Page 29 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)
“Well…” I fiddle with the bottom button of Noah’s flannel, but when Cam continues to watch me expectantly, I inhale deeply and just get on with it. “I can’t miss their games. It may sound overly dramatic, but I would quit this job before missing the chance to watch them play.”
Brows lifted, she makes a note on her clipboard. “Understood.”
The trepidation turns into full-on dread. I don’t want to lose this job, and I really don’t want to lose her as a friend, either.
“So if I scheduled you for closing only, after the game, to help with cleanup, then shut down for the night, would that work for you?”
Relief floods my veins. “Absolutely,” I reply with a grin. “Thanks, Cam.”
“Yo. Camilla.” Arjun’s back in the doorway again.
“Get gone, Arjun. I’m not your supervisor right now, and you know damn well that’s not my name.”
“Chill, mamacita.”
“Arjun,” she warns in a low hiss.
I bite back a laugh at their banter.
“I just want to make sure you aren’t putting Sawyer on the schedule for Thursday,” he says. “It’s Ledges night, baby.”
Cam hugs her clipboard to her chest, shooting him an unamused glare. “Of course I didn’t put her on the schedule. But you better double-check that Bryant didn’t rearrange the concessions schedule for you.”
Arjun’s eyes go wide. “Shit.” With that, he storms off toward the back office.
Chuckling, Cam sets her sights back on me. “I’m messing with him.”
“What’s Ledges night?” I ask. “Is it another bar?”
Eyes dancing, she bounces on her toes. “The Ledges is a lookout over the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. It’s sort of hidden, but the views are incredible. Every couple of months, we check out the department van and go together. You’re in, right?”
For the third time in less than ten minutes, emotion tugs low in my belly. After being on my own for the last several years, with only Atty and Ty as the mainstays in my life, it feels incredible to so easily find myself included in so many activities.
“I’d love to go.”
“Invite your brother and Tytus, too.” She flips her braids over one shoulder and circles back around the desk.
“We’ll take the fifteen-passenger van,” she says as she heads for her office, “but I’ll need a head count by tomorrow so I can make sure we have enough seats.
” As she hits the threshold, she turns back.
“Oh, and don’t forget to take your twenty. ”
An employee I haven’t met yet—Kate, I think—appears a few minutes later, so on the half-hour mark, I take my break and pop into the concession stand side to grab a water.
“Sawyer, you gotta try this.” Arjun grins over his shoulder, then focuses on the griddle again, flipping a massive…I don’t even know what. It’s a multicolored blob that smells terrible.
And the look on his face is one I recognize. It’s one my brother has worn many, many times. He’s up to something, and I’m about to be sucked in.
“Can’t.” I punch in my employee number and ring up the water. “I’m allergic to”—I grimace—“whatever that is.”
“It’s the Godzilla Grinder,” he hollers. “Three-quarters of a pound of chip-chopped hot dog and bologna. Fried, topped with grilled onions, two kinds of mustard, and three types of cheese.”
The urge to heave hits me, but I choke it back. Nope. Not going anywhere near that one.
“Thanks but no thanks.” I retreat from the concession stand and venture into the lobby. His concoction sounds more than a little disgusting.
Is this how Atty felt when I ordered the King Kong at Wild Willy’s?
My traitorous heart flutters at the memory, and the tether that keeps me connected to the boys, no matter how far apart we are, goes taut, tugging me toward the rink where they’re finishing up practice.
I was planning to go out to my car during this break to skim over the reading for class tomorrow since I’ve been drowning in marketing texts and periodicals and have had little time for my own studies.
But my feet carry me through the lobby, and before I know it, I’ve stepped into the rink.
The cooler temperature rejuvenates me, and the intense blend of sweat and chemical cleaner floods my senses. I inhale deeply, because this smell, with this chill? It feels like home.
Following the pull of that invisible tether, I look out over the rink and spot Tytus immediately.
I’m a good skater, but Ty’s movements are nothing short of elegant. He was made to be on the ice. He was made to play this game.
Atty’s out there, too, hamming it up with teammates. He’s always been the most social of the three of us. If given the choice, Ty and I would prefer to exist in our own little world.
At least that’s how it used to be.
The reminder is like a weight on my shoulders. With a sigh, I step onto the empty bleachers on the visitors’ side. I select a row about a third of the way up and settle in.
Practice is winding down, from the look of things, with some of the players and staff still hanging around, chatting, while others head to the locker room or offices.
Once I’m looking out over the ice, it takes all of five seconds for my skin to prickle. For my stomach to twist with awareness. For my spine to straighten and for my breath to catch in my throat.
He’s already found me, his attention causing that string that connects us to tug more incessantly and with greater intensity.
How can such a strong sensation, such a predetermined destiny, never amount to anything ? For years, we’ve been reduced to meaningless moments like this. We’re constantly aware of each other, and yet nothing ever comes of it.
I hate playing these games, existing in emotional limbo.
Yet I wait him out, refusing to look up too soon.
Instead, I take a swig of my water, then pretend to check my phone. When my body is practically vibrating with awareness, when I can no longer ignore the way he reaches into me, straight to my marrow, where all my secrets live, I look up.
He’s still on the ice, still working on drills, weaving and dodging toward an empty net.
To anyone else, he appears laser-focused.
But the second I zero in on him, he whips around and meets my gaze.
How he knows—how we both always know—defies logic and reason.
He’s attuned to me, even at a distance.
He watches me, his expression unreadable from here.
I offer a smile and a dorky little wave.
Eventually he goes back to the drill, and even as the rink clears out, he remains focused.
Only when a man calls out to him, a coach, I assume, does he finish up.
He skates backward, pointing his stick at me, like he does every time I attend a game. He keeps his focus fixed on me all the way to the bench.
I hold my breath the entire time he retreats.