12. Chapter Twelve #3
I want him to know I miss him already and he hasn't even landed in Vegas yet.
But saying that crosses lines we haven't drawn yet. So I do what I always do.
Keep it vague.
Nothing. Safe flight. Ranger and I are good here.
There. Sent. Said. Not said. Whatever.
The same thing that made me snap at him in the meeting just made me type 'Nothing' instead of the truth. Holding back. Keeping walls up.
Because what I think I need to say isn't casual. And what does that mean for a girl like me and a guy like him? I take a deep breath and let the truth of it all settle on my shoulders and in my soul.
It's better to stay friends and keep the benefits now than spend a lifetime wanting to take some words back.
??Sunshine
Give him a scratch for me. Talk tomorrow.
The next evening brings a late start for the Stampede’s trip to Vegas. With the time difference, it’s 9 p.m. local time, and I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the first period, let alone all the way until the end of the game. Yawn.
I'm on Kevin's couch with Ranger in his little Stampede jersey.
The game is brutal.
Kevin's getting beat to hell. Vegas is fast and physical. Austin looks flat, like they're playing through mud.
By the end of the first period, they're down 2-0.
Kevin's been on ice for both goals.
My stomach hurts watching it.
First intermission. My phone buzzes about two-thirds of the way through.
??Sunshine
You watching?
Ranger insisted.
I snap a photo of Ranger on the couch in his jersey, looking very serious about the game. Send it.
??Sunshine
He looks very official.
He takes game day seriously. It's the brand ambassador in him.
??Sunshine
Tell him his dad's playing like shit.
He's concerned about your defensive zone coverage.
??Sunshine
Ranger can fuck off.
Don't talk about your son that way. He's very sensitive.
Despite the distance, I can imagine the sound of his laugh like he’s just in the next room.
??Sunshine
This game is terrible.
It's one period. You'll turn it around.
??Sunshine
How do you know?
Because you always do.
Second period isn't better. Vegas scores again.
3-0.
Kevin makes a bad turnover that nearly leads to a fourth goal. I watch him skate to the bench, shoulders tight. I want to hug him. But I know that if I was there and did that, every guy on the ice for Vegas would chirp the shit out of him.
So that’s not the best reaction for me to have. My plan would make things worse.
When it’s close to the end of the second intermission, my phone lights up.
??Sunshine
Still terrible.
Still time.
??Sunshine
I don't know what's wrong tonight. Feel off.
I look at Ranger in his jersey.
Then down at myself — leggings, one of Kevin's old Stampede practice shirts I found in the laundry.
Before I can overthink it, I reply with what could be a new plan.
I could put on a jersey. If that would help.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again for a long time.
??Sunshine
You'd do that?
If it helps you play better, yeah.
??Sunshine
Sarah, you don't have to
I want to. I'm not watching you lose because I'm too lazy to walk to your closet.
Long pause.
??Sunshine
Okay. Yeah. That would help.
Then consider it done. Now go score some goals, Sunshine.
I'm already moving. Phone in hand. Down the hall to his bedroom.
Ranger follows, because of course he does. Supervising like the ambassador he is. Tonight, he’s repping Brand Sunshine St. Clair.
"Don't you give me side-eye, Ranger," I tell him.
He sits. Keeps on watching with his brown-eyed stare that hasn’t changed since the day I pulled him from the county shelter. Ranger has never missed a thing, and he’s not starting to play dumb now.
I open Kevin's closet.
His jerseys are on hangers near the back. The home jersey is navy and burnt orange; it matches Ranger's.
I debate if I should wear the navy like Ranger, or the road white. I decide on navy and pull it down.
The fabric's heavier than I expected. Substantial. The weight gives a signal that wearing this means something more than just good luck superstition.
I strip off the practice shirt. And then I’m just standing there in leggings and my black lace bra that nobody's going to see except Ranger.
Who'll probably rat me out to his dad.
The jersey slides over my head. Falls past my hips.
It settles on my shoulders and grounds me in a way I wasn't expecting.
It's huge on me. The sleeves swallow my hands. The number 6 covers my back. ST. CLAIR stretches in block letters across my shoulders.
I catch my reflection in Kevin's mirror.
I should look ridiculous.
I don't.
I look like I'm his.
My heart hammers against my ribs because this feels like more than just watching a game. This feels like claiming something. Admitting something.
Something that’s more than casual, more than benefits, more than I want to admit.
Fuck.
Ranger and I walk to the living room, twinning, and take up our usual spots on the couch. From the first faceoff, the third period is different.
Kevin makes a huge defensive play that leads to a breakaway. Austin scores. 3-1.
Five minutes later, another goal. 3-2.
Kevin looks like himself again. He’s strong and confident and in control. I’m glued to the television, watching him do C-cuts as he skates backwards, shutting down lanes, stripping pucks, making passes.
As the minutes tick down, my stomach settles, even though we’re still behind and the guys are still battling.
They don't win — Vegas holds on for the last three minutes — but something changed in that last twenty minutes.
Was it the team?
Or was it me?
About an hour after the final horn, my phone buzzes.
??Sunshine
Thank you.
For what?
??Sunshine
For the jersey. For watching. For caring.
That's what friends do.
The second I send it, I wish I could take it back.
??Sunshine
Yeah. Friends.
Something in that text feels wrong. Hurt.
I can’t believe I did it again. Put up a wall right when he was being honest. And he just stepped back and took it because he would never push past a boundary with me. He may do that on the ice, but not with me.
What the hell is wrong with me? He thanked me for caring and I threw 'friends' in his face like a deflection shield. This is maddening. He's got me all twisted in knots, second-guessing everything, becoming someone I don't even recognize.
Travel day tomorrow?
??Sunshine
Yeah. Up to Utah, then Dallas after that. Then back home.
That's a long trip.
??Sunshine
Too long. But at least I have my good luck charm now.
Ranger or me?
??Sunshine
Ranger's good luck.
You're charming.
I fall asleep on his couch wearing his jersey. Ranger at my feet.
Thinking about luck and charms and friends and the way we're definitely past pretending.
But I close my eyes before I have to figure out what comes next.