldn’t have suspected anything except she deliberately pushes her ass into me again, causing me to stifle my groan.
“What makes you think I don’t feel exactly what I’m doing to you?“ she says, throwing me a sassy wink.
My jaw drops and my grip slackens before I tighten my embrace, making her squeal as I playfully bite her ear. “Brat. I knew you were hiding a vixen inside you all along.”
“You made it too easy,” she giggles, slipping out of my arms and spinning on her heels. Her eyes are sparkling with delight; cheeks flushed with a happiness that makes her look ethereal.
In this moonlit night, with the inky sky overhead and the gentle lull of the waves cresting nearby, Alia’s effervescent spirit is breathtaking to witness.
My heart pounds a quick beat that swells in my ears, my entire vision filled with her beauty and nothing else.
I have to force myself to look away before I’m consumed by her.
“Teach me cricket before I lose sight of why we’re here,” I grumble. She makes me feel like a boy with his first crush. I’d hoped this feeling would’ve abated by now. Instead, my craving for her has become unbearable.
She positions me and I follow, adjusting my hold as directed. I thought it’d be like golf, but batting for cricket has less swing to it and more linear motion to control the trajectory of the hit.
“Cal?”
“Hmm?” I swing the bat in the air, hitting an invisible ball.
“I know you said you wanted a distraction but, if you need to vent, I hope you know I’ll listen.”
She steps a few feet away and throws the ball low to the ground, allowing me to smack it lightly.
I’ve scrolled through enough cricket reels to know she’s treating me with kid gloves, but I don’t mind.
This way, she’s still close enough for us to hold a conversation.
We go back and forth a few more times, before I answer her.
“I’ll snap out of it. One lost game shouldn’t bother me.”
“But it does,” she says softly.
Thwack. I land a gentle hit, sending the ball rolling toward Alia’s feet.
“I have it so good in life. I’ve gotten everything I ever wanted.
Grew up in a happy house, had the best family, made a career playing a game I love.
I don’t have to worry about where my next meal is coming from or whether I’ll have a roof over my head.
I’d be a real tool to complain about something as insignificant as one lost game. ”
A crease forms on her forehead as she looks at me, making no effort to bowl again.
“Are you saying you’re not allowed to be disappointed?”
I raise a shoulder before dropping it half-heartedly. “Wallowing like this makes me. . .”
“What?”
I stare unseeingly at the dark grass beneath my feet and prod the earth with the edge of the cricket bat. An answer rests at the tip of my tongue but I hesitate, knowing I’ll sound like an ungrateful brat.
Blue and pink sneakers enter my field of vision, forcing me to raise my head.
“Whatever it is, it’s not going to be as bad as you think,” Alia says, worry etched across her features. Her support has my shoulders slowly relaxing.
“It makes me think about things I don’t like to linger on,” I admit. “Like, if I sucked at hockey, what would I be without it? It’s been the one consistent thing in my life. I. . . maybe I’m not even making sense.”
“You don’t want to lose what you love. I get it,” she says. “You have a sense of self-worth attached to your career and the idea of not having it is scary.”
With an uncanny ability to draw out my deepest fears with the gentlest hand, Alia defines my problem in a way I’ve not been able to.
“You’re allowed to have doubts, Cal. You’re allowed to have bad days and tough moments.”
“But—”
“No buts. You don’t always have to put on a happy mask because you think that’s what the world expects from you.
Yes, you live a great life. That doesn’t negate your feelings.
Let someone else take care of you when you’re feeling low instead of forcing yourself to look at the bright side.
You gave me a safe space whenever I needed it, and that’s made me stronger.
If you’re unable to do that for yourself, I’ll be happy to be your safe space instead. ”
The thundering in my chest is so rapid, it’d be a miracle if my ribs aren’t bruised. Alia runs the tips of her fingers down the side of my jaw in a gentle glide that has me leaning into her touch. Like she’s caressed my soul and captured it in her delicate palm.
“Alia,” I croak, unable to form words. Emotions knot tightly within my throat making it hard for me to swallow. Her eyes are as soft as her touch when she speaks to me in the same tone one would use with a child who’s scraped his knee and needs his wound kissed better.
“You’re an excellent hockey player. Don’t let a few bad games get you down.
If you weren’t a hockey player, you’d still be you.
Callum Finnigan. The man who makes everything better by being present.
And, when you retire, I hope you’ll fill your life with some purpose that makes you happy.
Your mere presence brings me joy and I have no doubt that, with or without hockey, you’ll still be the most incredible man I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. ”
Pressure builds behind my eyes, an overwhelming urge to sweep her up and tuck her away from all the bad in the world rushing every pore of my being. Her words mean more than she can ever know.
I’ve not had any great failures or tragedies in life, so I’ve always been the cheerful one. The one who takes everything in stride. I’ve played that part so well for years, I’ve forgotten it’s okay to feel. . . not okay.
Alia’s words soothe me in a way I’ve craved. With her, I feel worthy.
My lips find her forehead as her hand rests over my galloping heart, unable to hold back a confession.
“The privilege is mine.”