Chapter 12
Liz, February 26
I play hockey twice a week here in Arizona. It’s a great way to take out aggression. But that night, thanks to a stupid injury about three weeks ago, I find myself sitting in the bleachers instead. I’m watching my team play in a tournament and aching with frustration that I can’t be on the rink. Naturally, I turn to the one distraction that never fails—texting with Ben.
The conversation starts out light, nothing important. But all morning I’ve been chewing over questions about relationships, and I decide it’s time to get Ben’s viewpoint.
Liz: Ben, can I ask you a question?
Ben: Ask away.
Liz: Why me?
Ben: What?
Liz: Out of all the girls in our high school, why was it me you asked for that survey?
Ben: I talked to a lot of women. But you were easy to find, and you were always nice to me. I knew you’d be honest. Why?
Liz: Just curious. So out of all the girls you interviewed, how many do you still talk to?
Ben: Just you, I think. Why?
Liz: Just curious. Why do we still talk? What’s so interesting about me?
Ben: Honestly?
Liz: Yeah.
Ben: I don’t know. Why are you asking all these questions?
Liz: Curiosity.
Ben: So you said. You tell me, why do you still talk to me?
Well, if I expected him to be honest, I had to be too. Here goes nothing.
Liz: Well, you’re charming and sweet. You make me laugh. You have an amazing body. But also, it’s because you wouldn’t let me fade into the background. Most people lose interest if I stop calling or texting them, but you don’t. You always pull me back into the conversation.
There’s a long pause. Too long. He’s not that slow of a reader. What is he doing — sharing it with someone and laughing at me? My chest tightens. I reread my words, searching for something embarrassing, but no — it’s honest. For a second I picture his face when he reads it, that private smile he does, and the thought makes heat crawl up my neck.
Ben: Thank you. That’s really flattering. I don’t know what to say.
Liz: You’re welcome, it’s all true. Now why me?
Nothing. I try to convince myself he’s typing. Be patient. I tap my foot, check my phone, tap my foot again. Finally, his answer comes.
Ben: You’re funny, you’re sexy, but you’re also shy. You act like you’ve had your heart broken before and you’ve lost all faith in love. Despite not believing in it myself, it almost makes me want to find a way to prove to you that it’s real. But mostly I can’t get you out of my damn head, I think about you all the time. That’s why I wouldn’t let you disappear. I replay our conversations (clean and dirty, by the way) almost all the time. It’s ridiculous, honestly.
My heart stutters. That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. Heat flushes my face, and a stupid, unstoppable grin spreads across it. I’m not exactly the “everyone loves me” type, and this is probably the most flattering thing anyone has ever said (or typed) to me. I should say something. Anything. Come on, Liz.
Liz: Thank you. I’m the one who’s flattered now.
Ben: You’re welcome. It’s all true.
Liz: Sounds like you like me a bit, haha.
Ben: A bit more than I meant to.
My chest feels like it might float away. He likes me. Ben likes me.
I’m still wrapping my head around that when a loud crash snaps me back to the rink. Our center has been slammed into the boards — right in front of me. I jump up, yelling at the other team and the ref. A boarding call is made, but my focus is on the player. He’s still clutching his shoulder, face contorted. His eyes meet mine through the glass, and he jerks his head toward the bench.
It’s Matt.
I text Ben quickly while running.
Liz: There’s been an injury, I have to go.
I don’t wait for a reply. I jog around the exterior of the rink and drop down next to Matt at the bench. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I don’t know. My shoulder. I think I might have dislocated it. Can you take me to the ER?”
I’ve known Matt for a few years. He has never asked to go to a hospital. He has never admitted something hurts. His voice has never sounded so weird and choppy.
My keys are already out of my purse and in my hand when I reply “absolutely.” Matt lamely skates around the outskirts of the rink, cradling his right arm in his left hand. At the end of the hallway I take a left-hand turn, heading to the parking lot. I get about three steps before I notice Matt has taken a right. I stop. “Where are you going?”
“Locker room. I’m wearing skates.” I can hear the chuckle building in his voice, but he never turns his head so I can’t see the smile I am sure is there. I perch myself on a nearby table and watch his slow progress. At the doorway to the locker room Matt turns and searches the room. His eyes find my face. He chuckles. “Liz, are you gonna help me get these off my feet?”
“Oh.” I pop up and jog to his side. “Guess that would make sense.” Matt’s full laugh escapes, and it’s a nice sound. It tugs a smile out of me before I can stop it.
In the eerily quiet locker room I kneel at Matt’s feet and gingerly help him out of his skates. He winces at every jostle of his shoulder. When he knocks his helmet off one-handed, I finally notice how cute he really is. The dark stubble on his chin matches the dark hair on his head. Matt’s in shape from years of hockey, but there’s something solid and unpolished about it. A stark contrast to the almost-photoshopped perfection of Ben.
His icy blue eyes turn toward me. Feeling inexplicably guilty, I drop mine back to my hands. Heat creeps into my cheeks. I act like stuffing his stinky gear into the bag is the most important task in the world.
When I finally glance up, those ocean-colored irises are still on me. “Ready?” My voice comes out shaky. Matt nods and rises slowly, slipping into his flip-flops as he shuffles to the door.
In my car, we are both soundless. I turn on the radio just to fill the silence.
“Can we go to Urgent Care instead? It’s usually faster,” Matt asks quietly.
“Yeah, which one?”
“Half a mile up, on the right.”
The rest of the ride passes in quiet.
At Urgent Care I take the clipboard offered by the nurse, knowing Matt’s injured his writing arm. I drop into the cheap plastic chair and he sits beside me. “I’ll fill this out if you give me the answers,” I say.
Matt nods and leans over my shoulder to read the questions. His breath warms my ear. His leg brushes mine. It’s incredibly distracting. Somehow I get the form filled out. I tell myself it’s just proximity and nerves. I tell myself not to make a thing of it. But the flutter won't quiet.
We sit in silence, waiting. Matt doesn’t move away. I’m used to awkward silences, but not with a stomach full of knots.
The nurse calls him back. Left alone with the TV, I wonder why he suddenly feels so distracting. I’ve never noticed him like that before. It’s like my hormones are on overdrive. Or maybe… someone else’s words have me primed.
Oh shit. Ben.
I grab my phone. A message is already waiting.
Ben: Hope everything’s alright. Let me know.
Crap — it’s 45 minutes old. Still, I should answer.
Liz: In the waiting room right now. Our center hurt something. Hopefully it’s just a dislocated shoulder and they can pop it back in. He seemed like it was a lot of pain though and his fingers were starting to change color, not sure if that’s normal.
I wait. No response. A glance at the time tells me it’s 2:30 in the morning for him. Probably asleep.
I flip through magazines, but keep my phone pressed under my knee so I won’t miss it if it vibrates. My nerves won’t settle.
When Matt finally comes out, I’m still edgy. His smile shows off unexpected dimples, and for some reason that detail sticks.
“Couldn’t leave you alone,” I say. “What’s the verdict?”
“It was dislocated, probably a sprain too. They popped it back in, gave me meds.”
“Okay, pharmacy stop, then?”
He nods. The drive is quiet until the radio kicks on with a song we both love. We reach to turn it up, fingers brushing. I yank mine back, nervous laughter filling the space.
Later, parked in his driveway, I move to grab his hockey bag. His hand touches my knee, stopping me.
“Wait.” His voice is low, almost unsure.
And then he kisses me.
It’s quick but intense: his lips firm and warm, his good hand sliding up my arm with surprising gentleness. The world tilts, the ground goes soft, and for a dizzying second, I kiss him back like I’ve wanted it all along.
But the moment shatters as quickly as it started. Fear, guilt, and confusion all rush in. I pull away, mumbling, “I should get the bag.” I all but dive out of the car. By the time I wrestle it out of the trunk, Matt’s already at the door.
I drop the bag inside without looking at him. “It’s fine, Matt. Don’t worry about it.” My voice comes out sharp, defensive. “I have to run. Talk to you later.”
And then I’m gone, heart hammering, not sure which part of the night has me more rattled: Ben’s words that feel like a dream, or Matt’s kiss that feels terrifyingly real.