Page 22

Chapter 21

Zach

The professor's voice drones on, a monotone hum about liability clauses and contract negotiations in professional sports that barely registers as I trace my finger over the sleek screen of my tablet.

I’m working on a legal contract for a mock assignment, making sure every clause is precisely worded. It’s meticulous, logical, and there’s order—all elements that come easy to me and that my brain excels at.

Plus, I kind of enjoy it.

Meanwhile, Jackson’s doodling in the corner of his notebook. This is supposed to be a partner project, but my friend’s attention span today is about as reliable as Henneman’s defense during a power play.

“God, how can you stand this assignment? It sucks moose balls.” He groans and leans back in his chair, spinning his pen between his fingers, but then smiles. “So, according to Feisty Mouse, you’ve made friends with the enemy. ”

I glance at him, my grip tightening on the tablet. "Takes one to know one.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Fair. But seriously, what’s going on with you and Merci?”

My lips press into a tight line as I breathe out harshly through my nose. I don't like being dissected, but since Eli opened his big mouth, it’s only a matter of time before the rest of my friends harass me too. “We’re . . . together.”

His eyebrows shoot up, chair slamming down onto all fours with a loud thunk. “Holy shit. For real? Never thought I’d see the day you settled down with someone. But what’s with the hesitation? Something’s eating at you.”

Yeah, the clusterfuck of tangled thoughts and too-big emotions crawling under my skin. Because the problem is, I don’t know how to be what Merci needs, or even what he wants. I don’t even know if I’m good enough.

Every time I look at him, I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, and I don’t know if I’m going to fall or if I can fly.

But I can’t say any of that. Not out loud. So, I shrug. “It’s . . . complicated.”

I turn my attention back to the assignment. The hypothetical athlete we’re crafting a contract for feels more real than my own life. The language of clauses, liabilities and guarantees, endorsement deals, and performance bonuses all feel like a game I understand because every clause serves a purpose, a safeguard against potential loss.

Jackson snorts, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. "Complicated is your default setting. You need to start dealing with shit. Try again."

It’s always been easier to keep things to myself, to compartmentalize and lock away the parts that don’t fit into neat little boxes. But Jackson’s been my friend for years, and he won’t let this go until I give him something.

While I’m not ready to tell him about the brain damage, maybe I can mention my hand. Hell, Tommy’s been working me to the bone, pushing my hand past the point of burning fatigue. The improvements are slow if there are any at all. He says there are. I don’t see it, so doubt gnaws at me more and more.

What if it’s not enough? What if I can’t keep up? How am I supposed to take care of Merci if I can’t play hockey?

And what if things get worse and I become a burden to him? Last thing I want is for Merci to stay with me out of a sense of obligation when he could be with someone who is . . . normal.

Jackson taps my forearm lightly, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Hey. You’re drifting. What’s going on in that head of yours? ”

I blink, shaking my head slightly as I try to refocus. “I can’t help it.”

“You’ve got your walls, but you’ve gotta let people in, Zach. I’m here for you, man. You’re like a brother to me. Just wish you’d trust me.”

My fingers tap the edge of the tablet as I take a deep breath. "I'm . . . different."

It's accurate enough, and according to Merci, it's how people describe me anyway. But just admitting that to him causes my muscles to lock up. There is something else I could talk to him about, something that might make him stop prying. "Also, I need your help."

Jackson’s face lights up with a grin that’s entirely too smug. “Holy shit, did you just admit you need me? This is going in the group chat.”

“I regret saying it already.”

“Too late, fucktard.” A smirk ghosts his lips. “Now spill. What do you need help with?”

"I want to take Merci out on a date. But I want it to mean something. And I don’t know what to do."

Jackson’s grin widens, and he lets out a low whistle. “Oh, my god. You’re in love."

“New plan.” I tap the stylus against the desk, my molars grinding as I take a deep, measured breath. “I’m going to murder you instead. ”

“Sorry, buddy. Not happening. So, what does Merci like? What makes him tick?”

"Milkshakes." And collars. But I keep that to myself.

"Okay, so no cliché candlelit dinners in tiny restaurants.” Jackson drums his fingers against the desk. “What about some of that swinging stuff he was doing in Miami? Or maybe there’s a Cirque Du Soleil show?”

While I’m not sure I want to sit through the acrobatic circus, Jackson does give me an idea. One that involves reaching out to someone from my past, someone I haven’t spoken to in years.

I'm not sure if Danica still lives in Rosewood Bays, but for Merci, it’s worth a shot to find out.

Turning my attention back to the assignment, some of the tension in my body eases. Until Jackson starts teasing me again, drawing hearts with Merci and my initials inside.

In love.

The idea is foreign, like trying on a pair of new skates that don’t quite fit yet. But as I think about Merci—the need to protect him, to tear his clothes off, to make him happy—logically, it all adds up.

I might not be able to process emotions like others do, but I can recognize the signs. I can acknowledge the sensations that scream his name inside and what that means.

So yeah.

I’m in love with Merci.