10. Caught Between Two Worlds
CAUGHT BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
SUTTON
When Lake told me we were going to be peacefully protesting on campus today, I wasn’t expecting the package to include one crushed foot courtesy of some old lady’s mobility scooter.
Honestly, the turnout is crazy. I even made a sign and everything. The message is pretty straightforward—ANIMALS DESERVE BETTER—in big, bold letters. The fact that so many companies still test on animals is insane, especially because it’s so immoral.
I’m excited that I’ll get to see Lake in her natural habitat. At first, I wanted to go so I could protect her in case things got out of hand, but I’m realizing now that she’s the veteran here.
Nobody is doing anything illegal. They’re engaging in elevated conversations about the state of our fucked-up world, practicing community, and advocating for something bigger than themselves.
It gives me hope for humanity. I want to be a part of Lake’s world.
I want to be a part of my dad’s world. This is simply a slice of the adrenaline pie that my father experiences on a daily basis.
When an elbow comes flying in Lake’s direction, I block its trajectory with my body, shielding her in the safety of my shadow. I tower over pretty much everyone here, and there’s something comforting about tracking her head of blonde hair bobbing underneath my eyeline.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about the inevitable kettling.
The pacifist inside of me is at an identity crossroads, staring down one long, winding path into the greater unknown, which blends into an overarching penumbra.
The other is lined with various tribulations that thrive in the darkness of uncertainty—invisible bear traps hidden in dense grass, potholes sunken into freeze-thawed concrete, impenetrable thickets flaunting claw-like thorns.
I know the evacuation plan—grab Lake and haul ass to the nearest building to hide.
Oblivious to the fact that I’ve just recently become a frequent flyer of Anxiety Airlines, Lake looks up at me with her big, Bambi eyes, a million-dollar smile stretching across her lips.
“Isn’t this awesome? I’m so glad you came!
The community here is like nothing you’ll ever experience anywhere else. ”
She’s not wrong. I truly believe Granny over there would take a bullet for me.
Everyone is welcome no matter their background. I hate to admit it, but there’s definitely a hierarchy in hockey. There’s one in every competitive sport. Talent gets you far, and hesitation gets you a semipermanent spot on the bench.
We’ve managed to amass a dense yet impressive crowd, and my war-wounded toe is beginning to throb. Poster boards of varying sizes populate in my periphery, followed by black-and-white photographs of animals in distress and brightly colored signs that scream at the empty heads of corporate.
I swallow harshly; nausea wrings my stomach like it has a debt to pay. “Are you sure this is safe?” I shout over the commotion.
“Not remotely, but only if we get caught!” Lake yells back, her tone concerningly devoid of fear. She’s a trouble-attracting magnet. I’d be impressed by the way she holds her own if I wasn’t constantly worried about her safety.
A flock to our right gets a little unpredictable, and before I know it, my large body is getting smushed into her small one without warning. I hug her into my chest to stop myself from crushing her.
“And you do this all the time? With no backup?”
We’re face to pecs, the rowdiness of the swarm seemingly so unimportant that it doesn’t even make a dent in her bubble of fortitude. She welcomes the bedlam with open arms, watches in awe as it unravels around her.
“You didn’t strike me as a scaredy cat, Sutton,” she teases with a tone that she definitely can’t be using when our bodies are one wrong move away from indecency.
I can feel her heart cantering against my belly, and her faint strawberry perfume is inexplicably distinguishable despite the melting pot of smells all around us.
Lake is the only person in this world who makes me simultaneously horny and terrified at the same time.
“I’m not.” (At least, not for the reasons you think.)
My delivery is shaky, B-list at best, and she rubs her hand up and down my arm in an effort to comfort me.
“It’s okay. Everyone’s first time is different. Scary, vulnerable, sometimes a little bloody.”
I snort. “Har, har.”
“If it makes you uncomfortable, we don’t have to be out here,” she insists.
I don’t mean to go all crazy protector mode on her, but I can’t help it. And no, it’s not because I have some unresolved savior complex. It’s because, despite having only known her for a short while, the thought of Lake getting hurt is inconceivable.
“I’m fine, Lake. It’s you I’m worried about. This is all so dangerous. What happens if the police come and everyone flees and you get trampled? What happens if they resort to tear gas or some shit?”
Fuck, thinking about it makes me sick.
I’m powerless when it comes to my father.
Nothing will ever stop him from helping those in need, not even a selfish request from his own son.
I’ll be damned if I let Lake think she’s alone in any of this.
Judging by the talk we had at the restaurant, it’s clear her mom has done some irreversible damage to her sense of community.
She takes my hand and lifts it to cup the soft curve of her cheek. “Nothing like that is going to happen. You worry too much. This is supposed to be fun, remember? Plus, getting caught in a stampede builds character.”
Great. Maybe I do worry too much. Not all protests end in death and destruction…right? If I prepare for the worst, I’m allowing the worst to happen.
With a growl caught halfway in my throat, I acquiesce, sighing out all the air in my lungs. “You really like this stuff, don’t you?”
That storm-born gaze she wears on a regular basis—pupils backlit by a determination that even the heavens fear—melts into something softer, like she’s subconsciously aware that her fight mode is always cranked to a ten.
“I really like you,” she corrects, nuzzling her face into my palm.
In that split second of time, Lake somehow reverse engineers all my anxiety into something productive.
“And the fact that you’re here right now, trying to understand my passion, means a lot more to me than you think. I know this is the last place you want to be. It’s…a lot, especially if you haven’t done hours of research on the ethics of animal testing.”
I shake my shaggy hair. “I want to be here because you want to be here. This is important to you. Don’t downplay your interests because you think you need to act a certain way around me.
All of this is really inspiring. Seeing people come together to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves—it restores some of my faith in humanity. ”
Lake glances at the tidal pool of protestors who spent the better half of some chilly afternoon creating a motley of signage, sharing their indignation with their neighbors, and organizing a movement that’s loud enough to garner the attention of local law enforcement.
Pride buttresses me, and I lower my hand from the soft swell of her cheek.
“You didn’t strike me as a cynic the first time we talked,” she says.
I parse over her words. “I didn’t always used to be.
I guess—I don’t know, I started holding this one-sided grudge against the public for taking my dad away so much.
He wouldn’t always have to be on call if reckless campers weren’t forgetting to stomp out their fires, or a smoker actually practiced how to stub out a cigarette, or a person remembered to blow out their candles before leaving their house for three hours.
Most of the times, those fires are man-made.
And I’m, God, I’m sick thinking about the fact that my dad’s life could be ripped away from him because of a careless mistake. ”
“Hey, you don’t have to explain anything to me. I get it, and your anger is valid. Protesting reminds me that there’s good in people too. College tends to be a cesspool for the self-inflated.”
She’s not wrong. A certain ex-boyfriend comes to mind, and I wouldn’t be opposed to locking him in a dog cage like some of the brave militants are doing up ahead as a part of a theatrical demonstration.
You’re the good in this world, Lake.
We’re so close. Should I kiss her right now? Fuck, I really want to kiss her right now. I’m not well-versed in reading women. I sure as hell haven’t met anyone in years who’s (unknowingly) threatened to deactivate the firewall around my heart.
I don’t realize I’ve been staring deeply into her eyes like a creep until she pipes up.
“Careful, you might complicate our work-life balance,” she jests.
I avert my gaze immediately, feeling a pressure-release of epinephrine assail my body, warmth swarming to my cheeks and negating the cool relief of the late winter air. “Shit, sorry. I—that wasn’t…I swear I’m not thinking about—”
“Relax, Big Guy. I’m pulling your leg.” Humor coils around her words.
Jesus, I really need an Ativan.
I open my mouth to play off my blunder, coming up with the lamest excuse in the book as to why I was practically eye-fucking my protest buddy without her permission, but a miracle—using the term loosely here—halts me from my inevitable word vomit.
A mountainous mass of a man collides into Lake’s back, sending her flying into my chest, and he doesn’t so much as acknowledge her while he thrusts his sign into the air with a vigor that’s more reflective of fighting violence with violence instead of educating those who need it.
He’s one of those small-headed dudes with muscles that occupy every conversation, tendon tears responsible for bulges that a mere paper cut would succeed against. He’s a few inches shorter than me, but I’m guessing he has a lot more rage.
Lake glowers but doesn’t say anything.
“Dude, watch where you’re going,” I growl, cradling my girl (who’s not my girl) protectively against my chest.
The testosterone is palpable. There is no gradual build up. It’s not like black mold hiding around tepid corners, tarnishing drywall in a slow and unseen death before blooming into Rorschach blots.
“Fuck off,” he barks, cudgeling any chance of reparations. It’s like he’s purposefully hackling away his sensibility just to make this whole interaction painfully annoying.
I step into him, shepherding Lake behind me so she can turn and run if things get ugly. “If you ram into anyone here like that again, you’re gonna be drinking out of a straw for the next five months.”
I don’t want to resort to violence, but maybe this dipshit should think twice about installing some rearview mirrors before he ixnays the self-awareness.
He puffs up his chest in a false display of confidence, right before recognition sets into his disproportionately tiny features. Beady eyes, nonexistent lips, a dotty patch of pubic hair on his chin.
I have no idea what happens next, but he lowers his hackles, backs away like a condemned dog, and mumbles out a slightly sincere apology.
I blink. Lake blinks. We both blink at each other.
There’s a devilish twinkle in her eyes that I don’t like. “Holy shit. The Mustangs really are gods around here.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“This will be perfect for my first article. Who knew the societal food chain was so prominent in college?”
“I don’t use my reputation to—”
Lake waves me off. “Oh, I know, but this is celebrity worship at its finest. Everyone here is struggling for a psychological connection, and parasocial relationships are bound to happen. Pair that with the low self-esteems of college students and their habit-forming tendencies and bam, pathological obsession takes over. I could write an entire thesis paper on this.”
“You sure it wasn’t because I threatened to break his jaw?” I snort.
She pats me enthusiastically on my chest. “You need to give yourself more credit, Sutton. You’re fucking awesome. It’s about time the world knows it.”
I should’ve kissed her. I’m an idiot. Why didn’t I kiss her?
For someone who plays on a renowned hockey team, this has to be the greatest challenge I’ve faced so far.