Chapter Eight — Rhett
Chapter Eight
Rhett
The photo was still online twenty-three minutes after I asked for it to come down.
Not that I was counting.
I was absolutely counting.
The university communications office had replied with:
We’re reviewing the request.
Which was administrative language for:
We have no intention of doing anything quickly.
I stood outside the rink media room with my phone in one hand and my skates half unlaced.
The post had climbed another four hundred likes.
The comments kept multiplying.
Most were harmless.
Some were not.
And every time I refreshed, that picture appeared again.
Tessa in my arms.
Her face tilted toward mine.
My hand spread against her back.
The exact second before one of us had remembered there were rules.
I should have hated the photo because it violated the agreement.
Instead, I hated it because it looked like something I wanted.
That was worse.
“Refreshing won’t make them move faster.”
I looked up.
Eli leaned against the wall with his helmet tucked beneath one arm.
“I’m not refreshing.”
“You’ve been staring at the same screen for five minutes.”
“I’m reading.”
“You hate reading.”
“I hate assigned reading.”
He came closer and glanced at the post.
The top comment now read:
He has never looked at anyone like that.
I locked the phone.
Eli’s eyebrows rose.
“Interesting.”
“Nothing is interesting.”
“You’re trying to get a flattering photo removed from the internet.”
“She didn’t approve it.”
“That is not what I said.”
I shoved the phone into my pocket.
“Shouldn’t you be helping children?”
“Mine left.”
“You lost a child?”
“His mother took him home.”
“Convenient explanation.”
Eli ignored that.
“You like her.”
I bent to untie my other skate.
“No.”
“That was fast.”
“Because it’s obvious.”
“That you don’t?”
“That this conversation is pointless.”
“You held her like she was made of glass.”
“She fell.”
“You looked at her like you wanted to kiss her.”
“I was checking for a concussion.”
“From falling six inches?”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“Neither are you.”
I pulled off one skate.
The cold concrete pressed through my sock.
Eli waited.
That was the problem with quiet people.
They did not rescue you from silence.
They weaponized it.
“I like her,” I said.
He nodded.
“That was less painful than expected.”
“Temporarily.”
“You going to tell her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she doesn’t want this to be real.”
Eli looked down the hallway.
Tessa stood near the rink doors talking to a volunteer coordinator.
She had changed out of skates and back into boots. Her hair was falling out of its knot. She held a clipboard against her chest and nodded while the woman spoke.
Even from twenty feet away, I could see the exhaustion in the set of her shoulders.
And the way she hid it.
“She looks at you,” Eli said.
I followed his gaze.
“She looks at everyone.”
“Not like that.”
“You’ve known her for one week.”
“So have you.”
Fair.
Annoying.
But fair.
I removed the second skate.
“She likes competence.”
“You’re doomed.”
“Exactly.”
Eli smiled.
Then his expression changed.
“You know you don’t have to turn everything into a joke.”
“That sounded suspiciously like emotional advice.”
“It was.”
“From you?”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You barely contain a full sentence.”
He laughed.
Then looked toward Tessa again.
“Just don’t make her guess whether you mean it.”
I stilled.
That landed too close to Coach’s warning.
Do not make her carry the consequences of your reputation.
The problem was, I had built that reputation carefully.
Not the cheating part.
That was mostly campus mythology.
But the rest?
The easy smile.
The harmless flirting.
The refusal to let anything matter long enough to become dangerous.
That had been deliberate.
Useful.
Until Tessa.
Now every honest thing sounded like a line before it even left my mouth.
“I’m handling it,” I said.
Eli gave me a look.
“That phrase usually means you aren’t.”
“Go find another child.”
He pushed away from the wall.
Before leaving, he said, “For what it’s worth, the picture’s good.”
“That is worth nothing.”
“It’s the first time you’ve looked normal in one.”
Then he walked away.
I stared after him.
“Normal?”
He lifted one hand.
I considered throwing a skate.
Instead, I finished changing and headed toward Tessa.
She saw me coming.
Her expression sharpened.
Not angry.
Concerned.
That was new.
“Did they answer?”
“Reviewing.”
“That means no.”
“That’s what I said.”
“You did not.”
“I thought it loudly.”
She glanced toward the media room.
“You don’t have to keep fighting it.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Rhett.”
“They posted it without permission.”
“It’s not explicit.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you more upset than I am?”
Because I remembered how it felt to hold her.
Because the entire campus could see something I had not admitted to myself.
Because the comments were turning one private second into public property.
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets.
“You said you weren’t okay with it.”
“That was before I thought about what removing it would do.”
“What would it do?”
“Make people notice.”
“They already noticed.”
“It would turn into a story.”
“It is already a story.”
“A bigger one.”
She looked tired again.
Not physically.
Worn down in the way people got when too many eyes were on them.
I softened my voice.
“What do you want?”
Her gaze lifted.
“That’s a dangerous question.”
“Why?”
“Because you keep asking it like you mean it.”
I went still.
There were several easy answers.
Most of them jokes.
For once, none came.
“Maybe I do,” I said.
The hallway seemed to quiet.
Tessa looked at me for a long second.
Then somebody pushed a rolling equipment cart between us.
The moment broke.
She stepped aside.
“So,” she said, too briskly, “we leave it up.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“It was an operational decision.”
“Tessa.”
“The post stays.”
“Fine.”
She nodded.
But she did not move.
Neither did I.
Her eyes searched my face.
“What?”
“You’re not arguing.”
“I’m growing.”
“Suspicious.”
“I can argue if it makes you more comfortable.”
“It does not.”
“Good.”
She looked toward the rink.
The event was winding down. Families moved toward the exits. Volunteers gathered helmets and stacked skates. The music had been turned off, leaving the arena strangely quiet.
“Paige asked me to stay for cleanup,” she said.
“I’ll help.”
“You’ve already been here all day.”
“So have you.”
“I’m the coordinator.”
“I’m the hazard symbol.”
“That was for Family Weekend.”
“I think I earned permanent status.”
Her mouth curved.
Then she looked away.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That changed something.
Small.
But real.
“Fine,” she said.
“Enthusiastic.”
“I’m conserving energy.”
“For resisting me?”
“For surviving you.”
“Same thing.”
We spent the next hour returning borrowed skates, folding tables, and carrying boxes into storage.
The team disappeared one by one.
Cam left after dramatically announcing that his community spirit had reached capacity.
Noah took three leftover pizzas.
Eli stayed until the last equipment cart was returned, then gave me a look that was clearly meant to be meaningful.
I ignored him.
By the time the arena emptied, it was dark outside.
Tessa stood at the edge of the rink holding a box of unused wristbands.
I carried the last folding sign toward storage.
“Where does this go?”
“Back room.”
“Which one?”
“The room you put it in this morning.”
“I was emotionally younger then.”
“By six hours?”
“I’ve been through a lot.”
She pointed.
I took the sign through the indicated door, stacked it against the wall, and returned.
Tessa had not moved.
She was staring at the ice.
Without the families and music, the arena felt enormous.
Empty rows of seats.
Soft maintenance lights.
A smooth sheet of ice stretching beneath us.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded.
Too fast.
I came to stand beside her.
“Operationally or actually?”
Her lips pressed together.
“You’re becoming annoying in new ways.”
“I’m versatile.”
She lowered the box to the floor.
“My father called again.”
I waited.
This was not a subject she welcomed easily.
“He saw the skate photo,” she continued.
“Of course he did.”
“My aunt has notifications.”
“She sounds committed.”
“He wants me to come home next weekend.”
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Then she sighed.
“I don’t know.”
I leaned against the boards.
“What happens if you go?”
“He asks questions.”
“About me?”
“About everything.”
“School?”
“Plans. Internships. Graduate programs. Whether I’m being realistic.”
The last word came out differently.
Heavier.
I looked at her.
“What does realistic mean?”
“It means useful.”
“That didn’t answer the question.”
“It answered his.”
She crossed her arms.
“My father thinks every decision should lead somewhere measurable.”
“Like your events?”
“Like law school.”
“Do you want law school?”
Her jaw tightened.
“That’s not the point.”
“That usually means no.”
She turned toward me.
“Not everyone gets to make decisions based on what they want.”
“Why not?”
“Because wanting something is not a plan.”
“No. It’s the reason for one.”
Her expression shifted.
I had surprised her.
Possibly myself too.
“Since when are you philosophical?” she asked.
“Since you started interrogating my emotional defenses.”
“I identified a pattern.”
“You ruined my ignorance.”
“You’re welcome.”
I smiled.
She didn’t.
Not this time.
“What do you want?” I asked again.
Her eyes moved back to the ice.
“I don’t know.”
I believed her.
That was the sad part.
Tessa knew exactly where every chair, banner, and volunteer belonged.
But when it came to herself, all the boxes were blank.
“What did you want before everyone started telling you what was practical?” I asked.
She looked at me.
The question landed.
I saw it.
Then she picked up the box.
“We should finish.”
Avoidance.
Clean.
Efficient.
Very Tessa.
I took the box from her.