Chapter 6 – Josie
chapter
six
Josie
Marcus: How bad did I fuck up?
I ignored the text. Because to him, the sulking period after calling your girlfriend a bitch apparently had an expiration date.
Marcus: Sorry about last night. I was being an ass. And a heart emoji.
I left it on read and pulled my laces tight while glaring at my phone. The compulsion to reply was strong, but I ignored it.
Minutes later, the morning air hit my face, and my legs protested the pace. I took the east quad, past the athletics complex, and around the back of the science building. I hadn’t run this route since that first time I’d run into Waylon. My lungs were adjusting, and my quads had settled in.
I scanned the path without meaning to, checked the sidewalk near the tutoring center, looked left at the intersection by the gym where a tall guy in a hoodie stretched against a bench, except it wasn’t him, just some random dude who didn’t have the right shoulders.
Who are you looking for?
Nobody. I was just on a run.
Liar.
By mile two, I’d stopped checking every hoodie on campus, and my brain had finally shut up long enough for my body to take over.
I took the hill behind the athletics complex, making my thighs burn and my chest open up.
For six minutes, I was just legs and lungs and pavement and nothing else.
I especially didn’t worry about my boyfriend and a certain blonde.
Not that I was worried. Marcus was a flirt, but I was his girlfriend.
I made it back to my building sweaty and loose and calmer than I’d been in days.
After waving to the downstairs neighbor who’d helped me with the trash chute yesterday, I took the stairs two at a time, turned the key, and paused.
It gave way easily. Had I forgotten to lock it on my way out?
I’d been in a hurry, but there was no way I was that careless.
I pushed the door open slowly, expecting destruction and my shit gone. Instead everything was as I left it.
Almost.
I found Marcus sitting at my kitchen table with two coffees and a paper bag from the bakery on Main Street next to them.
He wore a gray Loveland Hockey crewneck, and his hair was still damp from his shower.
He reminded me of what he looked like in high school, handsome and a little vulnerable.
It made me nostalgic, and that hit hard.
“How’d you get in?” I wasn’t really asking. Golden boy or not, he and his friends used to think it was cool to break into places. Not to steal anything, he’d said, but just because they could.
“Picked the lock.” He said it like it was charming. “It’s a shit lock, babe. You should get that fixed.”
Oh, I would, with a deadbolt. His little hobby wasn’t cute, and I liked my privacy.
“What are you doing here?”
“I brought you a latte.” He pushed the cup toward the empty chair. “And a chocolate croissant. Your favorite.”
It was my favorite. He always remembered the small things right after he’d been a dick. That was part of the routine. But the coffee was still hot, so I sat down anyway.
“Thanks.” I took a sip. “But I actually need some protein after that run. I’ll grab eggs in a minute.”
His mouth tightened, just a little.
“A run.” He leaned back. “Since when are you running again?”
“I’m trying to walk onto the track team in November!”
He furrowed his brow. “The track team. I mean, you haven’t competed in ages. Also I don’t like you running this early without me. It’s not safe.”
“That’s when runners run, Marcus. Also, if I don’t run without you, when would I run? Besides, I stick to campus grounds.” I held up my keys, complete with pepper spray. “And I carry Carlotta with me.”
He pursed his lips. He’d always hated that I named my can of pepper spray.
He picked up his coffee and watched me over the rim. “I mean, that’s cute. Good for you. But maybe eat the croissant before you start training for the Olympics. A couple of eggs won’t make a difference. We both know you’re more of a curvy girl anyway.”
Do not engage. Do not engage.
I knew better than to let him continue the fight from last night.
“I’m kidding,” he said and flashed his grin. “I just meant you’re not exactly on the team, babe. You don’t need to be doing the whole athlete clean eating.”
I had run track since I was twelve. I had a shelf of medals in a box in my closet that I hadn’t unpacked yet. I had run a 2:09 800m my junior year of high school, fast enough for D1 interest before everything went sideways. Marcus knew all of this.
“Right,” I said, and left the croissant where it was.
He just shook his head and tore into the croissant, popping a flaky piece into his mouth. “Look, there’s a game on Saturday. I want you to come.”
Oh hell. He knew I hated hockey. The games ran long, the rink was freezing, and I never had fun at one.
“I have a work-study shift Saturday.”
“Move it,” he said with a shrug.
“I can’t just move it, Marcus. It’s assigned.”
“Then trade with somebody,” he said, like I was being slow. “My parents won’t be there, so I need you visible.”
“I have work.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. I’ve been a dick since the party. I’m sorry. Please come, I want us back on track.”
I sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“That means yes.” He squeezed my knee. “Good girl.”
Good girl, like I was a dog that had finally learned a difficult trick.
He must have seen my expression because he stood and came around the table and pulled me out of my chair by my hands.
“You want me to keep apologizing? I will. Come here. I’m sorry about last night, I’m sorry about the game thing, I’m sorry I picked your lock like a psycho.
” He was swaying me side to side, like we were slow dancing in my kitchen.
His hands were warm, and his chest was right there, and he smelled like soap, and the crewneck was soft against my cheek.
“I was a dick last night. I know I was a dick. Let me be better.”
This is what he does. You know better. You promised yourself.
But his arms were around me, and the apology was in his voice, and his chin was on the top of my head, and my body remembered when things were good and what it felt like to be in his arms.
“Will you come to the game? Please? For me?”
“Look, no promises. I’ll see.”
“Yeah?”
“I said I’ll see, Marcus.”
He tilted my chin up and kissed me. Slow at first, then not so slow, his hand on the back of my neck pulling me in.
He tasted like coffee, and his mouth was warm, and I kissed him back.
My body knew his. He was familiar, and right then, familiar was close enough.
And for a few seconds, it was almost good, almost what it used to be.
He pulled back, and his eyes had gone dark the way they did when he wanted more. I was trying to wiggle out of his grip.
“I’m gross,” I said. “I need to take a shower.”
“I can help with that,” he coaxed.
“You cannot help with that. I have class in an hour.”
With a groan, he kissed me again, harder, his hands tight on my hips in that way that was familiar if a little rough, like he was reminding us both that I was his. I put my hands on his chest and pushed gently. He let me go, but he took his time about it.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, baby. I just misbehaved. My head was no good last night.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out. One glance at the screen, and his whole face changed. He was grinning, and whatever was on that screen was better news than anything I’d said all morning.
“Gotta go.” He kissed my forehead, fast, already moving toward the door. “Saturday. Center section. Wear my jersey.”
“I don’t have your jersey.”
“I’ll drop one off. I have to work tonight, but I’ll do it tomorrow.” He was out the door before I could answer, taking the stairs two at a time. I could hear him whistling all the way down.
One glimpse at the clock had me rushing. I didn’t need to be late, and now I’d just added another headache.
How the hell was I going to survive a hockey game? Marcus would be on the ice for three periods. So would the teammate I hadn’t been looking for on my run. Liar.