Chapter 42
Jamie
I wake up before my alarm.
That's not unusual. What is unusual is that I don't immediately reach for my phone. Don't run the day in my head. Don't run through what needs doing before six AM. I just lie there.
Because Rhys Callahan is asleep on my chest.
His hair is everywhere, even in my mouth. His own mouth slightly open. He's taken most of the duvet and most of the bed and has one arm thrown across my stomach like he owns it, and I don't move for a long time.
I've been awake for forty-three minutes.
I know because I checked.
I haven't moved once.
Not because I'm tired.
Not because I'm comfortable.
Because the second I move, this ends.
I don't want it to end.
I don't want him to wake up.
I don't want him to leave.
I don't want the day to start.
I don't want practice.
I don't want hockey.
I don't want any of it.
I just want this.
His heartbeat slow and steady against my ribs.
The room still dark enough to pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist.
For one selfish, impossible moment, I let myself imagine that this is normal.
That this is my life.
That I get to wake up with him tomorrow.
That years from now I'll still know exactly how he looks when he's asleep.
How he steals blankets.
How he curls closer without realizing it.
How he makes these little sounds when he's dreaming.
The thought hits so hard I have to close my eyes.
Because I want it.
I want something I've spent my entire life convincing myself I didn't need.
Something I don't even know how to ask for.
My throat tightens.
Rhys shifts against me.
Just a little.
His hand tightens once in his sleep where it's resting against my stomach.
Like he's making sure I'm still here.
Nobody has ever looked for me in their sleep before.
Nobody has ever made me feel like I want to stay.
I stare down at him.
At the dark hair falling across his forehead.
At the trust of this.
The unbearable softness of it.
And for a second I understand something I wish I didn't.
If I lose this, it's going to destroy me.
Morning light comes in gradually through the gap in the curtains and lands across the side of his face.
My alarm goes off at five thirty and I reach over and kill it quickly before it wakes him, which is something I didn't know I was going to do until I did it.
He stirs anyway. A sound. A shift. Those dark eyes open slowly and unfocused and land on me and for one second before he's fully awake he just looks at me like I'm a good thing to wake up to. Then he blinks and starts coming back to life.
"Did you watch me sleep?"
"I was waiting for my alarm so I could turn it off."
"That's a yes."
"It's not."
"Jamie." He stretches, arms overhead, back arching off the mattress, and I follow every movement. "You were watching me sleep, you creep. I'm not mad about it, though. I'm very cute when I sleep."
"You snore and you drool and your hair is everywhere."
"Lies from a liar." He sits up, hair going in four directions, rubbing his face. He's wearing my shirt. I gave it to him last night without thinking and now he's sitting on my bed in it looking like — he looks like that and I need to get up and get to the rink.
"We have practice," I say, looking anywhere but him.
"I know." He doesn't move. Just looks at me sideways, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and knows I don't. "Thank you. For yesterday." I grab my gear off the chair.
"That’s too much, calm down."
He smiles at his hands. Like he expected exactly that and decided it was enough.
I don't know what to do with that so I throw his jacket at his head and tell him he has eight minutes.
He makes it in seven. I'm lacing up by the door when he comes out of the bathroom.
Hair damp. Still in my shirt under his open jacket.
Eating one of the protein bars off my counter as if he lives here, and he catches me looking and raises an eyebrow.
"What?"
"That's mine."
"You have so many, Jamie."
"That's not the point, Rhys, I have a system—"
He crosses the room. Stops right in front of me, close enough that I have to look down slightly, and holds the protein bar out for me to take a bite.
I don't take it. He tilts his head. That look — the one that means he's about to do something and has already decided how it ends.
Then he leans in and presses his mouth to mine.
Soft. Quick. Gone before I can process it.
He steps back. Eyes bright. Mouth pulled up at one corner.
"For the bar," he says, like that's an explanation.
I stare at him. He finishes the protein bar and picks up his bag and opens the door like he didn't just do that.
"You coming or what, Nash?"
I grab my keys, smiling to myself.
We walk to the rink together. Campus is empty. Cold. Our breath misting, footsteps on the pavement, the trees bare against a white sky. His shoulder bumps mine on the narrow path once, twice, like he can't quite stay in his own lane and isn't trying very hard to.
I don't move away either.
"You're thinking loud," he says.
"I'm not thinking anything."
"You get this line." He touches my forehead. "Right here. When you're in your head."
"You've been studying my forehead?"
"I've been studying all of you. Pay attention."
I look at the path ahead and the back of my neck is warm despite the winter air.
He doesn't say anything else. Just walks beside me with his hands in his pockets and his shoulder occasionally finding mine. After a minute, I pull one hand free and reach for his without really thinking about it. He looks down when our fingers slide together but doesn’t say anything.
Just adjusts his grip once so it’s more comfortable and keeps walking like this is normal.
And I am acutely, embarrassingly aware of every single point of contact to the point I find myself shifting closer too.
Practice is good. Better than good. The team has found a rhythm that hasn't been there all season and Fitch is almost annoyingly pleased with himself, blowing his whistle at things that don't need the whistle just as an excuse to be able to yell something at us.
Rhys is everywhere. Center, where he belongs, reading plays before they develop, making the right decision every time.
He's locked in and it's — watching Rhys like this is one of the more interesting things I've had to deal with this season.
The way he moves when it's just instinct — effortless and precise and focused.
He catches me watching him at one point.
Just holds my eye for one beat too long and then skates away and it lands deep in my stomach and I turn back to my drill.
I used to hate when he would catch me looking, but now it feels right.
Kowalski appears at my shoulder.
"Friday," he says.
"I know."
"We win Friday we play Eldridge next."
"I know, Kowalski."
He looks sideways at me. Then at Rhys. Then back to me.
"He gonna be okay?" I watch Rhys thread a pass through two defenders that has no business landing where it lands.
Bryce collects it and buries it and the guys react and Rhys just skates back to position like he does it in his sleep, no big deal.
"Yeah," I say. "He'll be okay."
Film session is at four. Twenty guys in varying states of consciousness. Rhys sits next to me. This is new. He used to take the seat farthest from mine as a matter of principle. Now he drops into the chair beside me, opens his phone, and looks at the screen.
Cooper’s asleep within twelve minutes, hood up and arms crossed like he died peacefully.
Bennett’s sitting there with a notebook in his lap actually taking notes.
Real notes. Every few seconds he nods seriously at the screen like Coach is revealing the meaning of life instead of a failed zone entry.
Kowalski’s watching film like it’s the single most important thing he’s ever seen.
Coach pauses the clip. “What’s wrong here?”
Bryce raises his hand immediately. “Me, Coach.”
A couple guys laugh.
Coach pinches the bridge of his nose.
“At least you’re honest.”
Bryce flips him off behind his back.
Another clip starts rolling.
Cooper wakes up and nods toward the screen. “That right there was kind of sexy.”
“That right there,” Ben says, “is actually Kowalski missing coverage.”
"He was following his heart,” Cooper replies. “Don't listen to them, buddy. You looked great, though.”
My phone buzzes.
Rhys:
that's their weak side center btw
I look at him. He's staring at the footage, an expression of complete concentration, totally innocent.
Jamie:
I know. I've been watching film since before you could skate.
Rhys:
aggressive. also wrong. i was skating at six too.
Jamie:
yeah but i was better than you.
Rhys:
Doubt it. :)
Jamie:
Pay attention.
Rhys:
i am paying attention. i'm also texting you. You’re the one flirting
I look at the screen.
Rhys:
also you have that line on your forehead again
I put my phone face down on my knee.
Pick it up.
Jamie:
Stop looking at my forehead.
Rhys:
hard to stop looking at you in general
Three seconds.
Four.
I put my phone in my pocket and stare at the screen and absolutely do not look at him, which is extremely difficult because I can feel him right there — his knee pressed against mine in the dark — and he leaves it there and so do I and the film plays and I retain none of it, for the first time.
After, when everyone's filing out, he leans over.
"Weak side center," he says. Right at my ear. His breath against the side of my neck. "We exploit it Friday and we win."
"I know," I say.
"Just making sure." He pulls back and looks at me.
"You're cute when you're pretending not to listen to me, you know.
" I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already gone.
The locker room empties fast after film.
Guys have places to be, a weekday night to get to, lives outside of this building that I sometimes forget people have.