Chapter 6 #2
His eyes drop to the cover, then return to me. “You bought it.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
A small smile appears. “Yes. It's good.”
I nod. Then something occurs to me. “Have you read it before?”
“Yeah.”
I stare at him. “You've already read it?”
“Freshman year of college.”
“Why didn't you tell me that when I gave it to you?”
Hayes shrugs. “I wanted to read it again.”
“Why?”
“It's different.”
“How?”
He folds the corner of the page slightly before looking over. “When I was eighteen, I thought it was mostly about sacrifice.”
I immediately regret asking.
The look he gives me says he knows exactly what I'm thinking. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You asked.”
“I made a mistake.”
That earns an actual laugh, quiet but real, and I feel embarrassingly satisfied at having caused it.
“Now I'm reading it again because I want to see if I notice something different.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
Hayes shakes his head. “I think that's kind of the point of books.”
“I knew there was a reason I don't read.”
“You don't read at all?”
“I read hockey articles.”
“That doesn't count.”
“It absolutely counts.”
“No.”
“You're very judgmental for someone dressed as a fluffy sheep.”
His head snaps up.
I grin.
The poor guy looks personally offended. “What is your beef with my jacket? You have been staring at it since I came downstairs.”
“Because it's ridiculous.”
He pouts. “It's comfortable.”
“It's ridiculous.”
“It's both.”
I can't even argue with that.
Hayes goes back to reading. About five minutes later, I realize he has completely forgotten I exist again.
“Hayes.”
Nothing.
“Haaaaayes.”
Still nothing.
I lean over and tap the edge of the page.
His eyes narrow immediately. “Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Touch the book.”
I laugh.
He closes it around a finger and finally looks at me. “What do you want?”
“Your attention.”
His brows lift slightly.
The answer surprises me as much as it seems to surprise him, mostly because it came out too honest.
I recover by glancing toward his phone sitting loose beside his thigh.
I reach over and take it.
Hayes looks up immediately. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing something.”
“Ash.”
I press the power button. The lock screen appears.
“Seriously.”
I turn the phone toward him. Face ID unlocks it instantly.
Hayes groans. “Ash.”
“What?”
“You could have just asked.”
“Where's the fun in that?”
I open his contacts. “I'm helping.”
“Nobody asked you to help.”
I type my number into his phone while Hayes watches the entire thing with the expression of a man witnessing a minor crime. When I'm finished, I hand it back. “There.”
The smile he's trying to hide gives him away.
He slides the phone back into his pocket. A few minutes pass before he speaks again, this time without looking up from the book.
“I would have given it to you.”
The comment catches me off guard.
His eyes are still on the page, as if he didn't just say it, as if it wasn't important.
I lean back in my seat. “Good to know.”
Hayes turns another page.
The conversation drifts off naturally after that.
I spend most of the ride arguing with Dante from across the aisle while Hayes reads beside me.
At some point, I stretch my legs and my foot bumps against his.
Neither of us moves. A minute later, he turns another page, and the rest of the drive passes that way.
By the time the bus eventually pulls into the arena parking lot, the movement barely registers to Hayes. I swear the man could keep reading through a natural disaster.
Around us, players start to stand and pull bags from overhead compartments. Conversations pick back up as everyone prepares to leave.
Dante appears in the aisle, looking around with the dazed confusion of a man returning from battle.
“Are we home?”
“We've been home for three minutes,” I tell him.
“Good. I blacked out halfway through an argument and need to know if I won.”
“You lost.”
“I reject that outcome.”
He wanders off before I can insult him properly.
Hayes finally closes his book and carefully slides a bookmark between the pages.
“You done?” I ask.
He gives me a look. “We're home.”
“That wasn't my question.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I'll probably finish it later tonight.”
“Good.”
He shakes his head and stuffs the book into his bag.
For some reason, watching him put it away annoys me. The book means he's about to leave, which is ridiculous because we're teammates and I'll see him tomorrow. Still, the feeling lingers as we file off the bus with the rest of the team.
The afternoon sun is brighter than it has any right to be after hours of travel. Most of the players head straight for their cars, eager to get home, shower, eat, or sleep in their own beds. I stop beside the sidewalk and reach into my jacket pocket.
The cigarette appears a second later. The lighter clicks. The familiar burn settles in my lungs.
I've barely taken two drags when a shadow falls beside me.
Hayes.
He should be heading to his car. Instead, he stands next to me with both hands shoved into the pockets of that ridiculous fuzzy jacket, the book bag hanging from one shoulder, his hair still slightly messy from the ride.
“You know those will kill you.”
I glance sideways. “Hello to you too.”
“I'm serious. You're a professional athlete.”
It would appear that the more comfortable he gets around me, the sassier he becomes. I enjoy encouraging the behavior, possibly too much.
“You're supposed to be setting a good example,” he says.
“I'm not setting an example for anybody.”
“You literally have children wearing your jersey.”
“That's their parents' mistake.”
A laugh escapes him, then he points at the cigarette. “Still gross.”
I narrow my eyes. “You really want to be judging me right now?”
His expression immediately becomes wary. “Why wouldn't I?”
I take another drag, lowering my voice. “Because you ran away after I made you come last night.”
His face turns red so fast it's almost impressive. I don't think I'll ever get tired of that, which is another thought I should probably put somewhere locked and far away. Hayes looks aside, and the movement is so obvious I have to bite back a smile.
I take another drag.
Before I can lower my hand, Hayes reaches over and plucks the cigarette from my fingers.
For a second, I stare at him. “What are you doing?”
He ignores me completely. The cigarette rises to his mouth, and then he takes a long pull. Not tentative. Not awkward. Comfortable. The kind of drag taken by someone who knows exactly what he's doing.
Smoke leaves the corner of his mouth a second later, slow and controlled, like he's been smoking for years.
I raise an eyebrow. “Well.”
Hayes hands the cigarette back with the picture of innocence. “I used to smoke.”
That wasn't the answer I expected. “Captain America smokes?”
He shrugs. A little of the amusement disappears from his expression. “I picked it up during my hiatus.”
Something uncomfortable twists in my chest. It isn't pity.
Hayes would hate pity, and honestly, I don't have much use for it either.
What rises in me is closer to anger, not at him, but at circumstances, at whatever happened during that year, at the idea of him standing alone somewhere teaching himself bad habits because he didn't know what else to do with his hands.
“How much?”
“A pack every few days.”
“Damn.”
His mouth twists. “It wasn't exactly my healthiest coping mechanism.”
“No kidding.”
“I quit before training camp.”
That surprises me. “Seriously?”
He nods. “I figured skating for a living and smoking weren't a great combination.”
“A revolutionary discovery.”
“Thank you.”
“Scientists everywhere are impressed.”
That earns another laugh. The sound feels easier now, more natural, and I like that far more than I should.
I hold up the cigarette. “So let me get this straight.”
Hayes immediately looks suspicious.
“You smoke.”
“Past tense.”
“Okay. You quit a few months ago.”
“Correct.”
“And now you're lecturing me.”
Realization dawns. His eyes narrow.
My grin widens. “A hypocrite.”
“Oh, my God.”
“A complete hypocrite.”
“I quit.”
“When? Two seconds after you stole my cigarette?”
“It still counts.”
“It absolutely does not.”
His groan echoes across the parking lot.
For a moment neither of us says anything. The team has mostly disappeared by now. Only a handful of staff members remain, and the arena behind us hums with distant activity. Hayes shifts his bag higher on his shoulder.
“I should go.”
Instead of agreeing, I find myself studying him. The messy hair. The fuzzy jacket. The book hidden safely in his bag. The way he always seems surprised when someone wants him around.
Something in my chest tightens unexpectedly.
Because I'm looking forward to seeing him again.
Not just tonight.
Not just in bed.
Tomorrow.
The day after that.
The realization is inconvenient.
“Text me tonight.” The words leave before I can stop them.
Hayes blinks. For a second he only looks at me. Then something soft appears in his expression, a small smile that doesn't look practiced or defensive.
“Okay.”
He takes a few steps backward, then turns toward his car. I watch him go, which is becoming another habit I should probably break. Halfway there, he glances back once and lifts a hand in farewell before climbing into the driver's seat.
A minute later his car disappears from the parking lot.
I look down at the cigarette in my hand, then toward the road where Hayes vanished. The thing burns out between my fingers before I realize I haven't taken another drag.
The condo is exactly how I left it.
Quiet.
Clean.
Empty.
Usually I like that. Quiet means control. Clean means there is nothing unexpected waiting for me. Empty means nobody is yelling, nobody is breaking things, and nobody is looking at me like my existence ruined their life.
Tonight, it feels a little different.