Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Creed
Then . . .
My phone vibrates while I’m about to put it into my jacket pocket.
It’s Liv.
Liv: You’re not going to believe this.
Texting dots appear.
I wait.
Liv: There’s another book person at the bar.
I stare at the message for half a second, then smile before I can stop myself.
Creed: Liv, are you glancing at someone’s phone again?
Liv: It’s not my fault that they’re openly reading, is it?
Creed: You have a weird way of meeting people.
Liv: And judging them. Don’t diminish my skill set.
Creed: Wouldn’t dream of it.
Liv: Good news, he was reading a real document and not BuzzFeed or some fishy article, so judgment is suspended.
The good news being that whatever is happening in Livia’s evening has, six minutes into it, become more interesting than the hockey game I just won.
That should concern me.
It doesn't.
Creed: So . . . what’s the verdict?
Liv: As I said, pending.
Cam, sitting two stalls down, says, “Who’s making you smile, Lafontaine?”
“For a captain, you’re too fucking nosy.”
“Is it Liv?” he asks, already grinning. Then he adds, “Tell her I say hi.”
I ignore him.
My team adores Liv. It happened without permission, the way most things with her do.
First, it was the roof. Then it was museums on my off days, because apparently my cultural education had been “deeply underfunded.” Then it was her watching tapes with me and asking questions that started as jokes until she understood enough to be annoying in a more informed way.
She now knows more about hockey than she ever wanted to know before she met me.
After home wins, she meets me at the bar.
That’s how my teammates got the idea that Liv and I are a package deal.
Which we might be.
In ways I can’t explain—not even to myself.
Though it’s also in ways we can’t be.
Do I want to kiss her?
I plead the fifth.
Do I want to do more than kiss her?
I’m not discussing the content of my dreams with Cam, the team, the league, or any legal authority currently recognized by the state of New York.
The point is, Liv makes me smile.
She makes my life stranger in a way I have started to need.
My phone vibrates again.
Liv: Update: he just ordered an old-fashioned and asked James what bourbon they have.
Yes, he called James by name, and get this .
. . James said, “Halston, I can’t keep repeating the shit I sell.
” People in this bar know James by name, when I have been coming here every time you have a home game for the past six weeks and have never called him anything but “can I get another Sprite please?”
Liv: Also, he’s wearing a suit at 10 p.m.—Halston, not James—on a Saturday. Creed, who comes to a hockey bar in a suit?
I roll my eyes.
Creed: I’ll be arriving there later in a suit, so don’t judge.
Liv: You’re different. This guy . . . he’s probably a workaholic.
Creed: He’s a lawyer?
Liv: Either a lawyer or someone who lost a bet.
Creed: It could be both.
Liv: He looks nice.
A beat.
Another message.
Liv: Handsome.
The air in the locker room feels too warm for half a second.
That is stupid.
She can notice a handsome man. She should notice handsome men.
She is nineteen, and brilliant and strange and lonely in a way she hides under commentary.
I have no claim on her. I’ve made sure of that.
I’m the one with the rules. I’m the one who keeps saying I travel too much to be datable, as if travel is the problem and not the fact that I am terrified of needing someone who could decide I am inconvenient.
Still.
I stare at the word handsome longer than I should.
Creed: Hot?
The dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Liv: Obviously, I think you’ll find him very attractive too.
Fuck.
I laugh under my breath because the alternative is feeling something I don't intend to name while half-dressed in a locker room full of men who will absolutely make my life worse if they see my face.
Liv: His name is Halston. I think I’ve seen him before.
Creed: Oh, we know his name now?
Liv: I told you James called him by name, and now he’s introduced himself formally. So yes, I have a last name, which is going to make you laugh.
Creed: I can’t wait.
Liv: Saint Claire. So I think I know who he is . . . he’s part of the Saint Claires of Greenwich.
That gives me pause.
Greenwich. Saint Claire. Suddenly, the guy stops being a blurry handsome workaholic and becomes a category.
Liv: I just learned that the Saint Claire Foundation has Night Hawks box seats.
Creed: I know about them. The Saint Claire Foundation puts its logo on the boards at the kids’ hockey clinic the team runs every December. So . . . how do we know all this now?
Liv: I might’ve introduced myself and questioned him.
Creed: Of course you did.
Liv: You judging me?
Creed: Nope. I’m amused by your investigative process.
Liv: That’s what people say when they are judging.
Creed: Are we flirting with Hudson?
Liv: Halston. His name is Halston, and we are not flirting. He’s serious.
Liv: Are you jealous?
I sit down on the bench.
Creed: That would mean I’ve kissed you already, and we’re not in that place.
Liv: Convenient technicality.
Creed: Accurate technicality. You keep saying I travel too much to be datable.
Liv: You do.
Creed: What are we, Liv?
The message is sent before I can make it less . . . vulnerable.
I stare at it.
Cam says something to someone across the room. A shower turns on. Tape rips. Someone laughs. The world continues to operate as if I have not just asked a question that might rearrange a life I have been carefully pretending is simple.
The dots appear.
Liv: Are we going to start?
Creed: Maybe.
Then I add.
Creed: For the record, I’m not jealous. I’d like to know more about us.
That is a lie with better manners.
I am jealous.
Not in an ugly way. Not in a way that wants to own her. It is cleaner and worse than that. I want to be the person she texts when something interesting happens. I want to be the one she looks for in a room. I want to know what her face does when she finds me.
I already am, maybe.
Liv: We can’t kiss because if I like it, I’ll be hooked. If I don’t, it’ll be awkward.
I close my eyes for one second.
Liv: Very awkward.
Creed: You might like it.
Liv: That was very confident.
Creed: I’m a confident man.
Liv: You’re a hockey player with a literature problem and commitment restrictions.
Creed: Still confident.
Liv: What if I like it too much and fall in love? Your rule about not falling for anyone until you’re famous and the best goes down the drain.
Creed: What if you fall in love with this Halston and I lose my chance?
I don’t know why I say that, but I press send before I can take it back.
Liv: Ooh, the plot thickens. Halston says that he’s intrigued.
I straighten.
Creed: Are you telling him about our conversation?
Liv: He might’ve glanced over and noticed that we were talking about him. He also asked, what if you fall for him? He could fall for you—you’re a hot hockey player. The possibilities are endless.
I stare at the screen.
Creed: You’re the epitome of discreet, baby. Let’s pencil this conversation for later—way later.
I pause after I send it.
Baby.
I have called her that before. Lightly. Teasingly. Once, when she dropped an entire tray of fries at the bar and looked so offended by gravity that I lost the ability to behave like a normal person.
Tonight it sits differently.
Maybe because there is someone else reading over her shoulder.
Creed: I’m on my way. I’ll drop my car at home before walking toward the bar. Wait for me before you decide to go home with Halston.
Liv: I’d never go home with a stranger—even if his family lives close to my childhood home.
Creed: I’m intrigued.
Liv: About?
Creed: Seems like you’re getting his bio before you even exchange numbers.
Liv: I’m bored. By the way, congrats on the goals and that assist. You’re killing it this season.
I smile before I can stop myself.
There she is again. Observing everything. Pretending not to care at exactly the moment she proves she does.
Liv: Halston says he’ll take me to the game next time.
My smile fades.
Creed: We’ll see.
Cam leans over. “That sounded territorial.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You typed territorially.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs.
Shortly after, I’m in the car.
I’m out on Eighth Avenue in two minutes, driving uptown through streets, tie loose, jacket thrown onto the passenger seat, phone facedown on the cup holder because I am pretending I'm not waiting for it to vibrate.
It vibrates at Forty-Ninth.
I make it to the red light before I check.
Liv: Creed, he is hilarious.
Liv: Not like you. More like in the dry way.
Liv: You’re going to love him.
The light turns green.
I sit there half a second too long, and someone honks behind me.
I drive.
You’re going to love him.
That sentence does something unpleasant and interesting inside me.
I should be annoyed.
I am annoyed.
I am also curious.
And under that, quieter, more dangerous, is a feeling I don't have time to inspect while merging around a cab.
What if she is right?
At Fifty-Seventh and Eighth, three new texts come in.
Liv: Creed, he just made a joke about the NY Supreme Court that was, structurally, a pun.
Liv: A pun, Creed.
Liv: He believes everyone in power is scammy, just like we do.
Liv: I am, as we speak, evaluating whether I have a thing for that.
I exhale through my nose.
“Of course you are,” I say to the windshield.
At Sixty-Second:
Liv: Update: he asked what position you play, and when I said defenseman, he said, “That explains the suspicious amount of emotional withholding.”
I bark out a laugh.
Then the laugh stops because that is good.
That is too good.
At Sixty-Fifth and Columbus:
Liv: Verdict: I have a thing for that.
I pull into the building’s garage. Park the car. Sit for a second while the engine ticks down and the phone buzzes again in my hand.
I look at the screen.
Liv: Don’t be weird when you get here.
Too late, I think. This is . . . already strange, and I don’t know what to expect when I see her and meet him. The guy that might take Liv away from me.