Chapter 6 #2
I had her number. It was in the staff directory. I had added it to my contacts list under "O’Shea" weeks ago.
I opened a new message.
Are you okay?
Delete. Too soft.
Did you finish the report?
Delete. Too cold.
I can’t stop thinking about your mouth.
Delete. Too honest.
The front door opened.
A blast of cold night air swept through the house.
I looked up.
Belinda walked in.
She wasn't alone. She was with Sloane, but she stopped at the entrance to the hallway. She was holding a stack of files.
"I just need to drop these off for Peter," she told Sloane. "I’ll be right out."
"Don't get eaten," Sloane called out, disappearing toward the kitchen.
Belinda turned toward the hallway. She saw me sitting on the leather couch in the dark living room.
She froze.
She was wearing the same maroon sweater. It looked even softer in the dim light.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi."
She walked over to the couch. She didn't sit. She stood behind it, using the furniture as a barrier.
"I brought the updated faceoff stats," she said, holding up the folder. "And the risk assessment for the Northeastern game."
"Thanks," I said. I didn't reach for the folder.
We stared at each other in the semi-darkness. The TV flickered, casting blue light across her face.
"We need to talk," I said.
"About the lesson?" she asked quickly. "Look, Peter, I get it. It was... it was a lot. Maybe too much. I broke the rule. I asked you to touch me. I take responsibility for the variance."
She was retreating. She was using the jargon to build a wall.
"Belinda," I said.
"It won't happen again," she continued, her voice gaining speed. "I’ve recalibrated. I realized that workplace boundaries exist for a reason and—"
"My dad called me this morning," I blurted out.
She stopped. Her mouth snapped shut.
"What?"
I didn't know why I said it. It wasn't part of the plan. It wasn't seductive. It wasn't a lesson.
It was the truth.
"This morning," I said, staring at the TV screen where a shark was silently swimming through deep water. "Before you found me in the hallway. He called. He needs money."
Belinda slowly walked around the couch. She sat down on the far end, leaving two feet of leather between us. She placed the folder on the coffee table.
"Is he... okay?" she asked softly.
"No," I said. "He’s never okay. He’s an addict. He gambles. He drinks. He calls me when he’s desperate."
I looked at my hands.
"He told me that the ice always cracks," I whispered. "He told me that I’m just like him. That eventually, I’m going to break."
I risked a look at her.
She wasn't looking at me with pity. She was looking at me with a fierce, intense concentration.
"He’s wrong," she said.
"Is he?" I let out a bitter laugh. "You saw me last night, Bee. I lost control. I broke my own rules. I risked my job, your job, everything... because I wanted to feel something."
"You wanted to feel connected," she corrected. "That’s not losing control, Peter. That’s being human."
"Being human is a liability in this sport."
"No," she said. She shifted, sliding closer on the couch. "Being a robot is a liability. Robots break when the code changes. Humans adapt."
She reached out.
I watched her hand. I remembered the way it had felt on my arm in the hallway.
She touched my hand—the one resting on my knee. She covered my knuckles with her palm.
"Why do you have the compass?" she asked quietly.
I looked down at my ribs, through my shirt. She knew about the tattoo. She must have seen it last night when I was shirtless.
"It points North," I said. "True North."
"Why?"
"Because if you know where North is," I said, my voice thick, "you can’t get lost. No matter how dark it gets. No matter how much the ice moves."
"And what happens if North moves?" she asked.
"North doesn't move. That’s the point."
"Magnetic North moves," she whispered. "It shifts every year. Just a little bit. To stay accurate, you have to adjust."
I looked at her.
She was so close. I could smell the vanilla. I could see the flecks of gold in her eyes.
Magnetic North moves.
"You’re terrifying," I said softly.
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I’m just a stats nerd with a knitting habit."
"No," I said. I turned my hand over, interlocking my fingers with hers. The fit was perfect. "You’re the variable I can’t solve."
"Maybe you aren't supposed to solve me," she whispered. "Maybe you’re just supposed to..."
"Experience you?" I finished.
"Something like that."
I squeezed her hand.
"I didn't send him the money," I confessed. "For the first time. I told him no."
Belinda squeezed back. Hard. "Good. I’m proud of you."
The words hit me in the chest. I’m proud of you.
My father had never said that. Not when I got drafted. Not when I got the scholarship. Not when I became Captain.
But this girl—this chaotic, romance-reading, vanilla-scented girl—said it like it was a fact.
"Bee," I said.
"Yeah?"
I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to pull her into my lap and bury my face in her hair and forget that the world existed.
But I didn't.
Because this moment... this quiet, heavy moment in the dark living room... it felt bigger than the kiss. It felt more dangerous.
This wasn't lust. This was intimacy.
"Stay," I said. "Just... stay for a bit. We can watch the shark documentary."
She smiled. It was a real smile this time. Soft. Radiant.
"Okay," she said. "But only if you admit that the Great White is misunderstood."
"He’s an apex predator," I argued, but there was no heat in it. "He’s doing his job."
"He’s lonely," she countered. "He just wants a hug."
"If you hug a Great White, you lose an arm."
"Worth it," she murmured.
She leaned her head back against the couch cushions, her shoulder brushing against mine. She didn't pull her hand away.
I sat there in the dark, holding her hand, watching the sharks.
The fear was still there. The voice of my father was still whispering in the back of my mind.
But for the first time in my life, the silence wasn't empty. It was full.
And that terrified me more than anything.