Page 18

18

SCARLETT

W hen I showed up at the ramen place in downtown Cedar Shade that Lane suggested we meet at, I was sure from the surly look on the owner’s face that he was going to literally toss me out the door when I sat down without ordering anything.

Even though I’ve only been in town for about a week, I’ve already heard about this place through small talk with classmates. The misanthropic reputation of the proprietor precedes him.

Which made me surprised when Lane chose this place to meet and spend an extended period of time. I was especially surprised when Lane showed up, greeted the owner by name—Kazu—and when Kazu dipped his chin a fraction of a centimeter in acknowledgement, something he certainly didn’t spare for me.

Lane explained that he and the guys are regulars at this place, and that two of his teammates in particular, Tuck McCoy and Hudson Voss, are actually friendly with the owner.

We ordered some appetizer dumplings to tide us over as we cracked open my calculus book, and they were so good that I can see how this place stays in business despite the lack of personal touch.

After an hour and a half of studying, my brain is filled to the bursting point.

My professor doesn’t seem to buy into the idea of gradually easing into the semester. Our first homework assignment is based on material that would normally be two whole weeks’ worth of instruction in any math class I’ve had in the past.

It doesn’t help that all the calculus material requires background concepts that I haven’t worked with since the last time I had a math class, almost four years ago now.

Senior year high school Precalculus. I can’t even remember the teacher’s name, let alone how to do any of it.

As we get up from our booth in the corner of the ramen place, my head feels so full of math that I’m surprised my flimsy neck can hold it upright.

When I bid Kazu goodbye on our way out, he returns it with the slightest twitch of acknowledgment. I guess I’m on the in with him now that I’m a confirmed Lane Associate.

“I think I’m going to need to develop a test-day superstition for this class,” I say to Lane when we step outside. The temperature is still low today, but there’s hardly any wind. It’s great walking weather. The low sun colors the sky in pink and purple pastels, and the crisp winter air feels fresh in my lungs. “You know, like you hockey players have on game day.”

Lane shrugs. “I don’t have any superstitions.”

I gasp. “You’re lying.”

He chuckles. “Why? Do I seem like the superstitious type?”

“No, you seem like the killjoy who tells everyone else that the superstitions they enjoy and get comfort from don’t matter type,” I snark. “But come on, every athlete has superstitions! Even the stuck-up ones!”

“Well, I must be the most stuck-up of all, then. Because I don’t.”

“Like, you don’t have a lucky pair of socks that you have to wear? Or a receipt from a store you shopped at on the day of your biggest win ever that you keep in your pocket on game day? Not even a particular song you listen to before a big game?”

“Nope. Preparation and focus are what bring home wins, not illogical superstitions. Like, look at this place,” Lane says, coming to a halt as we pass a tiny storefront wedged between an ice cream shop and a dog groomer that advertises psychic readings. “People come in here just hoping to hear that what they want in their lives is fated to happen to them, so they don’t have to work for it.”

My brow creases. “I think most people who go to these places just think it’ll be fun. Like for a laugh on a night out after having a couple drinks. What’s wrong with doing something just for amusement?”

“Yeah, like fleecing drunk college kids of their money is any better.”

I grab his wrist. “Come on,” I say, pulling him across the street.

“What? Where are you dragging me?”

“The bar,” I announce, having just spotted a divey-looking place called Tall Mike’s across the street. “We’re going to become two of those drunk college students you’re talking about, then we’re going to get our fortunes read, and you’ll see that it’s fun.”

“You want to get drunk?” Lane asks, like he’s absolutely scandalized at the idea since the sun’s still out.

“Oh no, it’s a weeknight, we have class tomorrow, better only drink skim milk all day long. And make sure we eat our vegetables for dinner.” I deepen my voice to mock Lane’s tone.

“I do not sound like that,” Lane says with a flat expression as I drag him across the street, though I catch the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

A cheerful warmth envelopes us when we step into the bar. Is there anything cozier than being in a snug, warmly-lit dive bar on a cold winter evening?

Even though it’s still early, there are several other people here, though it’s not packed like I’m sure it is on a Friday or Saturday night. Just enough fellow patrons to make us not feel like degenerates for drinking right as the sun’s sinking below the horizon on a Wednesday.

To Lane’s credit, he’s not too much of a stick in the mud to sit at the bar next to me and order a drink. I cheers him and take a sip.

“You really want us to go to that stupid place after this drink?” Lane asks, like he’s still thinking I must be joking.

“No. I want us to have another drink after this one. Then maybe another. Then I want us to go to the fortune teller’s. If you’re tipsy, maybe it’ll soften the steel rod up your ass enough for you to enjoy it.”

“Smart. Knowing that I’m going to be hungover in my eight-am class tomorrow will make getting scammed out of my money even more fun,” he snarks. But when I side-eye him, I can see that he’s got a dry grin on his face.

After a couple sips of beer, I’m feeling emboldened enough to say, “You know, Lane, I happen to know you’re not as dull and uptight as you like to let on.”

Touching on our past feels like wandering too close to a livewire crackling with deadly current.

Lane takes a gulp of his drink. “I have been known to let loose on occasions.” His eyes rake down my body, searing me where they weigh, and I wonder if the same memories are currently flashing in his head that are in mine.

“Assaulting a bouncer or two,” I reminisce in a sing-song voice. If we’re going to indulge in a memory, it’s better if it’s one of the goofier ones rather than one involving hard or wet body parts.

“Spraying someone with mustard is not assault!” Lane retorts. “And there’s no or two . It was just the one.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to segue into asking him how he’s been for the last year and a half. But luckily, I haven’t consumed enough alcohol yet. My better judgment immediately pumps those breaks because it knows that question will only make me reflect on the miserable year and a half I had between then and now.

Plus, I don’t want Lane to think our time together meant as much to me as it did. I don’t want him to know how much I’ve been thinking about it, dwelling on it, in the time since. I don’t want things between us to get awkward.

Instead, I switch tracks, and we talk about Cedar Shade. I ask him about his favorite spots, hidden gems, and what places different types of people tend to congregate on a Friday or Saturday night.

Slipping back into a normal conversation feels surprisingly comfortable, like how my feet felt slipping into those roomy shoes he bought me on the day of that sudden summer downpour in Chicago.

Ugh. That’s one of those memories I need to hold at bay, especially when I’m so close to Lane that I can see the gold flecks in his green eyes. Remembering that day is dangerous for my heart.

By the time we pay our tab, I’m feeling tipsy. Those small dumplings we had at the ramen place were all I ate since this morning.

Outside, the sky is now an inky black, and the street is lined with rich, orange halos from the streetlights. A neon sign advertising psychic readings glows in the tiny window of the shop across the street.

“Ready to have your mind blown?” I ask Lane, who rolls his eyes in response.

I go to step off the curb to cross the street, but sparks shoot up my arm when Lane wraps his hand around my wrist to hold me back. The two drinks I just had make it impossible for me to resist reveling in how good the firm, warm pressure of his grip feels.

“We’re not jaywalking drunk.” He tilts his head up the street to the crosswalk. “Come on.”

He lets go of my hand. The loss of his contact makes the brisk air feel colder.

I follow him as he walks the half block to the intersection stoplight.

“Even when you’re wasted, you’re a buzzkill,” I joke.

He snorts. “I’m not wasted. I’m not even buzzed. You’re wasted. And illegally crossing in the middle of the street after two beers is asking for trouble.”

“There aren’t even any cars!” I exclaim, verifying my statement by looking up and down the empty road.

“Better safe than sorry.”

Despite there being no cars to be seen or heard in our vicinity, he makes us wait until the crosswalk signal changes before we cross the street.

Bells jingle on the wooden door to the psychic shop when we pull it open. The inside is lit dimly and packed with trinkets and potted plants. Various tables display tarot card decks, crystals, oils, spirituality books, and assorted jewelry for sale.

“Welcome,” a voice sounds from behind a doorway covered with dense strands of hanging beads.

Lane rolls his eyes again like a middle school kid being forced to go on an outing he thinks is too lame for him. I tug him through the beads into a smaller backroom.

A tiny woman sits on the other side of a circular table, her makeup so heavy it’s impossible to tell how old she is.

“Hi,” I smile at the woman, feeling giggly at the unusual occasion. “You do, uh, psychic readings?”

She nods, spreading her hand out to indicate the chairs on the other side of the table.

“I sense … a history between you two,” she says in a wise voice as we take our seats.

“Really going out on a limb with that one,” Lane grumbles out of the side of his mouth, earning a sharp elbow to his arm from yours truly.

The fortune teller holds out her open hands to us. Lane gives me a perplexed sidelong look, so I nudge him again and then slide my hand into the woman’s. With a sarcastic arch of his brow, Lane does the same.

The woman on the other side of the table closes her eyes and makes a humming, thoughtful noise. “Yes, history. Something … unfinished. Something that ended in a way it shouldn’t have.”

My stomach flips, her words hitting a little too close to home. I slide my gaze to the side to check Lane’s reaction, but it doesn’t seem like her words had the same effect on him.

I guess because, in his mind, what ended between us eighteen months ago was supposed to end exactly how it did.

“One of you has … tension. Conflict. Uncertainty about the future.”

I guess it wouldn’t be hard for an unbiased observer to look at the two of us and clock in an instant that I’m …

“You,” she opens her eyes, her gaze boring into—not me, but Lane.

I look to Lane, and I’m surprised to see the lines of his face sharpening. He suddenly doesn’t look like this is all a joke to him anymore.

“You’re … unsure. Unsure about something you always were sure about. About something you always took for granted.”

The fortune teller’s cryptic words are flying over my head, but from the way his brow crawls lower over his eyes, it looks like they’re hitting a mark somewhere with Lane.

“The future you used to see clearly for yourself now appears clouded, the flat road now bumpy,” she continues.

But she doesn’t elaborate, instead turning her attention to me and uttering some platitudes that don’t strike me nearly as much as what she just said still seems to strike Lane.

I mostly tune her out, honestly, because I’m paying too much attention to Lane’s residual reaction and wondering what it could be that struck a chord with him.

After we pay her thirty bucks—which Lane insists on covering himself, though he still seems a little dazed—and head outside, I question him.

“So, do you feel like your horizons have been expanded?”

“Hm.” A low, rumbling, ruminative noise from the back of Lane’s throat is all the answer I get.

I’ve never seen Lane so in his head like this. Instead of dancing around it, I come right out with, “Is it about your return to hockey?”

That has his head whipping in my direction. “What?”

“What she was saying in there, it seemed to sort of hit you. Did it get you thinking about your return to hockey? Are you worried about it?”

He turns his head back to face in front of him. “I guess you’ve been at Brumehill long enough to hear about it, huh?”

A sad feeling twists in my chest. Yeah, I’d know about Lane’s anticipated return to the ice in a couple days thanks to how often people on campus are talking about it, even if I didn’t know beforehand.

But I did know beforehand. I’ve been keeping track of Lane’s career ever since I got home from Chicago at the end of that summer, like a creeper.

“I’m sure you’ll still be as good as you ever were,” I say.

“You’re sure, huh?” He asks the question like he isn’t.

I realize all I did was say empty words, hoping to make him comfortable. And people don’t take comfort in empty words.

So, I choose meaningful words.

“You know what, you’re right. I can’t promise that.”

Lane stops and turns to face me.

“But I know you’ve done everything anyone in your position can do to make sure that that’s going to be true. I know you’ve trained as hard as anyone can. I know you’ve practically killed yourself to make sure you’re ready, because you don’t want to let your teammates and your coach and your fans down. And I know that you’re going to play with every ounce of your heart when you get back out there.”

My eyes are locked on Lane’s, and it feels like the tether that connects them vibrates with the effort of my trying to make Lane understand the truth of what I’m saying.

I continue. “When we passed that shop back there the first time, you said yourself how meaningless trying to predict the future is. What matters is what you did in the past to prepare yourself for a big moment when it comes. Well, you’ve done everything you could have. I wasn’t here to see it, but I know, because I know you. At least, I know you well enough to know that. So, don’t worry about the future. If there’s anything to worry about, worry that you haven’t done enough to get back into shape or keep up with the latest strategy, or whatever the heck it is that hockey players need to do to prepare for a game. But you don’t need to worry about that. I know you don’t. So, you don’t need to worry about anything. Give yourself permission to believe in yourself as much as you should.”

I have to pull in a deep breath. Damn, where did that pep talk come from? I guess I just hated so much seeing that glimmer of doubt in Lane’s eyes, I needed to do anything I could to make it go away.

The air between us feels somehow still and charged at the same time.

I start to walk forward again, and Lane does the same.

“And also,” I continue, because I guess I’m on a roll of dispensing wisdom, “don’t beat yourself up if you’re not immediately where you want to be. You had a bad injury. It can take time. Believe in yourself and believe in the work you’re putting in, no matter how long it takes. I know you hold yourself to high standards, but you can’t hold yourself to impossible standards.”

A tiny chuckle rumbles in Lane’s throat. “Hudson was telling me that the other day.”

“High standards good, impossible standards bad. Write that on a flashcard.” I take a step back into some lighter bantering.

“Hey, who’s tutoring who today?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I could definitely take some lessons from you in the high standards department.”

Through the corner of my eye I see Lane turn to me, his brow pinching. “What do you mean?”

I huff a self-deprecating laugh. “I mean that I let my own standards for myself sit at the bottom of the ocean sometimes.”

“Bullshit.” The sharpness and quickness of Lane’s response sends a little jolt of surprise through me. “You wouldn’t be at a college like Brumehill if that were true.”

I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek. “I wouldn’t have totally wasted three years of my life after graduating high school if it weren’t true.”

“Remember when we got off the plane in Chicago?” Lane asks.

My brow furrows at the sudden change of topic.

“Uh, yeah?” I add a questioning inflection because I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

“Remember that jerk who was ranting about a crying baby?”

I tilt my head, searching through my memories. “Oh!” I exclaim, recalling the incident. “Yeah. That guy was such a tool.”

Still not sure where Lane is going with this, though.

“Well, how many people who were actually in that line for the plane said anything to him? How many people walked by without standing up for that mom who looked so embarrassed? How many people would’ve kept passing without saying a word, just minding their own business —me included?”

I shrug. “I dunno.”

“And remember when we met a couple days later? How you got kicked out of that club for defending a girl who was getting bothered by some guy in there?”

Flush crawls into my cheeks, making them feel warm even against the frigid wind that just billowed down the block.

“Yeah,” I repeat again, my voice feeling soft from the fluttery feeling in my chest. Lane remembers all that?

“When most people see others being treated badly by jerks, they let it go. You don’t. I think that’s a pretty damn high standard you hold yourself to. Caring a lot about hockey doesn’t seem too impressive by comparison.”

Wings flap in my stomach, and a happy sort of hum vibrates through my body down to my limbs.

The feeling combines with the alcohol still floating in my bloodstream and has me feeling a little giddy when we finally approach our house.

I go to leap from the walkway to the porch in a single bound instead of walking up the wooden steps. But in my tipsy state, I don’t consider the very obvious likelihood of ice lurking on any surface at this time of year.

I slip on the frosty edge of the porch landing. My legs kick up and I go tumbling backward, colliding against Lane’s broad, firm chest.

His arms wrap around me, and my chest hitches when I find myself pressed flush against him.

My feet hover above the ground. His body heat rolls off him in waves, warming me. His forearm presses against the underside of my boobs, which suddenly feel so sensitive they ache.

His scent, fresh and clean with a musky, masculine undertone, fills my nose.

I’m not sober enough to check the vivid memories that stir from being this close to Lane. Not sober enough to keep myself from reliving when Lane relieved the kind of ache my tits feel right now by palming them with his rough hands and slanting his hot, wet tongue against my pebbled nipples in a way that made my back arch.

A slick warmth gathers between my legs, and desire tips into my bloodstream.

“Deja-vu,” Lane whispers, his humid breath skating against the soft shell of my ear. His face is so close to me that I can feel my hair feathering against his cheek.

I can feel his lips only a few torturous, teasing centimeters away from my skin, so close that the sheer want to feel them sliding against me has desire throbbing through my body.

Would it be such a bad idea if we opened the front door quietly, snuck up into his or my room, and …

That very front door opens suddenly, and immediately Lane loosens his grip. I drop a couple inches, standing in front of him now, and he takes a step back. Disappointment stabs through my ribs like a knife, and my whole body whines at losing contact with him.

Rhys stands in the bright yellow rectangle of light framing the open doorway amidst the darkness outside.

“It’s just Lane and Scarlett,” he turns his head to say in the direction of the living room.

Lane brushes past me, stepping up to walk inside. I try to swallow the disappointment stuck in my throat and follow him, being much more careful with my footsteps this time.

“Thought I heard someone out there,” Sebastian says from the living room as I close the door behind me.

“Thought a murderer was trying to break in?” Tuck teases, sitting next to Sebastian on the couch. They’re playing a video game on the TV, a hockey game this time.

“I watched this crazy Japanese horror movie about ghosts who travel through the internet late last night when I couldn’t fall asleep, so I’m on edge,” Sebastian says, earning snickers from Tuck and Rhys.

The guys invite us to join them and hang out, but we both make excuses to head right up to our rooms.

In my room, I slide under my covers and use my hand to relieve the tight ache between my legs in a way I wish Lane’s fingers, tongue, and cock were doing.

His name ghosts from my mouth as I come—and I wonder if mine is on his next door.