Chapter 42 #2
I stay. I always stay behind to review some more or discuss film with Coach. I'm doing exactly this and going through notes at my stall when I hear him behind me. I didn't realize he was still here. I thought he'd left with the others.
"Nash."
I turn around. He’s across the room, leaning against the opposite lockers with his arms crossed, watching me with an expression that makes my chest tense tightly. He’s been looking at me for a while, I think. Long before I turned around.
"Everyone's gone," he says, like it’s a secret.
"I know."
"But you’re still here taking notes."
"I'm always taking notes."
He pushes off the lockers and crosses the room slowly.
He stops in front of me — close, too close, the standard Rhys Callahan definition of personal space which is essentially no space at all — and looks down at the notebook in my hand.
Then he snatches it. Sets it on the bench beside me without looking away.
"Hey—"
"You've been ignoring me since film," he chastises.
"I wasn't ignoring you."
"You put your phone in your pocket."
"Because we were watching film."
"Because I said I couldn't stop looking at you." He tilts his head. "Did it freak you out?"
"No."
"Liar."
I lower my eyes. "It didn't freak me out much." I pause. "It was just distracting."
"Why?"
I glare at him. "Because I couldn't stop thinking about you, okay? Happy now?"
Rhys’ mouth twitches. "A little."
He looks at me for a long beat. Then he steps in — one hand holding my chin possessively — and kisses me.
Not quick like this morning. Not soft. This one has intent behind it.
His thumb pressing into the line of my jaw, tilting my face down, his mouth on mine like he's been thinking about it all day and stopped seeing a reason not to.
My hand finds his waist before I've decided to move. He makes a sound of surprise against my mouth and presses closer and he’s everywhere — his hand, his mouth, his waist pressed up against mine — and for three full seconds I stop being someone who has reasons to hold back and just kiss him.
Then I pull back and he lets me. His hand dropping from my face to my collar, fingers curling into the fabric, not pulling me back in.
Just holding. He looks at me. Breathing slightly uneven.
"Still not freaked out?" he asks. I look at him. At the way he's watching me like he already knows the answer and is waiting to see if I'll tell the truth.
"Fuck off," I say, while squeezing his cheeks together.
He grins. A real one. Crooked at the edges, laugh lines appearing beside his eyes, like the sun breaking through a cold winter.
Aimed directly at me. It hits under my ribs hard enough that I stop even trying to talk myself into pretending it means nothing.
He lets go of my collar, steps back, and picks up his bag.
"See you tomorrow, Nash." Easy. Like he didn't just take me completely apart in an empty locker room on a random night. "Six AM."
"Don't be late," I say, trying to sound stern.
"I’ll try." He winks at me and walks out, mouthing silently over his shoulder, I won’t try.
I stand there.
Put my hand over my mouth.
Take it away again.
Sit down on the bench.
I think about yesterday. Him on my bed. The feel of him against my chest when he finally fell asleep. How long I stayed awake after just — lying there. Not thinking. Not running plays. Not doing anything useful at all. Just there. In the dark with him.
I didn’t want to miss a second of it.
I've never done that with anyone. Never let someone just — be there.
Never let it be that simple. Never let myself have it.
I wanted to be everything he needed yesterday.
I wanted to be the person who could hold him through the Marcus thing and then look him in the eye and say — I'm here.
All the way. No more running. No more hiding. I wanted to be that.
But I don't know how to be that.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever and that thought sits cruelly in my chest because Rhys Callahan deserves someone who can look at him in the light and say this. This is what you are to me. Out loud. Where people can hear it and see it and feel it.
And I can't.
Not yet.
Maybe not for a long time.
And he deserves better than not yet. He deserves better than me standing in an empty locker room with my hand over my mouth trying to figure out how to be brave enough.
The worst part — the part that makes all of this so much harder — is that I'm happy.
Despite everything. Despite knowing exactly what I am and what I'm not and how much damage that gap is going to do to both of us.
I'm standing here in an empty locker room and I'm smiling like an idiot because yesterday he fell asleep on my chest. And I got to be the one who held him.
And even if that's all I ever get to be — even if this is it, even if I never manage to be brave enough for anything more — it mattered for one night.
I know it mattered. Not just to him. To me.
In a way I'm not sure anything ever has before.
I can’t even remember the last time I was happy or had something I wanted just for me.
I grab my bag and walk out. And tell myself on the walk home that I'm going to figure it out. That I'm going to get there.
That he's worth getting there for.
I just need a little more time.
And I hope he gives it to me.