19. Maya
Maya
“So you’re saying that your plan is to get him—Jameson Booker—to fall in love with you?” Chloe asks dubiously from behind the curtain of her dressing room.
“No,” I reply, exasperated. “I’m saying he already has feelings for me, and I’m going to try to get him to admit it.”
“I have so many thoughts,” she huffs, tossing back the curtain and waltzing out in a black fitted dress with flowy sleeves.
She stands in front of the large three-way mirror, examining herself from all angles as she continues.
“First off, I can’t believe you never told me you grew up with him.
I mean, we’ve had so many conversations about how attractive those hockey guys are, and you never once thought to mention that your parents used to date each other? ” She pins me with an annoyed glare.
“Secondly, Booker has never had a girlfriend. In the four years he’s been here, there are no accounts of him even being with the same person twice.”
“Damn, Chloe, did you take a school-wide survey on the guy’s sexual habits?” I say, laughing awkwardly.
“Come on, M. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that all of those guys are kind of slutty. You can’t tell me I’m wrong.”
I don’t reply, annoyed that I know she’s, unfortunately, correct.
“Anyway, I’m not slut shaming, but the notion that Jameson Booker is in love with you may be a little…
misguided.” She turns fully to face me, her brown eyes meeting mine.
“I’m not trying to be mean, just realistic.
Sure, you all have history. You hooked up.
But that doesn’t change the fact that he—quite often, mind you—goes on tour with his dad, is seen at raging parties with who knows how many women vying for his attention, and is six months away from being a professional athlete.
His hoe-phase is just getting started, not coming to an end. ”
She gives me one more pitying glance before going back into her fitting room to try on the next dress.
Her words bother me more than they should. I know Jamie, and I know what he said to me in the park. He’s in full denial-mode about his feelings for me.
But Chloe makes a good point. Maybe he doesn’t want a relationship—with me or anyone else. He’s a semi-famous, twenty-three year old athlete whose world is about to get a whole lot bigger.
Just because I want him doesn’t mean he wants me.
Chloe comes back out, this time in a crimson sequence gown that does amazing things for her figure.
Her family attends a Christmas charity event every year, but I’m not sure of the details outside of that. Nonetheless, I’m grateful she asked me to come dress shopping with her today. I needed some one-on-one girl time. It’s a relief to get everything going on with Jamie off of my chest.
“So what? You think I should go back to letting him ignore me?” I ask her. “Also, this is the one. You look amazing in that color.”
She twists in the mirror once more as she answers.
“I mean, you can’t control what he does.
He’s a grown man. But if you do keep talking with him or hooking up or whatever you decide to do, don’t be surprised when he leaves.
I’m not saying he’s going to be a jerk, but he’s obviously got some sort of commitment issue. ”
“His mom died,” I say, trying to defend him.
“So? Lots of people have dead moms. It doesn’t give him the right to be rude to people. But a rich and famous daddy? He’s probably learned that attitude from him.”
“He’s not rude, Chloe.” I don’t know how to get her to understand the version of Jamie I know. The sweet, quiet, stoic, hurt version I know he hides behind his playboy exterior.
Chloe groans in frustration. “Mayaaa,” she starts, drawing out my name. “You’re missing the point. But that’s fine. You know him better than I do. I’m just trying to be a good friend and warn you against getting attached to someone who—for all intents and purposes—will be gone after graduation.”
I frown, and she walks over to wrap me in a hug. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I know that’s not what you want to hear. But while you’re looking out for his feelings, someone has to look out for yours.”
For the first time this season, I attend a Friday night hockey game. After Chloe and I finished shopping, we went back to her dorm to get ready, met up with a few other girls from school, and carpooled over to the arena.
My dad reserved us seats against the glass when I told him we were thinking about coming tonight. I figured we should come out and support the team in their first game without Colt, and it seems the rest of the school and the town had the same idea.
Out of the gate, the Saint Augustine boys are a mess.
Beau Warren’s defense is majorly lacking.
On a regular day, that man is a force to be reckoned with.
Today, though, his head is not in the arena.
Honestly, I’m surprised he’s even here, since Beau wasn’t at the team dinner the other night.
Colt just got home a few days ago, and I bet he had to convince his best friend to come play tonight.
Drew took over playing Colton’s position.
The guy who’s filling in for Drew on second line, “Fischer” stitched on the back of his jersey—I’m fairly certain I heard my dad say he’s a sophomore—looks like a poor lost puppy on the ice.
Sure, he’s been playing all season on third line, but the pressure of filling Drew’s—and Colt’s—skates seems to have gotten the better of him.
Before the first period even ends, Fischer’s lost control of the puck three times, leading to two goals for the opposing team.
My eyes track Jamie the majority of the game.
He’s composed and steady, as always, providing instruction and encouragement to his teammates.
But I can also see the tension under his skin: the way he shakes his head when someone makes a mistake, the too-tight grip he has on his stick.
While he’s not giving turnovers, he’s also not playing as aggressively as usual.
Jamie’s only scored one goal by the end of the game—the only goal St. A’s managed to put on the board, and the Knights skate off the ice with their heads hung low.
As the somber crowd makes its way out of the arena, I tell my friends I’m going to catch a ride home with my dad. On a normal game day, we would go to the bar or to a party to celebrate the game or just hang out after a loss. This game, however, deserves a grieving period.
I’m standing outside the locker room, the fans having long since dispersed, waiting for my dad to finish his post-game chat with the team.
Expecting my father to be the first person out the door, I’m surprised when players start exiting instead. Some of them cordially nod their head in greeting, but most of them have their eyes locked on their feet, walking out in silence.
Eventually, Jamie and Drew exit the room, and I’m only mildly startled when they walk up to talk to me.
“Hey,” I greet, not bothering to offer condolences about the game. They know it was bad, and don’t need the reminder.
Looking up from his phone, Drew offers me a small smile, and I know they must be really let down when even he can’t brush off the loss.
“Your dad might be a while,” Jamie says to me. “He’s talking to Fischer. Kid’s pretty upset.”
“Oh,” I reply. “That’s alright. I can just wait for him in his office.”
“Your friends already left?” he asks and I nod in confirmation.
We stand there in an awkward pause before Drew pats Jamie on the shoulder and tells me bye, then he walks down the hall, eyes locked on the text messages across his screen.
“Do you…do you want me to take you home?” Jamie asks, hands in his pockets.
Startled—but pleased—by his offer, I slowly nod once. “I really don’t mind waiting.”
He jerks his head to the side, signally for me to follow him as we make our way to the parking lot.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, that just sucked.” He laughs humorlessly. “But it went about how I expected it to go.”
“You guys did the best you could,” I offer.
“I know. And normally I’d say we’ve got a good game plan for if a player gets injured. A team can’t run on just one or two good people. But this was a mental battle, not a physical one.”
I nod again, unsure what to say. Instead I ask, “How’s Colt doing?” I’ve asked my dad, but hearing from one of his friends offers another perspective.
“Not good, I don’t think. He says he remembers nothing, and I know he’s bothered that he doesn’t remember his dad’s death, playing the last two years, meeting his girlfriend. He’s quiet, he’s in pain, he’s scared. And there’s nothing any of us can do to help.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as we approach the Camaro.
Jamie reaches out and opens the passenger side door for me, putting us almost nose to nose. The urge to kiss him, to console him somehow, is overwhelming.
He shakes his head, his still-damp hair flopping over his forehead. He smells clean and masculine, the soap from his shower clinging to his skin. “It’ll just take time,” Jamie whispers back.
We hold each other’s gaze for a beat before I lower myself down into the car.
Jamie gets in after tossing his bag in the trunk and starts up the powerful engine.
“So, you have an off day tomorrow?” I ask, breaking the silence. When we were kids, I used to talk circles around Jamie. He was content to listen to me ramble on for hours, and, while I should feel self-conscious by his silence, I actually feel comforted. Some things never change.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Probably just going to rest.”
“Play your guitar?” I ask, and he shoots me a look from the corner of his eye. We’ve never approached the topic of his double life—of his rock star alter ego. Of the life he lived with Ross.
“Maybe. I don’t know. Sometimes even that feels like a lot of work.”
“It’s not relaxing to you? When I’m stressed, I always find myself drawing to let loose,” I remind him, and a ghost of a smile plays on his lips.
“I remember,” he says. “I’ve never really found a hobby that eased my stress. Perks of being a perfectionist, I suppose.”
“Then why do you play?” I ask curiously.
Jamie shrugs. “I mean, I enjoy it. But I…” he pauses, clearly trying to decide how much he wanted to open up to me, and I tamp down a satisfied smirk when he continues.
“I was always trying to live up to my dad’s expectations.
And I get frustrated if I mess up playing a song, so I end up practicing excessively until I get it right. ”
“Do you ever write your own songs? That way there’s nothing to get ‘right,’ because it’s your work. The creativity is the relaxing part.”
“No, I guess I never thought I was good enough to write something of my own,” he admits.
We pull up in front of my house, and I reluctantly reach for the handle of the car door.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re extremely talented. I’ve seen you play…online.” I let the statement hover between us, not announcing that I’ve discovered his anonymous account outright, but hopefully giving him an ego boost can push him to step out of Ross Booker’s shadow.
He nods, clearly uncomfortable with my flattery, and my lips pull up in a soft laugh. How ironic that this man can say unspeakably dirty things to me in a locker room shower, but my complimenting his musical ability is what makes him blush.
“Thank you, for the ride,” I finish, opening the door and stepping out.
“You’re welcome. Goodnight, Maya.”
“Goodnight, Jamie.”