CHAPTER FIVE
J ason
I consider slamming the door in Cal’s face, but there’s no way. One look at his brown eyes, and my limbs are melting. Instead, the door collides into me. I grip the handle tightly.
He’s not sixteen anymore. Neither am I.
But my body goes fluttery like it did after that kiss.
I widen my stance. He’s not here because of that. He’s probably forgotten.
“Who are you?” I ask.
His face falls.
Good.
I ignore the pain in my chest and the way it reverberates through my body. I give him my best smile, like when my elderly neighbor knocked on my door because she lost her keys, and I invited her into my living room and helped her unpack her bag completely, until we found them. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Callum Prescott.” His voice is professional. His Tennessee tang is softer now than it was in high school, but it’s still present, lingering on his vowels. I wonder if he still drops consonants. “I work for Sports Sphere.”
I keep my face neutral. He doesn’t affect me.
Besides, why would I recognize him? Last time I saw him, he was wearing a hockey jersey, and now he’s in one of those ridiculous puffer coats that become as essential to Bostonians in winter as armor was for medieval knights.
Slabs of crunchy snow fall from his boots onto the floor.
“You’re making a mess.” I glare at the offending pieces, and his skin flushes.
I tug the sleeve of my gray sweatshirt. Normally I wear Blizzards stuff, but I didn’t feel like putting on the name of the team that benched me.
I don’t need to feel worse every time I look in the mirror.
They don’t even want me to train with them, as if they think my comments might destroy team morale or something.
As if anything could make Finn and Noah, Evan and Vinnie not be ridiculously, disgustingly in love.
Cal is taller than I am and definitely broader. His hair is longer than it was last time I saw him, and it probably wouldn’t prickle my hands if we were to kiss or something.
Not that we would kiss.
Naturally not.
I fold my arms in case I get confused.
I’m just thinking about the kiss because the last time I saw him we did kiss. It’s a sign of my excellent memory. Nothing else.
My eyes bounce around his face, because maybe it’s safer than his hair. His cheeks are round and cherubic. Not because he’s an angel or anything. Cherubic in the over-developed cheek sense.
“Would it be possible to answer some questions?” he asks, his voice polite. “I’m writing an article about you.”
I stiffen. Of course, that’s why he’s here. Ex-friends don’t show up on people’s doorsteps. He probably doesn’t even remember we were friends. He probably had dozens of better friends in Tennessee and would have scoffed that I thought whatever we had meant something.
After all, he....
I shake my head. I’m not going there. No way. Absolutely not.
I narrow my eyes. “You want an interview, Cal?”
His eyebrows lurch up, and I can’t believe I actually called him by his first name. By his nickname. By the name I used to...
Nope. Not going there. No way. No way at all.
High school boys are notoriously horny. Naturally, if there weren’t girls around, I would think about boys. I mean, that’s what happens in prisons. Simple logic.
But embarrassment prickles through me, like it does whenever I think about him. I don’t want him in my space. I don’t want the next time I’m entering my apartment to think about that time he stood here on the landing.
I hate the way my body remembers him, pulse speeding up, lips parting, as if all it wants is to be kissed by him again.
His skin is pink, and he removes his hat, then unknots his scarf. His hair is mussy.
“Stop stripping,” I say.
He freezes mid-motion.
Perfect.
Did that sound sexual? Does he think I think about guys stripping?
No.
He wouldn’t think that. I’m known for my homophobia. In fact, he wrote the article.
So, everything is fine.
He’ll know I just meant that guys shouldn’t strip because I’m not into guys stripping.
“Go away, Cal.” My words are gruff and not high pitched. I sound like the tough hockey player I totally am. Not like someone who got pranked back in high school.
“Don’t you want your side of things to get published?” Cal asks, his voice softer, almost tempting.
That’s probably the voice he uses to seduce the men who kiss him.
I scowl. “I want nothing to do with you.”
Cal blinks. Hurt drifts into his eyes, and I almost feel bad, but then I remember I’m not supposed to be looking at his eyes anyway. I mean, who cares if his eyes look sad? He’s not suffering. Not really.
He’s playing with my emotions, just like in the old days.
“You have a two-week suspension,” Cal says. “Don’t you want to talk about it?”
I focus on the floor. Not on his stupid face.
Not on his stupid lips that are soft and succulent and tempted me a decade ago.
Not on his stupid brown eyes that are probably rounding in a stupid manner.
Not on his stupid black lashes that are way too long and should have clued me in way back then. Not on his...
“Jason?” Cal’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and heat prickles the back of my neck like Cal can tell what I was thinking about. “I didn’t come here to fight.”
“Right.”
His gaze remains skeptical.
I suck in some air. “All the same, I’m busy. Can’t be helped.” I glance down and notice my gym bag. I haul it over my shoulder. “In fact, I’m leaving.”
Because if I stay, I’ll say something stupid.