Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
TAI
It’s a long week. Something about reaching into the depths of my soul for the moments that have been decaying there has wiped me out. I’ve needed to get those words out for so long, and now that I have, I’m not convinced I feel any better.
I avoid the cafe during Dad’s first shift. Hawke shows up every day to coach with me, and after the two classes that Kasen comes in for, he drives him home. Dad cooks again. Pasta this time, but it’s a relief when he has me carry the heavy pot of water to the sink to drain for him.
Still, I have this growing feeling of everything coming apart.
People in town tell me how good Dad did in the cafe, and it should be a relief, but I only feel like we’re setting everyone up to be disappointed.
Hawke is my comfort, but I can’t cling to him, and on the afternoons when I make plans to meet up with my other friends, I’m only reminded of how hollow those friendships are.
Of how they don’t give me the connection that I crave.
So I hang back at the rink after classes and just skate. Skate so hard my thighs lock up. My clothes soak through with sweat, and the cool air freezes suffocatingly in my lungs. I’m a heaving, wrung-out mess by the time I’m done, but at least I can’t think.
I slump against the boards, struggling to catch my breath, knowing I should go home, but even the thought of home has frustration building in my chest. So instead of doing that, instead of doing literally anything useful or productive, I tip my head back—
—and scream.
It echoes through the empty building, and I keep going long past when I should stop. I scream my throat raw, forget to breathe or worry or even think, and when I can’t keep it up, I slump forward, elbows on the side board, mentally, physically, emotionally exhausted.
It’s not until my breathing is under control, weight on my chest feeling more manageable than it has all week, that I straighten and head to change.
We’re doing good now.
Me and Dad.
Everything is looking up for us.
This is a regular setback.
I’ll bounce back in no time.
I’m not sure what I’m looking at when I pull up in my driveway. There are two bodies bent over the front garden, and at first, I think my skate has exhausted me to the point of hallucination, but then Hawke looks up, and there’s no way even I could imagine that smile.
“You’re home,” he calls as I climb out of the car.
“I’m home.” I approach them slowly. “What are you doing?”
Dad pushes back his hat to wipe at the sweat on his forehead. “Told you. Wanted to plant some milkweed in here.” He pats Hawke on the knee. “Ran into your old buddy in town, who gave me a lift home and said he’d help with the planting.”
“Even though I have no clue what I’m doing.” He emphasizes the point by poking at the soil with a spade.
“I can help.”
“We’ve got this,” Hawke cuts in. “I think you have a phone call to make anyway.”
His eyes lock onto mine, and it’s a silent battle between us. I don’t want Dad knowing about our deal, especially since I’m not sure I can go through with it. I don’t need therapy. Dad’s the one who had the stroke.
The way I screamed barely an hour ago pops up in my memories, but I shove it out again.
“What call?” Dad asks, picking up on the weird vibe between us.
“Nothing. Just one of the coaching parents,” I lie. “I’ll get dinner started while you finish up.”
“Great. I’m starving.” Hawke sends me a cheeky grin, but my gut bottoms out.
“You’re staying too?”
“Of course he’s staying,” Dad answers with a frown. His tone is telling me to quit being rude, but all I can think about is Hawke in our space. Seeing the house. Judging us.
“Right.” I force a normal tone and nod to the garden. “It’s looking good.”
I leave them to it as I head as quickly as possible inside, without it looking like I’m rushing inside.
The first thing I’m faced with is the foyer.
Full and overflowing. The living room. Trash everywhere.
Canvases lined four deep along the wall.
Packing boxes broken down and sitting in a stack in the corner, waiting for me to finally get rid of them.
My heartbeat kicks up as I try to figure out where to start first. The empty cups. The takeout containers. The layer of dust covering everything. I start to clear one area, get distracted by another, and it doesn’t seem like anything I do is helping with any of it.
Holy fucking shit, what is Hawke going to say?
Okay. Deep breath. I work a lot. This is normal. It’s not like we’re hoarders. Umm, intentionally.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My breathing is coming shorter and sharper. It’s like the walls are going to collapse on me at any moment. I just … I can’t …
Fuck.
The front door opens and closes, and I turn toward the footsteps.
Hawke makes it a foot inside the front door before he freezes, face too slow to hide his thoughts as his gaze moves around the room.
“Ben sent me in here to check on you.”
“Why?” I don’t mean to sound defensive, but it comes out anyway.
Hawke takes a steady step forward. “Make the phone call.”
“I don’t need—”
The choking sound in his throat cuts me off. “Are we going to ignore that you’ve literally pushed things aside to make a path in here?”
“We have a lot of furniture,” I snap.
“Barrett …”
I glare at the floor. The wall. The stupid grandfather clock in the corner.
Not only did Dad inherit this house, but a lot of what’s in here was inherited too, and when we replaced the TV, I might not have had time to get rid of the old one yet.
Or the box it came in. When Dad broke the coffee table leg, stacking books under it to hold it up was just practical.
I didn’t have time to fix it. Or money to replace it. Or—
His hands close over my shoulders. I didn’t even notice him get closer. “Tai.”
The whispered way he says my name makes me break. “I hate it here.”
Then I hate myself for saying the words.
“Make the phone call.” His voice is firmer this time. “Now.”
“Are you going to keep coming back to that until I do it?”
“Yes.”
“Therapy isn’t a magic fix.”
“Of course it isn’t. But it’s a start.”
I step away from him, breaking contact, even though I want to lean in closer. “You know from experience?”
“Yes, actually. I’ve seen a sports psychologist for plenty of things.”
That shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. “Really?”
“Really.” I don’t stop him when he moves closer. Then he slides his hand into my pocket and pulls out my phone. “I can be really annoying about getting what I want.”
I glare at him. “You mean this isn’t annoying?”
“Haven’t even started.”
“So that’s just your usual personality, then?”
He pinches my chin gently, leaning closer, and for a split second, I think he’s about to kiss me again, but he stops. And I’m disappointed that he stopped. Fuck me. “And you want to be best friends with this personality.”
I don’t want to smile, but I can’t help the way my lips fight me on it. “Now I see why I need a therapist.”
“Whatever it takes for you to make the call.”
I know we’re trying to lighten the mood, but I swallow past my nerves and grab his shirt to stop him getting away before I can work out my thoughts.
“I really am okay. Sometimes everything feels like it crashes together in my head, and the work is never-ending, but we really are doing a lot better. I know that looking around, it might not seem like it, but we’ve hit a point where I can finally see an end to the constant overdue notices, where I get a day off through the week, and Dad and I have a great routine working for us.
It’s the change that has thrown me off.” I take my phone from his waiting grip and stare at it.
“But I’ll make the call. If it will make you happy. ”
“It will.”
I lift my head to meet his eyes again. His gaze is as intense as it ever was, and there’s this … this something. It tugs me to get closer to him. Makes me crave crossing that boundary of personal space until we’re in a bubble of our own.
His gaze drops mine, slowly moving to my hairline, then down the side of my face, to my nose, before settling on my lips. This time, my nerves really do fucking explode. My hand tightens on his shirt, preparing to tug him closer, and it catches me off guard how ready I am for him to kiss me again.
The other night could be written off as two best friends who missed each other to our bones reconnecting. It happening again? When I feel this intensely about going there? There’s no brushing that off.
What I’m feeling for Hawke right now isn’t friendship.
Then the sound of the front door scuffing open breaks the moment, and we jolt apart like we’ve been caught in the middle of something. My pulse is humming, every cell prickling to get back to him, and disappointment at being interrupted settles over me.
“Think I’m done,” Dad says, moving to the hall table to drop his hat and gloves onto it. “Mind if I jump in the shower?”
“Ah, no.” I’m still trying to retrieve my brain from the fog around it. “Just going to make this call and get started. This feels like a chicken pot pie and gravy fries night.”
Hawke’s surprise is obvious on his face.
For the first time all day, I don’t feel like I’m being crushed under my worries. “Yeah, I remember that’s your favorite. And I’d guess that it doesn’t fall under a hockey player’s standard diet.”
“You’d be right about that.”
“I can’t remember the last time we had gravy fries,” Dad says, rubbing his good hand against his stiff one. “I’ll shower quick, then be out to help.”
He disappears down the hall, and my phone grows heavy in my hand.
“Okay. I’m calling.”
“Want me to stay or go?” Hawke asks.
If he leaves, I don’t trust myself not to chicken out. “Stay. Please. If you’re glaring at me to go through with it, I won’t be able to back out.”
“Ah, scared of me, are you?”
“No. But it reminds me of how bossy you were the other night, and something about that makes me want to do everything I’m told.”
Hawke’s jaw drops, and before he can answer, I make the call, loving the way I’ve caught him off guard and how his darkened gaze watches me through the entire conversation.