“I know,” I say, watching as Kai moves close to me again.
For two guys who have been best friends forever, we’ve never touched much. I don’t know whether that’s on me or him, though I’m willing to accept the blame. I think back to all my years on the ice and in locker rooms or at our hotels. Back then, I was surrounded by teammates who had few physical boundaries, and I was often the object of circumstantial affection. In the middle of a celebration because I was the one who’d scored. Arms draped across my shoulders because I was the one who’d draw the most women at a club. Embraced by men who’d never be Jameson Sinclair because breathing the same air might’ve been enough for them to believe they once came close.
And I can’t say I didn’t care. I’ve always loved to be loved, however I could get it.
But I’m not sure whether Kai noticed when I said I’d held Mateo’s hand. If he did, I’m not sure he understood how foreign that kind of intimacy is to me. It’s probably a difficult thing for anyone to imagine when years of internet chatter—and so many paparazzi pictures—have had me wrapped around one beautiful woman or another. But sex isn’t the same thing as wanting someone who sees through you to press their skin to yours.
Kai reaches for my knee now, and it’s enough to make me miss something that isn’t mine yet.
“You're gonna pretend the two of you are just friends here,” he says. “You're gonna pretend itdoesn’tmatter.”
The tip of my thumb grazes his. “No. I don’t want to pretend anything anymore. I just haven’t figured out where else to take this version of me.”
“It’s not a version of you, J. It’s just you.”
Chapter Four: Mateo
(I Finally Learned His Name)
Aglance at the clock on the wall tells me I’ve been here for over twelve hours now, minus the quick walk I took with Sophie this afternoon. We’d both needed iced coffee as a reward for making it through the day, or a bribe to ensure we’d return for the rest of the night, but that high wore off a long time ago. I smile at a family waving goodbye from across the room, then look at the clock again. Officially, I’ve got twenty minutes left. Unofficially, probably another twenty minutes after that.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Sophie. I think I wanted it to be someone else, but I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday when I called to confirm this weekend’s bar date, and we reminded each other that we’d be busy tonight.
After our first round of texts last week, Jamie and I sent a few simple messages back and forth—good morningorhope your day is going wellorthinking about the beach. A couple of nights later, I took a chance and called him from bed, exhausted after a long day and wanting to hear his voice before I closed my eyes. Anything but selfish, he said goodnight and sweet dreams, and then he let mego. We’ve talked a handful of other times, sharing preciously brief fantasies of a future that would start Saturday if it hadn’t already started two weeks ago. He won’t call tonight, but it’ll be fine if I don’t hear him say my name again until I can see him smile at me, too.
For now, I need to stop daydreaming, and I read Sophie's message.
Might go out for margaritas after this
I chuckle to myself.I’m still recovering from last weekend. I used to handle the start of the school year better
We’re getting old babe
One of my kids slips into the room with his parents close behind, so I leave my phone on my desk and greet them with the same grin and handshake I mastered in my first year of student teaching. This isn’t my favorite part of my job—for all the hassle people give teenagers, I’ve found their families are often harder to please—but the conversation is pleasant, and I encourage them to look around the classroom. I’ve set up displays of some of what we’ll be working on this year, plus the kids can show off the few things we’ve done so far.
Some students would rather keep talking, either to bullshit me or their parents, but this one nods to me and leads them away. Another couple of freshmen come in, but they’re two of my shyest, and I’m not surprised when they bypass the introductions altogether and simply tour the room on their own, their families as quiet as they are. I smile and leave them to it.
My phone rattles on my desk, and Sophie’s calling this time. With only about fifteen minutes left, most of my students have probably come and gone, but I still hesitate for a few seconds. Then I go ahead and answer.
“Since when do you call me during back-to-school night?”
“Since Miss Vicki showed up in my room with enough gossip tokeep everyone away from me,” she whisper-snorts.
That perfectly explains both Sophie’s need and ability to escape. Victoria Gallagher has had kids at our school for almost as long as I’ve taught here, and she’s quite the queen bee. The worst of the worst attempt to befriend her so they can get the latest dirt on teachers, parents, and students, too often forgetting that proximity won’t save them if they become the subject of something juicy. Sophie and I have long suspected that Vicki’s knack for tattling on everyone else is her best defense against anyone’s attempt to tattle on her. Some sort of adulteress sleight of hand.
I don’t have a Gallagher kid in class this year, but I’d do my best to avoid their mother either way.
“Ah, so you’re calling to explain why you need those margaritas?”
“Actually, no,” Sophie says, still hushed. “Vicki did have one interesting thing to say before I fled. Apparently, Jameson Sinclair is here, and rumor has it he’s even hotter in person than when we’ve seen him sweaty and mouthy in a locker room interview—or when he’s been positively slutty on the cover of those entertainment magazines Idefinitelydon’t read.”
My heart stops. When it starts again, each beat comes too close to the one before. “Jameson Sinclair?”
“Hockey stud. Lusted after, envied, or despised by everyone who knows what a puck is. Once broke his leg in front of us—”
“Shattered,” I rasp, so many messy feelings washing over me at once. Memories from several years ago, when my best friend and I watched Jameson Sinclair’s career come to an end. Memories from a couple of weeks ago, when I watched a familiar stranger named Jamie limp on his way up a hill before he wished for a frozen lake. “He shattered his leg, and he never fully recovered.”
“Yes,shatteredhis leg in front of us. Never recovered,” Sophie amends. “His daughter is in your class this year, but I’mguessing they haven’t made it to your—”