Page 20

savannah

My legs bounce beneath me as I pretend to read through some more interview questions.

My now fully cooled blueberry muffin sits untouched on the coffee table in front of me as I continue to wait for Noah.

I was hoping to get the awkward conversation over with before class this morning, but he never showed.

He didn’t say anything about needing to reschedule today though, so I check the time on my phone again and decide to wait another fifteen minutes.

The last time he was late, I was bored and annoyed that he had kept me waiting. Today, I’m shifting side to side, picking the black paint of my nails, and chewing the inside of my cheek raw. I should have made one of his stupid bets, at least then I would gain something out of his tardiness.

I don’t know what I was thinking, showing up to that game last night.

I was lying in bed with a bag of hot Cheetos, attempting to burn away the memory of his lips on mine, and when I couldn’t stop the thoughts of wanting to finish what he had started, I ripped my sheets off and drove myself down to the Redline area.

The smell of cold, plastic, and stale air smacked me across the face the second I opened the door. Most people think the smell is athlete sweat, but it’s actually from the bacteria that eats the sweat. It’s foul, but at the same time, I found the familiar scent oddly comforting.

In hindsight, I probably should have told Noah who my dad is, rather than blindside him like I accidentally did last night.

It was a fool’s mistake to think it would never come up, and I have no one to blame but myself.

Now, I’m left stressed, wondering if the guy I hadn’t wanted to talk to in the first place is pissed and blowing me off.

The sofa beneath me feels scratchy and uncomfortable. I toss my papers on the coffee table, not caring that they miss, and fall to the ground. I throw my head back, letting out an aggravated grunt.

“You good?”

“Huh?” I look up, startled to see Noah. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He falls down on the couch across from me. His lack of response shakes the nerves right out of my system—and just like that—I’m annoyed again.

“You’re late.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” He doesn’t look at me, which only further pisses me off.

Half a minute passes without any explanation.

Instead, he sits across from me, typing on his phone.

My jaw hurts where I’m grinding my molars down, and I’m going to need my first Botox injection by twenty-one from the deep scowl I’m sporting.

Not that he notices. I shouldn’t be surprised and I definitely shouldn’t be this disappointed.

I grab my paper, officially done waiting for him to engage in small talk. I’m ready to get this project over with. I open my mouth to start, but he stands abruptly.

“I need a coffee. You good?”

The fucking nerve of this guy. I’ve been sitting here, worried about him, and he’s looking at me bored out of his skull, like he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

I shake my head and watch him drag himself to the counter.

I’d like to believe that he got what he wanted from me Friday night and is now allowing his true colors to show, but somehow, rubbing himself between my legs and a few kisses hardly feels like some grand prize.

I’m not oblivious to the fact that before my dad came out of the arena, Noah seemed genuinely excited that I was there.

That leaves only one possible reason for his change in attitude—finding out that my dad and his coach are the same person.

And isn’t it ironic that the reason I didn’t want to tell him in the first place was for fear that it would change things between us?

Noah walks back with the lid off of his full cup, blowing into the steaming black liquid. He sips his coffee, holding it in one hand, and picks up his phone with the other.

Right. Let’s get this show on the road.

I clear my throat. “If you had twenty-five hours in a day, what would you do with the extra hour?”

“Sleep.”

My fist clenches around my paper, and my lip curls up, but I shove down my frustration. “Care to elaborate?”

He finally drops his phone to the side, but he still doesn’t look at me. Instead, his head falls back to the couch cushion behind him.

“It’s pretty self-explanatory,” he mumbles.

I stare at him and wonder if he can feel the steam radiating from me.

I feel like a cartoon character, shooting lasers at him with my eyes.

I might not be a very tolerant person, but I do feel like I’ve tried here.

Now, I just don’t give a fuck anymore. Someone else might let this slide.

A better person than me, perhaps. But, unfortunately for Noah, I’ve cut people off for a lot less than a shit attitude.

I boycotted Snapple when they changed their bottles from glass to plastic, for fuck’s sake.

One bad taste in my mouth is all it takes to ruin something for me forever.

I slam my notebook closed and grab my bag, before standing up and charging towards the door.

Out of my peripheral, I notice his head snap in my direction, but I don’t stop.

He has the nerve to groan as if I’m inconveniencing him right now. I vaguely register him calling my name, but I continue to ignore him. We can email these answers to each other for all I care. Fuck, I’ll take an F on this project if I have to.

“Savannah, wait.”

The freezing air suffocates my lungs as I burst outside, but a coat of warmth quickly spreads across my arm, spinning me around.

“What?” I snap, ignoring his furnace of a body towering over me.

“Can you just wait, please?”

“It seems like it’s a bad time for you, so let’s not continue to waste either of our time.” I pull my arm back, attempting to get out of his warm hold, but he follows—covering me from the wind again.

“You’re right.” There are dark spots beneath his usually bright eyes, and when the little circle of green doesn’t appear, I stop pulling away from him.

“It is a bad time, but it has nothing to do with you, and I’m sorry.

God, I—” he groans, fisting his tousled black hair, and I’m instantly hungry for his warmth when he steps back, turning around.

He didn’t grab his coat when he fled from the coffee shop, and had he bothered to, I would have missed the tension of his muscles coiling beneath his thin white T-shirt.

His head falls forward but his shoulders remain flexed.

A huff of warm air filters around him, and the sigh that escapes him is loud and exhausted.

I cross my arms, looking down at my shoes, feeling like I’m intruding on something private.

It feels too vulnerable to see someone out of character, and this moment he’s having is clearly against his will.

I wholeheartedly want to believe that that guy in there—the short-tempered, one-word response guy—was the real Noah.

Unfortunately, there’s a nagging feeling deep in my gut that tells me it was just a bad moment.

I’m also now aware that this likely has nothing to do with me, and damn, if I don’t feel like an idiot now.

He breathes in deeply only to breathe it back out before turning around to face me. His eyes search mine, for a reaction or for any clue that I might understand him—I’m not sure, but I hold his stare, unwavering.

“Please, Savvy.”

This close to him, I get a glimpse of the whispers of the five o’clock shadow along his usually smooth jawline.

I can see clearly now that it wasn’t a bored expression on his face back there.

He’s drained. He’s physically, and possibly even mentally, drained.

When I don’t say anything, he continues.

“I have a lot of shit going on right now, but you’re right. I shouldn’t have brought it in here today. Stay. Please?”

His words strike me in the deepest part of my core, reminding me of something my mom always used to say when I was in one of my foul moods.

He couldn’t possibly know that, though, and based on the way he’s regarding me right now—like I’m a rabid animal that’s either going to attack him or bolt—he doesn’t have any idea the impact his words have on me.

He's trying. I can see him struggling with something, and it would be insane to ask him to tell me, but I see it. Who am I to say that you have to check your baggage at the door? The number of times I’ve lashed out or been an asshole while working through my own issues could be studied at this point.

I drop my shoulders, tilting my head to look up at him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He exhales a breath, letting his eyes drop, and a smile so small that I almost miss it ghosts his lips. “Savannah Alvarez, are you offering to help me?”

“That does seem like something a friend would do, huh? ”

He guides his hand on the small of my back, opening the door and leading me back into the coffee shop. “I’m glad you’ve finally agreed.”

I roll my eyes, dropping my head back to look up at him. “Never mind. I take it back.”

“Nope. You put it out there.” He smiles. “No take backs now.”

“Down to our last three questions. Are you feeling sentimental about finishing our project?”

“I don’t think that’s the exact word I would use.”

“What would you call it then?”

I look over my shoulder, where Noah sits sprawled out next to me— his sweatpant-covered legs brushing against mine.

Not having an excuse to see him anymore should light me up inside, it should be a burden lifted from my shoulders, but instead, I feel…

My stomach soars at the heavy weight of his palm meeting the top of my thigh.

I don’t look down, but he does. His eyes are trained on where his hand now rests on my leg.

It feels like a movement meant to relax me, a simple ‘ hey I was just teasing,’ but it awakes all those fireflies that only live inside me at his touch.

“I’m going… umm—” I point towards the counter, stumbling over my thoughts. “Yogurt.” I shake my head, attempting to clear my thoughts. “I’m going to grab some yogurt. Do you want anything?”

He shakes his head, sinking back into the couch, biting the end of his pen around a smile. I almost fall over myself trying to get up.

I pinch the bridge of my nose while waiting in line. Just an hour ago, I was ready to shove this guy in front of a Zamboni, and now, here I am—sweating at the contact of his fingers over my leggings.

I order my food and when I get back to the couch, I do a double take at a sleeping Noah. I gently ease onto the couch beside him, careful not to wake him. Even in his sleep, he still looks tired.

Without thinking, I comb my fingers through his hair. A soft hum vibrates from his chest and I swallow, snatching my hand back and setting it in my lap.

Noah’s eyelashes flutter open as he slowly looks around. “Sorry about that,” he says, sitting upright and scooting closer to me.

“You’re fine,” I assure him, shaking my head and waving him off. I swallow and shift uncomfortably in my seat.

“What kind did you get?” His eyes point to my yogurt.

“S’mores, obviously.”

“Stupid question.”

I smile, stirring in the crushed graham crackers and chocolate. “How many hours do you spend practicing?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “A week? A little less than thirty.”

My jaw drops. That can’t be right. “Noah, that’s…” I shake my head, trying and failing to mentally do the math. Instead, I say, “Insane.”

“It’s not that bad. It’s about twenty in the NHL, not including games and travel time.”

“Yeah, because that’s your full-time job. You’re telling me you do thirty hours a week of practice plus all your schoolwork?”

I’ve spent the last two and a half years listening to my dad and Leo talk about how practices are going.

They tend to keep their hockey talk to themselves, in private texts and phone calls, but the occasional gripe about practice comes out.

That’s how I know university student athletes are limited to a maximum of twenty hours of work per week including games.

“I know my dad wouldn’t have you working over the limit.” It’s an inside thought that I say out loud.

Noah only smiles and pulls his knee up onto the couch, turning to face me. “You know what, I’m glad you brought that up.”

I roll my eyes, sucking in my cheeks to hide my smile.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” There’s no accusation in his tone, just genuine curiosity, but it feels too vulnerable to admit that I didn’t want to be a tool for him to use to get to my dad. I go with a version of the truth.

“I’ve found that people treat me differently when they know who he is.”

I look up and find Noah nodding his head in understanding.

It dawns on me that we might have more in common than I initially thought.

I’ve been used as a golden ticket to get to my dad, and even to get to my brother—in a much less creative way by his rivals.

Noah has been used for who he is. Everywhere we go, I see the way people fawn over him.

I’ll never admit it to him, but I can secretly acknowledge that once you’ve had a conversation with him—or been looked at like you’re the only person in the room by him—then sure, his appeal is warranted.

But these are people who just know who he is.

People that just want to be near him. They want to integrate themselves with him and his group, seemingly for his status alone.

We stare at each other in a mutual understanding. Even if he doesn’t understand me fully, I feel like I’m starting to see pieces of the real Noah, and I don’t know how to feel about the fact that I’m starting to like it.