Chapter 14
NOW
Bennett
“Great work today,” Coach Harris says, stepping into the locker room—eyes darting toward the huddled, chatting pair of Holden and Toren. “Dougherty, Kane, Coach LaBlanc wants an extra twenty with the pair of you. Take five and head back.”
They don’t argue, but I can see their furrowed brows like matching marks on their faces. Still, something with the new coach must be going right, because they’ve never been cleaner on the ice together.
“Everyone else, get some rest.”
I start to undress, slow as I remove my padding. Rhys slots in next to me, already half naked and dripping with sweat.
“All right?” I ask, because if he’s not smiling post-practice my stomach sinks with the worry that I’ve missed something—again. That my best friend is drowning again and I’m not taking care of him.
“What?” he asks, half-distracted. “Oh, yeah—I’m good.” He offers a dimpled grin and warm brown eyes. “Are you headed home?”
“After this? Yes.”
“I think Ro and Sadie are already drunk.” Freddy snorts, smacking a hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “Hence why our captain is losing his usually calm demeanor.”
“I’m losing my usually calm demeanor”—he mimics Freddy’s teasing tone—“because I haven’t had a minute alone with my girlfriend in weeks.”
My brow furrows. “Why?”
“Liam has been having nightmares.” His face is serious, slightly heartbroken as he speaks softly about Sadie’s youngest brother. “It’s . . . it’s not going well. And Oliver is . . . adjusting to my parent’s house. He’s too grown up for his own good.”
He checks his phone again, closing his eyes and tilting his head to the sky with a whispered curse. I know it’s something from his girlfriend as he mutters, “One more goddamn photo, Gray,” he mutters, before tossing the offending device in his backpack while Freddy laughs.
“You coming with us, Reiner?” Freddy asks, stripped down to his boxers as he turns for the showers without even waiting for my answer.
Rhys looks at me. “You’re more than welcome to. It would be nice, all of us together.”
There’s a moment of hesitation where I want to say yes—if only to be nearer to them. But I know the pain being the fifth wheel brings. I experience it at every family breakfast, even when I’m happy to see them happy and taken care of. But this might be too much.
“You guys go ahead,” I say. “I’ve got a huge project to get ahead on.”
It takes me twice as long to do my routine, so I haven’t even showered by the time they’re leaving, dressed for the bars downtown. Both smiling. Both incandescently happy.
I can’t be mad, it’s not fair to them—to be mad at their happiness?
It doesn’t stop the longing, the pain in my chest like a wound, hollowed out and scarred over—but still so tender even just a graze against it is enough to send my hurt spiraling into memories.
The locker room is nearly cleared out by the time I’m done with my postgame ritual, before I start on cleaning my gear and pads, stacking them carefully as I always do.
Not always. The thought comes unbidden, and unwanted. It draws me to my bag, unzipping it to grab my phone like muscle memory fused with tremors of anxiety as I check for a text that I don’t want to see as much as I do.
Nothing.
I take it as a sign that I’m safe to shower before dressing and grabbing my bag to head toward the nearly empty parking lot with a slap to Coach Harris’s office door to tell him the locker room is cleared.
It isn’t until I’ve pulled into the driveway of the Hockey House that my phone lights up in the cupholder.
A text, not a call—which could be better or worse.
P
Walk me home?
The words are familiar at this point. After hearing her weak voice whisper them that first night months ago, we’d treated the phrase like a code for help. A code that she needs me.
The call of her is impossible to resist. Like it always has been. As much as I waited with bated breath for her text, now I’m fueled by only anger.
Is it better to know her as this hurtful thing in my chest than to not know if she’s breathing?
I don’t know.
But I’m reversing out of the driveway and down the street immediately, following her location on the map until I pull up to some disgustingly overcrowded house, a half ripped-down sign congratulating the football team on another win.
The front yard is covered with groups laughing and shouting, but it’s all white noise.
My eyes find her immediately, sitting precariously on the overhang of the porch and swinging her legs back and forth.
Blond hair bouncy and voluptuous, cascading around her pink-cheeked face.
She’s dressed in a dusty blue corset and jeans, enough skin on show to know she must be freezing.
Or she’s drunk enough not to feel the cold.
No one is around her, but that doesn’t mean she’s been alone tonight.
She spots me and hops haphazardly down, nearly face-planting—close enough to it that I’m shooting out of the truck and across the grass without preamble.
“Jesus, P,” I sigh, grabbing her around the waist to steady her.
Brown doe eyes glimmer up at me, her entire body relaxing as she lets me take her weight and guide her to the passenger side of the car. I lift her by her waist into my truck, buckling her seatbelt before heading around to the driver’s side.
Bon Iver croons in the cab, the gentle sounds sharply contrasting with the thunderous booming house music in a way that makes my head pound as I drive us away.
“Hungry?” I ask, voice gentle despite the pain of being this close to her.
“I want chicken nuggets,” her soft voice sighs as she burrows into my bicep. “Can we?”
It’s impossible to ignore the twinkling eyes she darts up at me. Her pouty mouth that’s almost always scowling is smiling lightly. At me.
Paloma Blake might be the snarling, claws-out girl to everyone else, but to me she’s something different.
Something softer.
“Yeah, I’ll make you some while you shower,” I say, pulling into the darkened driveway.
“With spicy ketchup?”
I ruffle her hair gently. “With spicy ketchup.”
My roommates are out of the house commiserating our loss, so it’s easy to sneak her in—especially when she hops onto my back with no complaint. Easier to get her inside and upstairs without the drunk stumbling into every piece of furniture we have.
I shut and lock my door before letting her slide down my back. While she starts to take off her shoes, I head to the bathroom to turn on the shower, waiting until it’s steamy-warm.
Stumbling a little, I grip the doorframe and dart my eyes to the ceiling to avoid searing the image of her—only in the blue corset bodysuit now—into my mind.
“Shower’s ready.”
I hear the light pitter-patter of her feet to the door. She ducks under my arms with a quick kiss pressed to the center of my chest, a distinct inhale from her like she’s seeking my scent.
Once, she told me that the way I smell is comforting to her. That it makes her feel safe. Now, when I catch her trying to take in the scent of my clothes, I worry a little that something has made her feel unsafe.
I close her in the bathroom after leaving a pile of clothes on the countertop.
I keep my room cold because I can’t stand sweating in my sleep. Which means I have to dress Paloma in warm clothes.
She emerges, swimming in the sweatpants I laid out for her.
My sweatshirt, which has a near-hole chewed out of the right sleeve where Paloma likes to bite—a self-soothing tactic that makes my stomach roll every time she does it—covers her to midthigh.
But she looks warm and cozy, skin still flushed from the hot shower, but eyes less glassy.
I pat the bed for her to sit, one of her brushes in my hand. Her wet hair lays in tangles, but I’m careful with each section as I brush through it until every strand is smooth down her back and she’s nearly asleep in my hands.
“I thought you wanted chicken nuggets,” I ask, knowing she won’t stay awake long enough for me to make it to the kitchen and back.
“Goldfish, please,” she mumbles, sinking further into my chest. I laugh a little and reach over into my side table for one of the small bags of them.
She lets me hand-feed her, laying pliantly against me, eyes closed softly as I press the fish-shaped crackers to her lips until she finishes the bag.
“Love you, P,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead and rolling her to sleep on her side where I can keep watch over her until I fall asleep.
· · ·
The kitchen is quiet, which years ago might’ve been fine—preferable even. But now it just fills me with a stifling sense of loss.
I’ve lived with Rhys nearly my entire life, at least in some capacity. As a child, my time with my dad was half spent at the Koteskiy house. As teens we attended Berkshire together, living together for over half the year in a dormitory. And now we’re here at Waterfell.
Seven pads gently behind me, slumping against the back of my legs when I freeze by the stove before rousing myself and starting on the food.
When I check the fridge, a bolt of irritation rushes down my spine as I see Rhys and Freddy’s meal-prepped food untouched. Rhys’s has a note atop it that must be from yesterday.
Ended up having dinner with the girls. Sorry we let it go to waste.
Grabbing the containers, I toss the food and clean them until my hands are red from the heat of the water and the harsh chemicals of the soap. I take the time to dry them before putting the dishes away.
As I put a pan back, I get sidetracked for a moment by the one green pan that’s different from my meticulous stainless-steel collection. Freddy’s pan—the only one I allow him to use.
A smile pushes at my face, before another pang of loss replaces it. He hasn’t used it in weeks.
My phone rings and I answer it without checking, too distracted by memories of Rhys and Freddy taking up space in the kitchen to realize who it is.
“Hello?”
“Bennett.” My dad’s half-shocked voice fills the line. He clears his throat. “How are you?”
Most people assume that the breaking of my relationship with my dad is centered around the divorce and his relationship with my mother. But no one knows the real situation, the real reason I’ve built walls between us, lost my respect for him.
“Fine.”
I’m sure he was expecting a voicemail box he could speak to since I haven’t taken his calls in months, but my stupid mistake has us both awkwardly silent, breathing into the phone.
“If you’d just talk to me—”
My head is already swimming, anger and frustration coating my voice. “Stop.”
He does, immediately. “Sorry . . . sorry.” Another unnecessary clearing of his throat, and then, “Max and Anna have invited us to dinner next week. Friday. Rhys is going as well. Will you be there?”
It’s currently one of the last places I’d like to be—but with Rhys in the mix, I’ll never say no.
“All right. I’ll come.”
He blows out a hard breath. I hang up before he can say anything else.
Instead, I spend the night with Seven asleep on my thighs and some Food Network competition on in the background while I check Paloma’s social media like a stalker, frustrated when it reveals nothing.
I scroll through her photos until my chest feels so tight I can’t breathe, then—even though I know it will hurt—I open the untitled folder in my photo album where photos of dirty blond hair in my hands and a beautiful girl asleep on my chest bring me more pain than comfort.
“Don’t you want me? I can make it so good for you. Just like old times—”
“Sometimes I think you’re not real. That I dreamed you up.”
I barely manage to fall asleep; the want of her so intense I’m sure I can hold it in my hands. It’s only the heavy calming presence of my dog that seems to do the trick.