Chapter 18 #2
My citizenship application is taking forever and every day it sits in a government office unresolved is another day I have to stay in the closet.
And Aaron won’t say that he doesn’t want me to marry somebody else to become an American.
He won’t say that he wants me and doesn’t want anyone else to have me.
And that’s why I’m turning my little shit of a teammate into a punching bag.
“Bad week,” I say. I lean back in the chair, doing my best to appear relaxed.
Coach watches me. He’s not buying it. He’s never bought the short answer from anyone — I’ve seen him wait out Cooper for twenty minutes once, just sitting in silence until Coop cracked and told him about his parents’ divorce.
I don’t crack. I’ve been waited out by better than Coach Rafferty. The Avangard coaches used to let silences run until the room got cold.
He nods. Slow. Accepting it for now.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says. “You’re going to apologize to Young. Personally. Today. And you’re going to get whatever this is under control, because the next time you throw a punch at a teammate in my practice, Kelly is the only captain on this team. Clear?”
My stomach drops. Not the captaincy — I can handle losing a title. But Kelly is the only captain. That means Aaron carrying the team alone. Aaron picking up my slack. Aaron with one more thing on his shoulders because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself.
“Clear,” I say.
“Good.” He picks up his coffee mug. Drinks. Puts it down. “We’re playing Michigan on Friday. I need you focused, not whatever that was.”
“I’m sorry, coach. I lost control. It won’t happen again.” I meet his eyes. “I’ll be focused.”
“I know you will.” Gruff. I can tell we’re done here. I’m not spilling my emotions on Coach Rafferty and he’s not going to pry or hold a grudge. “Now get out of here and go talk to Young.”
I nod. Walk out. Close the door behind me.
The training room is two doors down. Young is sitting on a table with an ice pack against his jaw, scrolling his phone with his free hand. He looks up when I walk in.
“Hey, champ.” The grin is back. A little lopsided from the ice pack. “You done getting yelled at?”
“I apologize,” I say. Flat. Direct. I don’t dress it up because Young wouldn’t respect that. “I shouldn’t have hit you.”
“Yeah, no shit.” He adjusts the ice pack. “I mean, it was a pretty weak punch, so I’m not that worried about it.”
“It was not a weak punch.”
“Bro, I’ve taken harder shots from my sister.” He’s already over it — that’s the thing about Young. He has the emotional memory of a goldfish. Everything rolls off. “But seriously, what was that about? I chirp you every practice.”
“Bad week.”
“Must be.” He drops the ice pack and pokes at his jaw. Winces. Grins. “For what it’s worth, what I said was funny. If you were American you would appreciate it.”
“I appreciated it. With my fist.”
He laughs. Short, sharp, the sound bouncing off the training room walls. “Fair enough. We good?”
“We’re good.”
“Cool. Tell Coach I’m fine. I don’t want him making me sit out Michigan.”
The locker room is empty when I get there. Everyone’s still on the ice or already gone. I sit down in my stall and pull off my gloves and look at my right hand. The knuckles are swollen, the skin split over the middle one. Not bad. I’ve had worse in actual games.
I’m running it under cold water at the sink when the door opens behind me.
I know it’s him before I turn around. I can tell by the footwork — Aaron moves quieter than anyone on this team, like he’s always trying not to be noticed. Which is funny for a guy who looks like that.
“Let me see.” He’s beside me. Already reaching for my hand.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, it’s swelling.” He takes my hand and turns it over under the water. His fingers are careful. His thumb presses the base of my knuckles — testing, not hurting — and I wince. “You need ice.”
“Then I’ll get you one.” He doesn’t let go of my hand. “Sit down.”
I sit. He disappears into the training room and comes back with an ice pack wrapped in a towel and a roll of athletic tape. He drops onto the bench beside me — close, our knees touching — and presses the ice pack against my knuckles. His other hand holds mine steady underneath.
“I saw it coming,” he says. Quiet. Not looking at me — looking at my hand, at the ice, at his own fingers wrapped around mine. “You were playing angry all practice. I could see it building and I didn’t —” He stops. His throat bobs. “I didn’t know how to stop it.”
“You couldn’t have stopped it.”
“I could have said something. Called a timeout. Gotten between you and Young before —”
“Aaron. It’s not your job to manage me.”
His eyes come up. Worried, that crease between his eyebrows. “Yeah, it is. We’re co-captains.”
That’s not why you’re sitting here holding my hand.
I don’t say it. He knows. I know he knows. But the locker room door doesn’t lock from the inside and anyone could walk in and we’d be two captains icing an injury. That’s all. Nothing to see.
“Rafferty said if it happens again, you’re the only captain.”
His hand tightens on mine. “That’s not going to happen. Because you’re not going to do it again.”
“I’m not going to do it again.”
“Good.” He adjusts the ice pack. His thumb moves across the back of my hand — slow, absent, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. My chest aches.
“I think I may have lost my dinner invitation,” I say.
His hand stills. “What?”
“For Thanksgiving. Lily invited me. To her family’s.” I watch his face. “I’ll let Lily know that I behaved badly and it’s best if I don’t show up at her parents’ home for the holiday.”
There it is. The thing I was looking for — the flash behind his eyes. Not the careful, managed Aaron Kelly expression. Something faster than that. Something raw. His fingers press harder against my knuckles and he doesn’t seem to know he’s doing it.
“Did Coach say anything? About the invitation?”
“He didn’t know about it.” I tilt my head. “Why?”
“No reason.” He’s looking at my hand again. The careful blankness back in place. “I just — it’s his daughter. It’s complicated.”
“It’s dinner, Aaron Kelly. Turkey and mashed potatoes.”
“Right.” His throat moves. “Dinner.”
He starts wrapping tape around the ice pack to hold it in place.
Methodical. Gentle. His fingers loop the tape around my hand and wrist, and each pass is another point of contact — his skin against mine, the brush of his thumb, the careful pressure of him making sure it’s secure but not too tight.
He’s good at this. He’s good at taking care of people.
It’s the thing he does instead of saying what he feels.
I let him. I sit there in my stall and let Aaron Kelly wrap my hand and I don’t say anything because right now his touch is the only honest thing in this building.
His knee presses warm against mine. His head is bent over my hand, dark hair falling across his forehead.
He smells like practice — sweat and cold air and that sports deodorant everyone uses.
If I turned my hand over in his grip, I could lace our fingers together.
Pull him closer. Kiss the worried crease off his forehead.
I don’t. Because the door doesn’t lock. Because someone might come back for their bag. Because Aaron Kelly is not ready for this to be anything other than a captain helping a captain, and I can’t make him ready.
“There.” He presses the tape down. Smooths it with his thumb. His hand lingers on mine for one beat longer than a teammate’s would. “Keep the ice on for twenty minutes.”
“Yes, doctor.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are. You’re always serious.” I catch his eye. Hold it. “Thank you.”
His guard drops for half a second. The careful face gone, just Aaron looking at me like I matter. Then it’s back.
“Don’t punch anyone else,” he says. Then he stands, grabs his bag from his stall, and walks out.
The door swings shut. The locker room settles into silence — the drip of a shower, the creak of the building doing whatever old buildings do at night.
I flex my taped hand. His work is precise. Careful.
The citizenship will come through. It has to. And when it does — when that Russian passport can be tossed in the trash — I’m telling everyone. The team. The media. The world.
The question is whether Aaron Kelly will be standing next to me when I do.