Chapter 13
THEN: Freshman Year, September
Paloma
My job with the hockey team isn’t what I expected—but it’s not bad. Or difficult. I rarely see the team, spending most of my time in the laundry room holding my breath and ignoring Jeremy—my colleague—and his stupid mouth.
Though, I’ve imagined punching him in it several times.
“Honestly, Paloma,” he says from his side of the laundry room, tossing one of the practice jerseys into the wrong bin. I snatch it quickly enough and toss it into the correct pile. “It’s just kind of distracting.”
When we’d met on our first day together, he’d shaken my hand and said, “I didn’t think they hired girls for guys’ sports.” I’d tried to laugh off the immediate tension as I asked him why.
“You know,” he’d said, smiling and elbowing me like we were already pals sharing an inside joke. “I don’t think they want to worry about the guys sleeping with the girls, getting distracted or starting drama.”
Since then, my anger toward him has only grown. I still haven’t found the end of it.
“Distracting?” I ask, my voice louder than usual. I’m almost always the nod and end the conversation type of person, but he’s made these comments three times in the past week. “I’m wearing the exact same thing as you.”
“Yeah, but c’mon, Paloma. You have to know what you look like.”
You look just like your mother.
With a body like that? What do you expect, Polly?
My stomach rolls with nausea as the words reopen old wounds I’ve fought hard to close.
Jeremy’s eyes scroll over the school-issued track pants and polo—identical to his current outfit—lingering over parts of my body I wish he didn’t even know existed. “Maybe you should get a baggier set.”
“I don’t even work with the team. We do laundry. We’re—”
“Still.” He waves his hand at me dismissively.
My body curves in, naturally wanting to hide whatever he’s seeing. I swallow down the vitriol I want to spew, taking in a few calming breaths to push back the tears of frustration.
“Okay, Jeremy.” I smile at him bitterly. “Actually, why don’t you let me finish the rest by myself. You said you have a test, so you can get out of here earlier.”
“No, you don’t have—”
“I insist.”
It doesn’t take much more than that for him to cut out early for the day, a pep in his step. I don’t give him my back, eyes locked on him as he salutes me and saunters out the door.
Screaming into the pulled-up collar of my shirt doesn’t help.
· · ·
It takes me twice the amount of time to prep without Jeremy’s help, but I do it happily—
—until I glance at the clock and realize that practice has been over for nearly an hour.
“Shit,” I curse, darting down the hallway and bursting into the locker room, expecting it to be empty. Expecting him to have left instead of waiting for me.
But Bennett Reiner is still here, standing stiffly where he always stands when I meet him after practice. His eyes dart to me at my rather cacophonous entrance, body straightening to his full, daunting height.
“I’m sorry—”
His fists curl for a moment, neck visibly tight as he shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
It clearly isn’t, but I ignore it and reach for the careful pile of his uniform. I’ve hit my limit on male ego for the day—and if he’s this upset about me being late when this isn’t even technically my job—
“I got a dog,” he blurts. It only surprises me because he’s usually quiet, just observing while I practice his routine, never returning my polite smiles. “His name is Seven.”
“Seven,” I repeat, not looking up from my task. “Weird name for a dog. Though I’m surprised you didn’t name him Sonnet, or after some ancient white man who wrote overly structured poetry.”
My words are snippier than I mean for them to be, and the almost childlike hurt that moves across his face makes me feel worse.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, head dropping. “I’m being mean. I just . . . I had a bad day today.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “It’s fine.”
Bennett is always aware of his size, never crowding me, never touching me intentionally or unintentionally. He doesn’t move closer, only stares expectantly.
“I don’t really get along with one of the guys who works with me.”
“Is he mean to you?”
There’s a gruffer quality to his voice that wasn’t there before.
I shrug. “Sometimes. He just . . . he thinks he’s funny.”
What a beautiful turn of phrase to say that he’s a misogynistic asshole.
Bennett nods, arms still crossed as I finish the last of his pads. He helps me put them back in his cubby before we step back in unison.
His body is warm, heat still wafting off him where I’m close enough to feel it. The smell of him is heady, as it always is—sandalwood and bergamot, and something else, too, that reminds me of the water on a coastal beach.
Bennett always showers and dresses fully before meeting me after each practice, hair damp and body still flushed. His skin is always smooth, too, as if he’s just shaved.
“If he bothers you again, tell me.”
The words are steady and strong, more confident than any eighteen-year-old’s should be. His expression is as serious as his tone. It might be the harshest I’ve ever heard him speak.
“Okay.”
He waits by the door for me to gather my belongings, like he always does, before holding every door open for me until we’re out of the arena and into the lightly crisp September air. A beat of silence hangs in the air.
“Have a good night, Paloma.”
It’s the first time he’s said my name.
“You too, Bennett.”
He pauses and turns back to me, calling my name under the glow of the parking lot lights. “I think you’d like Sylvia Plath,” he says, a strange look in his eyes. But no smile, as if my relation to her might not be celebratory to him.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Later that night, I read “The Moon and the Yew Tree” and quietly cry. He doesn’t know, not really. He couldn’t. But Bennett sees something no one else has.
I’m not sure if it comforts me or scares me.