10. Ty #2
“I’m not done yet,” she says, and I can hear movement on her end, like she’s pacing. “That said, I do need a favor.”
I snort. “I knew it.”
“I’m going to stay up here in Canada for another week,” she barrels on. “With Mom.”
I frown slightly, glancing at the road. “I thought you were coming back tomorrow.”
“I was,” she says. “But she’s found a florist that’s local who can meet with me this week about the wedding, so I’m going to stay a few extra days. I figure since you’re handling things with the team, I’m going to enjoy my freedom.”
“Okay,” I say. “And you need me in what capacity? Am I going to FaceTime with you about your florals?”
“No,” she continues, “I got a message over the weekend that my ring is ready.”
My grip tightens slightly on the wheel.
“I was going to pick it up tomorrow, but now I can’t.”
I already know where she’s going.
“No,” I say.
“Ty.”
“No.”
“Ty.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Please,” she says, drawing it out just enough to be annoying. “Would you just go by the jewelry store and pick it up for me?”
I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “Nope.”
“It’s literally just picking it up.”
“No.”
“Seriously, all you have to do is get the ring and then take it home,” she adds quickly.
“You won’t stop until I say yes, will you? Even though I embarrassed myself the last time we were there.”
“You did, and it was hilarious,” she cuts in. “But all you need to do tomorrow is go by, ask Vivian or her grandmother for the ring, which will most likely be in a box, and then go home with it. Don’t touch it, try it on, or even look at it.”
I shake my head again. “I really can’t.”
“Please, Ty?”
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel. She’s not asking me to rob a bank, just to go back to Vivian’s store and…what? Not embarrass myself? Not think about her in a towel holding a pizza?
“Tomorrow,” I say. “I usually—” I stop, already running through it. Tuesdays are set. Gym. Grocery store. Meal prep. Go over old footage from last season prepping for the new one. Same order. Same timing.
It’s my normal. My thing. Routine.
Emma coughs on the other end of the line, clearly unaware of my existential breakdown.
“Yeah?” she prompts. “Ty?”
I hesitate as Dr. Hale’s voice slides in, calm and steady. “Maybe you let one thing this week be unmapped.”
I exhale. I’d like to scream right now, like Hozier-yell, but I also don’t want to scare my sister.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
“You don’t mind?”
“No.”
“Wow,” she says. “That was both harder than I thought but also took less time than expected. I usually have to twist your arm a little more or offer up some kind of prize like coffee or lunch.”
“Don’t get used to it, and also yes to lunch as my ‘prize,’ like you say.”
“Whatever you want,” she says quickly. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
“So,” she says, tone changing to sister-mode. “How’s your therapist?”
I glance at the road, jaw tightening a fraction. My brain may be scattered, but hers has always been like a vice. Always holding on to information even when I couldn’t, or didn’t, want to.
“Fine.”
She sighs. “Good fine or you’re saying fine so I don’t ask more questions fine?”
“Good fine.”
“Alright,” she adds lightly. The other awesome-sisterly thing about Emma? She also knows when to back off. “Go be a hockey player.”
“Working on it.”
The call disconnects and my car settles back into quiet as I move through empty side streets to get to the arena before noon.
Tomorrow. I am going to the jewelry store to see Vivian. I exhale slowly, tapping my thumb against the steering wheel.
“Unmapped,” I mutter, as the question hits before I can stop it.
There’s a second where I ask myself if I’m doing this for Emma?
Or…Nope. I grip the wheel a little tighter, but Vivian’s face slips in anyway.
The way her mouth curves when she’s about to say something she probably shouldn’t.
The way her eyes lock in on an object, or person, when she’s focused, like everything else drops away and you’re the only thing in front of her.
And she’s pretty. That’s the word that lands, simple and annoyingly accurate.
Now that it’s on a roll, my brain, unhelpfully, keeps going.
I think about the way her hair had been slightly damp and the way that towel had done absolutely nothing to hide her curves—feminine, strong, and real in a way that doesn’t feel put together for anyone else.
I exhale, slowly. This is not relevant. Except, well. It is, apparently. Because the next thing that surfaces is her hand, and the moment she’d taken my wrist to gift me the bracelet.
My jaw tightens as I remember the pressure. The exact point where her fingers rested. The way her thumb brushed just slightly as she adjusted it. Precise, tender, and I’m pretty sure my brain was then as it is now. Completely useless. Mush.
Because instead of focusing on what she was saying, or the fact that we were standing in a room full of thirteen-and fourteen-year-old girls, all I could think about was her lips. The fact that I’d kissed her. The way it felt. How soft her lips were. How much I…
I drag a hand down my face, rolling my eyes and groaning out loud. That had not been the moment for that. There I was, supposed to be helping, being present, doing something objectively good, and I was standing there thinking about kissing her again like an idiot.
“That was not appropriate,” I state out loud.
And yet, even now, the memory doesn’t file away cleanly. It lingers—and it’s not just the kiss. There’s more. It’s her smell, the blend of citrus and coconut and a perfect summer day I’ve only dreamt about. The way she feels, or rather the way I feel when she touches me.
Usually, it takes time for the noise to fade. For my brain to acclimate to the contact enough that I can actually focus on the person instead of the sensation. With her, the quiet was immediate.
Vivian Sullivan literally gave me peace.
She anchored me in a way that I simply don’t have a better word for. It’s a new feeling to me, and it’s foreign. It’s not uncomfortable, but enough of something to throw the edges off.
And I don’t have a category for that. Yet.
Which is the problem.
I stare out through the windshield for a second longer than necessary.
Dr. Hale would say—
I cut the thought off.
“No,” I say under my breath. This is part of my homework. We’re not analyzing anything. We’re not naming it.
I am going to practice. Practice. That’s the focus.
The Birdcage comes into view ahead, solid and familiar, and something in my chest settles just a fraction. Monday offseason practice with the guys. It’s a happy place for me. It’s routine. It’s structure. It’s what I know I need right now.
I reach for the door handle, pushing it open, the warm air hitting my face, and noticing as I step out, that there’s still a part of my brain that doesn’t let her go.
Pretty.
She really is pretty.