Page 20

Chapter 20

Olli

The first win in God knows how long means big-time celebration. And Everton’s house must be reserved for the misery partying, because we’re doing this in style.

Which to the Dingoes means closing down Michelangelo’s so you can get crunk and be as obnoxious as you want without any civilians getting in the way.

These are the kinds of parties I like—the ones where I walk into a chill, thrill, totally ill scene of laughter, music, and good friends.

Small space: check.

Michelangelo’s, as previously noted, is a cozy local watering hole a few blocks from downtown. Not dark like one of those chic clubs that doesn’t want you to know what you’re drinking, not bright like a restaurant.

No strangers: check.

It’s just me and my team, clustered at the counter and around the tables. Everton and Skyler have started some kind of plastic-cup drinking game. The third line and part of the defense cram into a table, cards clenched in their grubby fists. Dev and Charlie hunch over a literal chessboard in the corner.

I grin. Nerds.

Good music: check .

Soft classic rock filters from the speakers, ushering in a night of Journey and Led Zep with a nice side of Dio to keep things bopping.

So damn chill.

Oh, and hot guy? Double-triple-quadruple check.

Nat Taylor walks into the bar at my side. That’s a new one, eh—Olli arriving with the hottie? I mean, it’s not like he’s with me with me, but still—

“James!”

“Ol!”

I’m barely inside the bar before I get swarmed. A heavy arm slings around my shoulders.

“Yo, superstarrrrr.” Everton’s already a few drinks into his night. “You see how many fans were in them stands? We celebratin’ tonight!”

“Oh, c’mon, man,” I say, but I’m grinning. I’m not above doing a few shots, especially in actual celebration.

So when Charlie ambles over to shove a shot glass into my hand, I lift said glass towards the middle of the crowd gathered around me. “Cheers, boys.”

“Cheers!” they whoop back, lifting an array of glasses and bottles towards mine. As one, we tilt our heads and drink. As I lower my glass, I realize Nat isn’t part of our group.

My eyes stray towards the bar—there he is. All by himself, at the very end of the counter. He leans over it, a few stray locks of dark hair escaped from his backwards ball cap to frame his temple, as he and the middle-aged bartender chat.

Damn, he’s more of a wallflower than I am.

“Eh, don’t worry about him.” Charlie nudges my arm, trying to redirect my gaze. “He’s become a homebody.”

Homebody, I can’t help but wonder, or worrying about his kids?

But then I’m engulfed again, and there’s another shot glass in my hand and more cheering. Cards flutter across the closest table, and half the guys want me to play cards and half want me to play stupid-red-cups something or other, and Charlie asks if I’m any good at chess, and I swear I’ve never been so popular.

“You’re all gonna give me a big ego,” I warn, trading my shot glass for a beer bottle. “I ain’t this fun, I promise.”

“You’re the new Cap!” Everton calls, and my stomach flips over in a combination of pleasure and . . . what? Dread? Guilt? Why do I feel like that?

“Who’s down for some cards?” Skyler calls.

“Nah, man, cups!” Everton rebuts.

“Both,” I say. “But I’m gonna go talk to Taylor first. Can’t have that antisocial attitude in my room, ya know?”

A wave of somber nods follows me out of the cluster and across the bar. Nat doesn’t turn as I slide onto the stool beside him, but I know he knows it’s me.

Don’t ask how.

“So, Mouse. Do you approve of the classic rock?” I ask. “Or you think we can get some real music in here?”

He sets his phone down, the screen still illuminated so I catch the name Sydney at the top of the opened text thread. He legitimately is texting his daughter while everyone else is celebrating.

Makes my chest feel too tight. Why?

His gaze tilts sideways towards me. “Hey, Aspen.”

“Damn, you heard that, eh?” I half laugh, half wince. “My mom’s corny-ass nickname.”

“I think it’s cute.” His mouth twists in a wry smile. “Fitting, with your woodsy nature hippie vibe.”

I snort. “Woodsy nature hippie. Totally me.”

“Totally.”

“So . . . the music?” I nudge my elbow against his. “You cool with the classic or you want something a little more fun?”

“You playing DJ now?” He turns towards me, and as always, the brunt of his full attention is intense , like a physical touch. And yet it makes me feel weightless, fizzy, free. Not the booze talking either. Two shots and a sip of beer ain’t enough for that. Not when you’re six-two with a pro-athlete frame.

“Playing DJ is my favorite role at the party,” I admit.

“For real?”

“Of course.” I tap my bottle to his glass. “Introvert, remember? You wanna be the coolest guy at the party and partake in no conversation, you play DJ.”

“Fair.” He chews his lip in amusement or thought. “Except most parties don’t appreciate a full-metal playlist.”

“I have to make concessions, yeah.” I grin, lean over the bar to call out to the bartender. “I’ll give you ten bucks to plug my phone into your speaker?”

“Make it twenty, and you got it.” He holds out his hand, and I fork over a twenty and my cell, Party Playlist all queued up and ready to go.

He peaces out. I slide an elbow onto the bar to angle my body towards Nat. I might not be buzzing yet, but the booze is at least making me feel looser, less inhibited. Not that I feel inhibited around him. Not that I ever struggle to find the right words with him.

At a bar, in the locker room, on the ice . . . my words just flow. “So, are you in a band?”

“A band?” His brows arch in a perfect curve of disbelief. “Nah. Never had time for that shit, even in high school.”

“What do you do with the music you write, then?” I swig my beer like the super-cool cat that I am, slide it back onto the bartop. Again, so cool. “Sing it in the shower?”

“Well, yeah. I guess I do that.”

Hot.

Okay, quick. Pivot, Olls. “Do you ever play your guitar at parties?”

“Hell no.” He laughs, all the tension and sadness and anger compiled across his features dissolving with that one sound, with the tilt of his head, the flash of his white teeth. “Nope. I got yelled at the one and only time I tried to do that. ”

“What?!” I set my bottle down a little too hard. “People don’t wanna hear you play?”

“People don’t want to hear what I want to play.”

“Well, I would.” Is it awkward that I just said that? Maybe. I drain the rest of my beer, then flutter my lashes over the rim of the bottle. “I think emo-bois are hot.”

He laughs. Again. My internal organs rearrange themselves in a happy jitterbug kinda dance.

“Is that so? Emo-boi is your type?”

As if on cue, the music cuts out suddenly and my playlist takes over. Fort Minor’s “Remember the Name” starts banging out of the speakers.

I shrug. “I don’t really have a type . I’m demi, right, so I am more attracted to how I feel about a person, or how they make me feel, than I am to physical aspects . . . and now I’m talking way too much, sorry, sorry , sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His eyes are sparking green flames in the dim light of the bar. “But that would explain why you like emo-bois. Because music makes you feel.”

How can I lay a truth on him like that, and he just takes it in stride? Like when he showed up to the game with masks ready to deploy?

How does he get me like this?

The words stick in my throat. And in the background, my boppin’, bangin’ playlist hops on over to Krewella, “Live for the Night.”

“Damn,” Nat murmurs. “Syd loves this song.”

Damn, that’s adorable.

“Are you worrying about her?” Oh look at me, just killing the mood, ’cause hi, I’m Olli James, mood-killer. “Is that why you’re over here by yourself? Or are you feeling like you don’t belong?”

His green eyes go wide with surprise, and I’m pretty sure I’ve overstepped and I’m about to get a big ol’ metaphorical wall shoved up between me and him. No more laughter, no more music heart-to-hearts, no someday getting to ask about his tattoos.

Instead he says, “Little of both, I guess. ”

I tilt my head, considering. “Why do you worry about her? She seems like a good kid. Is it because of Avery?”

“Yeah.” He sighs.

“He’s trouble?”

He spins his whiskey glass against the tabletop. “He’s me when I was his age. And that scares the shit out of me for Syd.”

“Oh. Um.” I wince. “Yeah, I get that. So . . . tell me if I’m out of line here, but where is Syd’s mom?”

Nat wraps his fingers around his glass, but his voice is calm. “She left town when Syd was about a week old. Never heard from her again.”

I stare, my mouth hanging. “Damn. Poor Syd.”

Poor Nat . That’s . . . well, that’s a life-changer.

“Yeah. And no.” Nat simply shrugs, like he’s made peace with it. “Sam was a wanderer. I honestly spent most of our relationship waiting for her to vanish. Almost a relief when she left before Syd got a chance to fall in love with her.”

“One way to look at it . . .” But the way he says it, raw and rough like that, makes me remember that he’s got a stepmom—Brenda. “Is that what happened with your mom?”

His eyes go round as saucers as they snap up from his glass. “How do you fucking do that?”

“Do what?”

“Know shit like that.”

“The Olli special.” I grin, hoping it doesn’t look sad and wavery, ’cause his words make my stomach go all somersaulty again. “So, I’m right?”

“Yeah, actually. I was seven.” His fingers trail paths through the condensation on his icy glass. “Just woke up one day and she was gone.”

“Damn. That's heavy.”

“Is what it is.” He sips at the whiskey, and I think maybe he’s shutting me out, closing the door on our conversation, when he says, “So, what about your family? ”

For some reason, when his green eyes turn on me, it makes my stomach flippy and bubbly all over again.

But I force myself to speak calmly. “Just me and my mom. Never knew my dad, don’t even know if he knows I exist.”

Nat’s brows lift. “Fuck.”

“It is what it is.” I tilt a shoulder in a shrug. “I mean, yeah. You, me, and Syd are always gonna be kids with questions. But my mom is a pretty cool cat. She’s this total artsy-fartsy hippie type who doesn’t need a man or a razor, you know?”

Nat laughs. “Explains some things.”

“Right.” I grin back. “No idea what the hell made her put me in hockey, but it was probably obvious I was never gonna sit still long enough to be an artist. Little ADHD kid bouncing off the walls while you’re trying to create is no bueno.”

“I don’t blame her,” Nat says. “I bet you were a very, very nice kid, but also exhausting.”

“See!” I snap my fingers, point at him. “It’s not just me. You do it too. It’s some kind of a weird us thing.”

“A what?” The mirth wipes clear of his face so suddenly, I go into immediate hyper review mode, trying to figure out what I’ve done wrong. Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” seems suddenly very loud in the background.

“I just meant—” Crap, I’m fumbling. “we read each other well, you know? Like on the ice?”

“I see.” His fingers whiten around his whiskey glass. He slugs the rest down in one shot, slams the empty back on the counter.

Suddenly he’s standing. Sliding out from behind the bar. Walking.

Away from me, towards the door, and I’m scrambling after him without realizing I’ve made the executive and probably very stupid decision to follow.

And in an even larger and more profound bout of stupid, I keep talking .

“I didn’t mean anything, okay?” I hurry after him. Through the door, out into the deserted hallway between the bar and the dining area. “I get that what happened at the bar is probably weird for you, and I know I joke inappropriately and I should really stop pretending to come on to you and all the other dumb stuff I do, but—”

He stops walking.

Whirls around.

Takes one step towards me, freezing me in my tracks. Another prowling, predatory step—

His mouth crushes to mine.

Effectively shutting me up because my brain just goes off. Silent. Words gone, thoughts gone. Everything gone except—

His mouth.

Is on mine.

Does anything else matter?

I melt against him. Thoughts forgotten, surroundings forgotten. My mouth opens of its own accord, accepting the kiss, kissing him back, and only then does he reach out to tangle fingers into my hair.

His tongue slides between my lips, so I taste him—whiskey, the faded tang of cigarettes, the faint memory of minty toothpaste. So I feel him—softness, warmth, hunger. So I hear his low moan in my very skin, in my bones, in my blood.

My fingers trail along his waist.

He pulls back. Panting, chest heaving, eyes still angled down towards my lips, lidding that intense green gaze so I can’t read it, can’t read anything about him. Neutral, all of him neutral, like he’s put up a careful mask for the sole purpose of keeping me back.

“Nat?” I murmur. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“No,” he says. “You’re the problem.”

“Why?”

One more kiss. Slow. Soft. Tender. No tongue, just a quiet press of lips to lips, and then he pulls back. “Because I can’t stop wanting to do that. ”

And then he’s really pulling back, pulling away, his fingers sliding through my hair as he turns. Walks.

And I let him go. I let him walk away even though I still feel the warmth of his soft mouth, the demand of his tongue. Still taste mint in my mouth. I’m too shocked, too speechless, to protest or run after him.

I’m too awed to move.

Takes me a few minutes to gather my courage and follow him out to the parking lot. He leans against the side of a black Lexus, a lit cigarette in his fingers.

Should I say something? Be the bigger man? Tell him it’s okay, we can pretend nothing happened, or maybe if he wants to try again, I’m willing, or maybe that he needs to stop messing around with me because sooner or later it’s gonna start screwing with my head—

His head snaps towards me. “Olli.”

“Hey, Mouse.” I step out into the frigid night. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“Dunno why I am.” Nat ruffles the curls poking from beneath his backwards cap. “I just . . . I should apologize. For um . . .”

“Kissing me?” I lean against the car beside him, tilt my gaze up so he can see that I’m kidding. “Again?”

He still winces, despite the lightness of my tone, my teasing half-smile. His gaze drops to the cigarette smoldering in his fingers. “Yeah. That. I know it’s . . . not nice. Or fair. Misleading? Or um—”

“I’ve kissed people before with no expectations,” I assure him. I cross my arms over my chest, half against the cold, half just to have something to do with them. “I’m not like a little innocent virgin or anything.”

He looks off into the night, his gaze unfocused. “Yeah, but still. I get the feeling you’re not really, um . . . ”

“Into random hookups?” I ask, and the twisted dynamic here—him awkward, me actually not—has me fighting not to smile despite the seriousness. “No, actually, I’m not. Being demi, well. You know. I don’t have sex with people unless I like them.”

“Oh.” Uncertainty reduces the burning intensity of his green gaze to shrouded embers. “So that makes it even worse, that I’m . . . fucking around with you.”

Oh, he’s so awkward. Why do I find it . . . endearing? “Nah, it’s all good. Trust me, Mouse, you’re not the first confused guy who’s tried to kiss me.”

Those beautiful black brows shoot up into his mussed hairline. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” I grin. “You’d be amazed how many boys who think they’re straight get a look at me and change their mind.”

“You’re fucking with me now,” he groans, but some of the tension unweaves from his taut shoulders, allowing him to sink back against the car.

“Maybe a little,” I admit, studying the broad lines of his body, those big shoulders beneath the leather jacket, those square hands limp against his thighs. “But okay, here’s the thing. I . . .”

Shoot, am I about to tell him things I shouldn’t? Like, I should not tell him I have a crush on him, right? That would be bad news bears. Walk it back, Ol. Walk. It. Back.

I start again. “You’re a cool guy. We got this kinda fun back and forth, right? Like we get along, flirt, got this repartee thing going. So . . . I get it.”

He stares at me, his brows still arched, but doesn’t interrupt. Lets me say the things I need to say.

“So I guess, um.” My fingers fidget against my thighs, and my tongue and brain fight for control of my words. “If you need help figuring things out . . . I’m down to experiment. And if not, totally cool too. But I’d also like to throw into the mix . . . ”

I sigh. I don’t want to say this next bit, but I’m a big mature adult, so I do it anyway. “Both times you’ve been drinking, so maybe it’s just—”

“But it’s not just when I’m drinking.” Nat lifts the cigarette, maybe to give himself a pause to think. “I um . . . think about . . . you know . . . when I’m not . . .”

The meaning of the words strikes me. He thinks about me when we’re not flirting or messing around? He thinks about . . . kissing me? More?

“I meant what I said before,” I say, which maybe I shouldn’t because do I mean it? Am I really down for experimentation? What if he decides he’s not into this, into me? What if . . . “But it’s totally your choice, your call. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“But do you want to know what else I think?”

His gaze lowers from the blackened sky. Green, intense, burning again. “What?”

“I think you’re going through some stuff right now. Questioning a lot of things in your life. And I think sometimes when you’re going through things, the brain . . . looks for distractions, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” His hands scrape down over his thighs. “I considered that.”

“So maybe we just gotta take it slow.” The words pain me, but I know they’re the right ones. “One day, one thing, at a time. Yeah?”

He nods, solemn, as he stubs the cigarette out. Aims the burned-out butt at a trash can. “Yeah, okay.”

“Anyway, I’ve had enough of being an emo wallflower boy for the night.” I flash him a smile. “Time for me to be my true boring self. And for you to go get Syd.”

“Drop-in tomorrow,” he says, an uncertain, quiet smile creeping across his face.

“Right.” And I decide, right then and there, that that’s my favorite of his smiles. “So let’s get some sleep.”