Not since Alia chastised me and Theo.
“Besides.” I flash my mother a patently fake grin given the apprehension swirling within me. “I don’t chase them. They chase me.”
My mother snorts, patting my cheek once. “Take my advice, son. Let this one catch you.”
I can’t avoid it even if I wanted to. How dumb of me to think not admitting my feelings would somehow stop what’s come so naturally. Of course I love her. How could I not? I’ve fought myself on my growing attachment because of the uncertainty of Alia’s living situation. But now that she’s staying. . .
It hasn’t escaped my attention how much I want to be around her. How often my thoughts veer into dangerous territories with words like ‘future’ and ‘living together’.
I’ve been dating her, whether or not we’ve labeled it as such. Exclusivity has a way of making things feel more official than anticipated, because I’ve begun to think of her as mine. Does it frustrate me that I can’t say that out loud and claim her in front of everyone? Every. Fucking. Day.
This started off as something temporary but, with Alia staying in Monterey, maybe more is possible. Something meaningful and committed.
Sure, she’s fresh off a divorce, but her reservations around relationships and intimacy have been melting away in our time together. When I touch her now, she doesn’t have the same discomforts she once did. If anything, she seems as hungry for me as I am for her.
I’ve been lying to myself, if poorly. But Mom deducing that I like Alia tells me I’ll have a hard time hiding it for much longer.
Dating, relationship, long-term. I’ve considered all these options with Alia but never investigated why I wanted it. Maybe I was afraid of rejection. Maybe I was trying to protect myself by living in denial. Pointless, really, because I’ve been unsuccessful at keeping Alia from invading my thoughts, my life, and my heart.
She’s my inspiration, she’s my safe harbor, she’s plain mine.
After I drop off my family at the airport, I find myself once again waiting at the visitor parking lot outside Alia’s building, this time with her favorite bouquet. Breath locked within my lungs, I wait until she appears in the lobby. She pushes the front entrance open and steps out into the light, her eyes searching until they land upon me. The brightness of the sunny tulips I hold is no match for the slow smile that blooms on her face, her quickening steps belying her impatience to reach me.
I watch unblinkingly as she hurries, unaware of everything and everyone else. I am her focus, she is mine.
Every empty nook and cranny of my being fills with a need for this woman who’s become my friend and so much more.
As our lips find each other in a kiss that quenches my parched soul, my mother’s advice to let Alia catch me rings in my ears.
Hell, I’m already caught. I only hope she’ll let me catch her in return.
42
ALIA
Halfway into the second period, I am not sure who I’m more worried for: Ironhearts or me.
I’d forgotten how the adrenaline of the sport makes you feel. Even though I’m not playing, I’m watching men I know and admire battle for victory in a sport they love as much as I love cricket.
“I used to get dragged to Rohan’s practices all the time,” Irsia says, still managing to somehow multitask while we sit a couple rows behind the glass. The sound of the shutter snapping is dulled by the music playing on the speakers as the players go through a quick line change. “I thought I’d gotten bored of this game, but it’s been good to be here tonight.”
“They’re playing really well but so is the opposing team.”
“Yes, but—” Irsia tapers off unexpectedly. She slowly drops her camera into her lap, her gaze locked straight ahead. I follow her line of vision to where a player from the opposition slides onto the ice.His grey and red jersey has #34 on it and, even from this distance, I can tell why Irsia’s attention is caught. He projects an aura that demands attention. This is a man who’s used to dominating the room he’s in.
In a turn I don’t see coming, he rushes toward their net, colliding harshly with Rohan. They smash into the boards with a thunk that reverberates in the air. A loud gasp travels through the spectators and, within seconds, there’s a skirmish which devolves into an all-out fight. Gloves are ripped, helmets dropped, and punches are thrown.
Rohan and #34 go at it like they have a personal vendetta against each other. I’ve never seen Rohan react this way; with every hit he lands, he receives one hard enough to make me wince. I understand violence is part of the game, but worry whirls in my gut as the seconds drag on.
The referee jumps into the fray and pulls them apart, each team finally taking control of their player. Rohan and #34 are both led into their respective penalty boxes which, I’ve learned, is called the sin-bin. Fitting, really.
The two men sit side by side with a glass wall separating them. I can tell from his stiff posture that Rohan is frustrated and angry. What confuses me is that #34, despite serving a penalty, seems amused. His face flashes on the screens overhead and I catch a glimpse of a smirk under his helmet.
I can’t profess to understand what happened, but it hadn’t looked like #34 was gunning for Rohan. If anything, he stepped between his teammate—the burly Latvian with a constant snarl on his face—and my cousin. I mentally deny that possibility, sure I’ve misunderstood it.
“That fight was pointless,” Irsia mutters heatedly. “I can’t believe Ro and Nix punched each other like that.”
My brows rise in question just as the opposing goalie stops the puck from sneaking in. We’re sitting near Vancouver’s defending zone, so it’s easy to track the play while I ask Irsia, “Who is Nix?”