Chapter 4 #3
Wall glances down at their hands, one eyebrow raised. “Problem?”
“First things first.” Patrick's voice stays level. “I need to know that what you saw stays with you.”
Wall's brow pulls tight.
There it is. The first real reaction is clean, immediate offense. His fingers tense on the puck. “Who do you think I am?”
Patrick considers him. There's history packed into the space between them. Then, he says, “I don't know.”
Wall's jaw moves, once, twice.
Oh, he wants to tell Patrick to go fuck himself. I can see the full sentence fighting for release behind his teeth. He stares at Patrick for another long second. “It stays with me.”
Air leaves my lungs. Quietly, thank every available saint.
Patrick nods.
Neither of them lets go of the puck.
They've settled the only question we officially came here to settle, yet they remain locked around it, fingers touching.
Wall's gaze drops to Patrick's hand again, then returns to his face. “Anything else?”
The pause stretches.
At first, I think he's choosing the wording. Then it goes on long enough that I realize he already knows the wording. He's choosing whether to say it.
His idea got us into this hallway. His pulse is now visible at the base of his throat.
I press my back against the wall before my knees can become involved.
He keeps his eyes on Wall. “You didn't leave. You could have.”
I stop breathing.
Wall says nothing.
The silence gets teeth.
Is he going to deny it? He could explain the whole thing away as freezing or misunderstanding.
Anger would also be fair. Patrick has cornered him in a supply room, holding him at gunpo—well, puckpoint—and brought up possibly the strangest two minutes of his life.
Wall only watches him.
Five seconds becomes ten, then the sense of time abandons me out of embarrassment.
Patrick waits patiently. He doesn't fill the quiet or rescue Wall from it. His fingers remain steady on the puck, but I see the tendons in his wrist standing out beneath his skin.
Then Wall's eyes narrow a fraction. “You didn't stop. You could have.”
My weight leaves the wall.
For half a second, I feel like I'm tipping backward with the clipboard clamped to my chest and one heel skidding on the linoleum. I catch myself on a box of trash bags before hallway security becomes hallway casualty.
Holy fuck.
Holy shit-fucking fuck.
He didn't deny it. He returned it. He took Patrick's careful little fact, sharpened it, and slid it straight between his ribs.
Patrick's face barely changes. A small lift of his brows, gone fast. But that's enough. I've seen this man face penalty shots with less surprise. Wall has actually caught him flat-footed.
Nobody moves.
Wall's fingers still cover one side of the puck. Patrick holds the other. Their hands are almost absurd together, big and bigger, touching because neither one has decided how this ends.
Then Patrick releases it, puck settling into Wall's palm.
No victory, no retreat. Wall closes his hand around it, gives Patrick one unreadable look, and turns toward the door.
I launch myself upright and become fascinated by the clipboard. Extremely fascinating clipboard. A marvel of modern office supplies. I inspect the metal clip while Wall steps into the hallway and passes close enough that the sleeve of his hoodie brushes my arm.
He doesn't look at me.
I don't look at him, except for the part where I absolutely do the second his back is turned.
His stride stays even, the puck held tight at his side.
And his ears are bright red.
Patrick comes out a moment later. The calm is back on his face, except I know where to look now. His mouth has flattened at one corner, and there's color rising beneath his short beard.
I make it two steps beside him before the words break containment. “Wall's—”
“Not here.”
Right. Yes. Discretion.
I vibrate silently instead.
We gather our things at record speed disguised as an ordinary pace.
Mama Paws intercepts us near the front desk and insists we take cookies for the drive.
I begin the polite dance of explaining that it isn't necessary while accepting the container with both hands and checking whether there are chocolate chips in it.
There are.
Outside, the cold hits my face. Patrick holds out his hand beside the car.
I clutch the keys to my chest and stare at him.
He keeps his hand out.
The betrayal is enormous. After everything we've been through together today, he chooses now to strip me of my rights.
I surrender the keys.
Temporarily. Under protest.
The protest is entirely nonverbal because my mouth is busy with a cookie.
Patrick fixes my parking before we leave, which takes three corrections and a private war with the curb. I provide moral support from the passenger seat by eating a second cookie and thinking about two giant hands refusing to release the same puck.
Once we're on the road, I decide the conversation can wait until tomorrow.
It has been a long day. We both need time to process, and I can be mature about giving it to us.
I last until the first traffic light.
Honestly, a personal best.
I look at Patrick, willing him to start. He keeps his attention on the road, both hands on the wheel, profile calm in the passing streetlights.
It's on me, then. “So. Wallace.” I’m nothing if not eloquent.
“Wallace.”
That's all he gives me. Patrick isn't going to make this easy.
“After careful consideration—”
A quiet chuckle escapes him.
“Okay, rude.” Fair, but rude. “After some consideration…”
I lick my lips and taste chocolate. Now the words feel much larger than they did in the shelter.
Flirting with a giant man until he walks into a doorframe was a joke. Saying this makes it real enough for Patrick to reject, and I have a firm personal policy against handing people loaded weapons while pointing out where my soft parts are.
Still. I think about their fingers on the puck.
“I think he's into it.”
Patrick doesn't answer. Three seconds pass, and apparently my courage has a very short shelf life.
“Into us.”
His grip tightens on the wheel. Barely.
Another light turns green. He drives through it before speaking.
“You don't know that.”
True. Annoyingly, completely true. Wall might only be curious, and I don't know which of us put that look on his face.
Patrick lets the silence settle again for a long moment. Then, “Are you into it?”
My stomach drops.
Sneaky fucker.
I turn toward the window. Chicago slides past in streaks of lights, giving me nowhere useful to look. Yes is sitting right there, one syllable carrying huge consequences.
I could say it. I could also swallow a live grenade.
So I do what any brave, emotionally healthy adult would do. “Are you?”
Patrick doesn't answer.
He keeps his eyes on the road, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
Oh.
He's so into it.