Chapter 11 Close to You
CLOSE TO YOU
CLEO
I BLINK AT THE DOOR THAT MATS CLOSED QUIETLY BEHIND HIM. THEN I RELEASE THE brEATH I didn’t even know I was holding and flop down on the bed.
As I stare up at the canopy, I can hear my mother scolding me: You always go too far, Cleo. Extremes aren’t a bad thing when it comes to training or game effort. But when it comes to people, maybe not so much.
I’ve been pushing Mats’s limits. So far, he’s tolerated all the crap I’ve thrown at him with good nature, from the early insults to my recent hot-and-cold behaviour. But he just hit his breaking point, and it’s my fault.
Of course, nobody wants to sleep in the same bed as someone they’re not going out with.
But if I plunk anyone else from the men’s team into the other half of this bed, would it bother me?
With the exception of a couple of horny creeps, it would be fine.
I would never be as rude about the situation as I was with Mats.
I’ve shared tents with guys I wasn’t dating and it was no big deal.
So, what is it about sleeping with Mats that bothers me so much?
It only takes two seconds to figure it out. It’s the conflict inside me.
I enjoy spending time with Mats. I’d like to spend more time with him. He’s interesting because he thinks so differently from me. From his long-term career plans to his philosophy studies, he’s full of unexpected insights. And am I attracted to him? Well, no shit.
But how can I enjoy hanging out with my brother’s enemy?
For over a year, I’ve believed that Mats is the person responsible for Jordan getting kicked off the Mustangs.
I’ve disliked him and resented him. So, it’s almost embarrassing how quickly I’ve allowed myself to be charmed by him and forget everything that Jordan told me.
Yet the Mats in Jordan’s story doesn’t match the Mats I’ve gotten to know. My Mats is considerate, patient, and highly principled. I have trouble imagining him even jaywalking, so how could he fabricate a whole story to get rid of a player? Impossible.
And now there are more hints that Jordan might not have told me the whole story. Knudy clearly doesn’t blame Mats; in fact, she really likes him—as do all my teammates who know him. And what Mats just said is as close to a complete denial as I can get from him.
Still, I feel sorry for my little brother. He needs someone in his corner because he can rub people the wrong way. And yes, sometimes he does asshole things. But he’s really not a bad person. Maybe there’s some kind of middle ground, where Jordan exaggerated and Mats misunderstood?
Ugh, I can’t solve this whole mystery tonight. I exhale loudly. Right now, I owe someone an apology.
I finally find Mats in the library, reading a book. He looks up at me warily.
Hey. I try to smile, but it’s not working for either of us. He looks grim.
I just wanted to say I’m sorry, I begin.
For what? he asks, because he’s all about specificity.
Well, I’m sorry that I’ve been such a dick. That I’ve been treating you like shit for so long.
I pause, hoping that this might be enough, but Mats remains quiet. I know that you won’t discuss this, but from what my brother told me, it seemed like what happened to him was personal. Like you didn’t like him and wanted him off the team.
Mats’s raised eyebrow is giving major are-you-fucking-serious vibes. Shit, this is not going well.
More words from my mother come back to me: You can’t fight all your brother’s battles for him. I didn’t agree, though; if I could help him, why wouldn’t I? My parents were busy working, so I had to stand up for Jordan.
“But I have to admit that, in all the time we’ve spent together, you’re not like that at all. You’re a really nice guy, and even though I’ve fought it all the way, I like you now.’
Mats shakes his head. Am I supposed to thank you? ‘Oh, Mats, against my will, I’ve decided that you’re okay.’
I sigh. Fuck, I’m not doing this right. Let me start again. I’m sorry that I’ve been such a bitch. I’m really sorry for everything I said up in the bedroom. If you’ll forgive me, I hope we can work together to get that bequest.
He waits so long that I start to sweat. Is it too late? Have I irrevocably ruined our relationship before it could even get started?
I think we could work together, he finally says. But you should talk to your brother. Get him to explain exactly what happened.
I have, I begin, but Mats obviously thinks I don’t have all the facts. And he’s right. Of course. I’ll talk to him again.
He nods, and I exhale.
So… truce? I ask.
Sure, he agrees.
It feels like a hugging moment, but Mats doesn’t seem like a hugger. Still, I do a mental fist pump since I’m so relieved that we’re all good.
You want to come with me and see if there any cookies left over from dinner?
Okay. He rises and puts his book back on the shelf. We make our way into the kitchen, but the moment I start opening cupboard doors, Geraldine appears. Her chenille dressing gown doesn’t make her any less scary.
Are you hungry? she asks incredulously.
Those cookies you made were so good. Are there any left? I ask.
Geraldine pulls out an actual cookie jar in the shape of a beehive. Duh, should have looked there first. She puts cookies on a plate and offers us warm milk again. Mats only wants a glass of water.
Oh, you young people and your strong bladders, she remarks before disappearing again. This place is like a murder mystery mansion with hidden exits.
I contemplated sleeping on the living room couch, Mats says in a low voice. But clearly Geraldine is aware of everything that happens in this house.
It’s fine, because I am totally, A-OK happy with our sleeping arrangement, I reassure him.
Mats lifts an eyebrow. He’s a master of the sarcastic gesture. Maybe one more positive adjective would help to convince yourself that you’re good.
Our new relationship feels a lot like our old one. He’s still going to be his sardonic self, which means I still get to insult him. Except I’ll mean it in a friendly way. I’ll treat him like someone on the men’s team I really like. Maybe Jack Sinclair, the human puppy.
I’m nervous, I confess. I’m kind of a loud sleeper.
Figures. You’re loud when you’re awake too.
Okay, I’m not liking this new dynamic where Mats always has the upper hand.
I finish my cookie. There’s nothing wrong with being talkative.
Someone in this room seems to have taken a vow of near-silence.
My insult would have been more dramatic if it weren’t accompanied by a spray of cookie crumbs.
I scramble to wipe the counter as Mats puts his glass and my plate in the dishwasher.
I talk. I just don’t talk as much as you, he says, then turns to face me. You know what I like? That we can argue and then move on.
He looks really pleased about this, which is oddly endearing. I don’t mind a good air-clearing fight once in a while. Like tonight? So, does that mean I have to apologize every time?
No, I apologized the first time. After our argument on the way home from the animal shelter.
I recall that time. I’m detecting a trend here. By argument, you mean that you tear a strip off me, then one of us runs off?
Mats chuckles. You’re leaving out the part where you say something ridiculous or insulting first. But it’s the freedom I like, freedom to express what I’m thinking. We can disagree, discuss it, and move on.
His observation feels revealing. So, you don’t usually tell the truth to other people?
He shakes his head. I don’t lie. But often, I don’t tell people things that will upset them. It’s different with you, though. You’re so upfront that, right from the beginning, I didn’t hold back.
Half of me wants to apologize again, but he obviously likes my lack of a filter. I giggle. Maybe it’s a skill I have: the ability to piss people off.
He smiles warmly at me, and it feels like we’re friends now. We make our way back upstairs.
The bedroom feels even more intimate now that I’m not protected by my armour of fake dislike. With the solid stone walls inside and thick snowy layer outside, we’re wrapped in a completely private universe.
And yet, I’m a lot more comfortable than I was half an hour ago. Our truce means that I don’t have to pretend to dislike him anymore. I trust him completely. And I can finally stop denying that I’m attracted to Mats. Even if it’s not reciprocated, at least I’m being true to myself.
Mats interrupts my zigzagging inner dialogue. You want to use the bathroom first?
Sure. I go across the hall into an old-fashioned bathroom with a blue-and-white checkered floor and an enormous clawfoot bathtub. I wash my face and brush my teeth with one of the brand-new toothbrushes that Geraldine left out for us. This place is practically a hotel.
I peer at my mascara. It’s practically bulletproof, since I wear it when I play hockey, and I don’t have the special eye-makeup remover needed to chisel it off. Maybe it’s better anyway, since without mascara my eyes look like tiny blue marbles.
I barge back into the bedroom before realizing I should have knocked. Mats has removed his sweater and is now wearing a thin white T-shirt that seems to have been sprayed onto his cut physique. I swallow.
That was fast. He brushes past me and disappears into the hallway.
Now my biggest problem is what to wear to bed.
I sleep hot, so there’s no way I can keep my clothes on.
And I’m not treating Mats to a view of my bra repaired with safety pins.
Of course, I have a set of nice underwear for the times when guys are going to see it, but I didn’t think tonight would be one.
I rifle through the closet and dresser. There are some spare linens, but unless I want to fashion a toga, they’re not going to help. Finally, I find a box of old rags. There’s one intact cotton T-shirt with Keep on Trucking printed on the front. Maybe it belonged to teenaged Marjorie?