Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Truffle Fries - Grace
Istare up at Wyatt, my heart slamming against my ribs. His hands are still on my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones in a way that is tender and reverent, but I can feel the rough callouses on his fingertips, which makes the move even hotter.
And he’s just asked me to dinner.
My heart dares to hope. There’s nobody around, nobody we need to act for. Rob has been a nonissue, and Asher isn’t here. Could Wyatt be asking this because he wants to?
“Okay,” I say simply.
Wyatt’s fingertips stop moving, but his hands remain on my face. “Yeah? You will?”
I smile up at him. “Come on. My boyfriend wore the yellow jersey. We’ve got to have dinner to celebrate.”
It’s really scary how much I love the way that sentence sounds. I carefully watch his reaction, waiting to see if there’s regret or hesitation in his eyes.
There’s not. In fact, Wyatt flashes me a brilliant smile. “Okay, then,” he says, finally dropping his hands from my face.
I bite my lip, missing his touch the second he moves his hands. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go home and change? I’ve just thrown on some old clothes after practice.”
UGH. I glance down at my oversized sweatshirt and shorts. I have flip-flops on, and my hair is in a bun. Not exactly the look I’d choose for a dinner out with Wyatt.
“You look beautiful, Grace.”
I bask in his compliment but decide to be playful about it. “Wyatt. I’m wearing old shorts. A sweatshirt. I don’t have any makeup on. I’m not beautiful.”
His brows instantly shoot up. “What?”
My face grows warm. “You heard what I said.”
A corner of his mouth begins to quirk in a playful smile. “I must have misheard you. Because there’s no way you could have said you aren’t beautiful right now.”
I remain quiet, secretly loving the things Wyatt is saying to me.
“Because no sane person,” he continues, “would ever see you as anything other than hot. Gorgeous. Beautiful.”
His eyes grow liquid as he says the last word, causing my breath to hitch in my throat. Wyatt thinks I’m all these things, even with no makeup on and old denim shorts and a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big.
He truly thinks I’m beautiful.
“Let’s go, I’m starving.” He picks up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He walks a few feet ahead of me, but then extends his free hand behind him, holding it out to me. He wiggles his fingers as if to say, “Come on, give me your hand already.”
So I do. I put my hand in his and he laces his fingers through mine.
Wyatt leads me out of the arena, and when he opens the door, we’re greeted with sunshine and mild temperatures, the palm trees towering up along the sidewalk, with blue skies and clouds stretched out like cotton-candy ribbons overhead.
“Tell me about the scrimmage,” I say excitedly. “How did it go? Did Antoine hit your tape?”
Wyatt stops walking, a surprised expression appearing on his face. “You remembered I said that?”
“My goal is to be an A-plus girlfriend. That means I listen when you talk.” I smile sheepishly at him. “Even if I barely understand what you’re saying.”
He beams down at me, and I feel a surge of happiness. We continue to walk to his Jeep in the parking lot. “Yeah. I scored twice,” he says softly.
Now I’m the one who stops walking. “Wyatt! That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you!” I yell so loudly that some players turn around and look at us, and an adorable blush begins to sweep across the tops of his cut cheekbones.
Before he can reply, his phone vibrates in his jeans pocket, and he frowns, not making a move to take it out.
“Aren’t you going to look at it?” I ask.
Wyatt’s happy expression fades, and my heart catches. “It’s most likely my dad,” he says as we resume walking across the parking lot. “He’s probably seen the stats on the website and wants a debrief.”
“You can talk to him if you want to.”
“I don’t. But you’re right, he’ll probably keep texting until I reply.
” Wyatt pauses at the Jeep, opening the back door and putting his bag in the back seat.
Then he opens my door for me, and I hop up into the passenger side.
He comes around to the driver’s side, phone in hand, and slides behind the wheel.
Wyatt unlocks his phone and taps his screen. I watch as a scowl appears on his face.
“Wy? Are you okay?”
“When will I ever be enough?” he snaps, picking up his aviators and putting them on. “When will he stop making his unfulfilled dreams my burden?”
I take in his words. This is the most Wyatt has ever said about his dad, and suddenly I feel a string tying us together.
He’s fighting the same thing with his dad that I am with my mom. And in struggling with my own situation, I can see so clearly with Wyatt what he needs to do. What I need to do.
“Have you told him how you feel?” I ask softly.
Wyatt puts his phone in the console between us. “It’s complicated.” He turns on the car, rap music filling the space as if to signal the conversation is over, but I decide I don’t want it to be.
“It’s like that with my mom,” I say.
A crease forms in Wyatt’s brow. He turns down the volume of the stereo. “How so?”
I hesitate. I have never shared this with anyone, but I think Wyatt needs to hear it.
And I need to say it.
“You know my mom is a literature professor, right?”
“Yeah, you told me that,” he says. “I remember.”
I smile. “Okay, I wasn’t sure if you did.”
“Gracie. I remember things you say. More than you know.”
My words matter to him. Even though this is fake dating, even though in a few weeks he’s going to walk away from me, Wyatt listens. And he remembers.
He clears his throat. “Quick aside for just a moment. What do you want to eat?”
“Oh, I don’t care.”
A crooked smile appears on his mouth, and I get a shiver as soon as I see it.
“Come on, Gracie. I want you to care. What do you feel like eating?”
I consider it for a moment. “We’re celebrating. I think that calls for fries.”
“Ooh, we’re going rogue on the athletic eating plan?”
I giggle at that. “Let’s go totally rogue.”
“Rogue, it is. I know a place that’s perfect. Trust me?”
I stare at his profile. I trust you more than you know, I think.
“I do.”
He nods and makes a move to get into the left turn lane. “Okay. Back to your mom.”
“Right. Well, when I won a writing contest in high school—and the same piece went on to win a national award for literary short stories—my mom began pushing me to pursue a writing career. Not just writing but writing literature. Powerful, deep, impactful work. But the truth is? I don’t want to.”
Wyatt blinks. I can tell he’s digesting this, so I go on.
“The thing is—and I’m embarrassed to admit this—I let her drive my decisions.
I … I didn’t want to disappoint her. She kept talking up my work to her colleagues, having them read it, telling everyone I had a talent and would land a book deal with a publisher.
I tried to tell her this was a one-off idea I had for a project, that I didn’t have any more high-concept ideas I wanted to write.
She said I shouldn’t waste my gift and needed to pursue it in college.
I felt so much pressure, Wyatt. And I didn’t feel heard.
It was … easier for my head and my heart to capitulate. ”
Wyatt is silent for a moment. Then, to my surprise, his hand goes to my thigh, spanning it and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Goose bumps ripple my skin from the sensation of his hand on my skin, and I suck in a breath. He immediately releases his hand, and I wish it were back in place.
“You should be able to write whatever you want,” he says. “This is your life. Your career. Your future.”
“Well, she’s paying for my future,” I say. “But what I realize now? I need to push back. I need to tell her the truth. I need to tell her I got a position writing for Cove Style and that’s what I need to follow right now.”
“Wait, you got the staff position on the magazine?”
I grin. “This afternoon I got the call. I’m in. Both of my test articles are going to be published.”
“Grace, this is fantastic, why didn’t you tell me? I’m so happy for you!”
His excitement for me is contagious, and I feel the same excitement I first had when I got the phone call.
We might be in a fake relationship, but I know this reaction is real.
If only the rest of it could be.
“I didn’t want to distract you from thinking about hockey.”
“You wouldn’t have distracted me. You would have motivated me to work even harder so I could be as successful as you on this campus.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
“But you’re right.”
I study his profile as we drive into downtown La Jolla. I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but I’m sure his gaze would be serious if I could see it.
“You do need to tell your mom how you feel. This is your dream to live. Not hers. And … and I should tell the same thing to my dad,” he says quietly.
“What is hockey to you?” I prod.
“Oh, I love hockey,” Wyatt says quickly, as if to dispel any thoughts I might have in my head. “But my dad …”
His voice trails off, and I know this has to be hard for him to talk about. I have a feeling that, like me, it’s something he’s kept trapped inside.
He clears his throat. “My dad,” he continues, “is very invested in my hockey. He has been since I was a little boy. It’s a sport he loves, and when I showed talent, he backed it. So I have to be grateful to him for that, you know.”
But that doesn’t mean he owns you, I think.
It’s weird when you hear a situation that is close to your own and you can clearly see what the other person needs to do, but at the same time you hide from doing it for yourself.
I wait for him to continue. I don’t want to push him to say anything he doesn’t want to.
“And he has spent a lot of money getting me to this point. Club teams. Private coaching. He wanted me to go play in Canada, but I didn’t want to.
I liked high school in Arizona. We had a great team, we knew we were good enough to contend for a title, and I was having fun.
So I refused to do it. That was the first time I disappointed him, and as soon as I did it?
I almost wanted to take it back. I hated that feeling.
I hated seeing the look of disappointment on his face. ”
My throat grows thick. I know this look from a parent you are so desperate to please. I also know this hurt.
This time, I put my hand on his thigh, his muscles hard and body warm underneath my palm. “His disappointment is not your problem,” I say simply.
Wyatt doesn’t say anything for a beat. Then he drops one hand from the steering wheel and puts his hand over mine. I feel like it’s symbolic of both of us, bonding over the same thing with our parents, holding hands as we reveal things we’ve never shared before.
“I think I could say the same thing about your mom.”
“You could.”
“He wasn’t always like this,” Wyatt says slowly, his voice quiet again, barely audible to me.
“We both have a love of hockey. Him as a spectator, me as a player. He wants to help me achieve my dream and I’m grateful for that.
But the better I got, the more I felt like the dream was becoming his instead of mine.
Dad is always studying my stats. And I mean studying.
Giving me advice. Making sure I’m not messing around.
Hammering over my head that this is my year to get the attention of NHL scouts and get drafted.
He doesn’t even ask me about anything else.
Not how my classes are going—because as long as I pass so I can play, that’s all that matters.
“I miss my dad,” he continues. “I miss the way he used to be, before I became good.”
A lump forms in my throat as I hear the pain and longing in his voice. Wyatt’s personal success—achieving something he dreamed of and wanted—took his relationship with his father and twisted it into something different.
Something that hurts him.
I squeeze his hand. “Have you talked to your dad about this?”
Wyatt snorts. “I’ve tried. I’ve failed. My mom isn’t much help.
She hates confrontation, and she wouldn’t stand up for me even if she believed my dad was wrong.
Rachel sees it. She gets it.” A wry, sad smile forms on his face.
“She’s often told me she’s glad she’s not me.
She has a normal relationship with Dad because he has no expectations for her other than to do well in school. ”
We’re in downtown La Jolla now, driving around an area with all kinds of boutique shops, art galleries, cute coffee bars, and unique restaurants.
He releases my hand, putting his back on the wheel, but I Ieave mine on his leg.
Wyatt finds a parking spot on the street and whips into it, then turns off the engine.
He puts his hand over mine again, sending heat flickering through my body and my heart zipping against my rib cage.
“I—I’ve never told that to anyone,” he confesses.
“I’m glad you did. I promise it stays between us.”
He nods. I wish I could see his eyes right now. “Thank you. And anytime you want to talk about your mom, you can talk to me, okay?”
My pulse quickens. “I will probably take you up on that.”
“Maybe we can help each other become grown-ass adults,” Wyatt muses.
I chuckle at that. “I could use the help.”
“Me too.” He clears his throat. “There’s a great place on this street that has truffle fries. Are you on board for that?”
Ooh, I do love a good truffle fry. “That depends. Are they skinny and crisp?”
“Of course they are. That’s a superior fry.”
We get out of the car and walk along the street.
As we move along, his hand accidentally brushes against mine, our knuckles grazing, and I feel sparks and longing from that mere touch.
I want to see him walking ahead of me, his backward baseball cap on, his T-shirt stretching across his muscular back, his hand extended behind him, palm up, with his fingers wiggling for mine like they did at the rink.
I swallow. I’m getting into trouble with how much I want that.
And how much more I want from this incredible boy walking next to me.