Page 41

Chapter 41

Olli

“Olli.” Nat’s voice is a whisper. Beside him, Syd slips an arm around Avery and guides him towards the wall of automatic doors. But Nat has eyes only for me. “What are you doing here?”

“I . . . got worried,” I murmur, feeling suddenly uncertain. My hand ruffles the back of my hair. “Something was wrong, and I wasn’t sure—”

I thought you might need me , but I don’t have the balls to say that.

“Olli.” Nat’s at my side in an instant. His arm wraps across my shoulders, pulling me in so my head crashes into his chest.

And I don’t know if it’s the abruptness of the gesture, or the way his familiar scents hit me—sweet spice and cigarettes and a hint of winter wind—but I find myself fighting the urge to cry.

Goddamn, I needed this.

I breathe him in like a drowning man who’s broken the surface. “Nat.”

“How do you always know when I need you?” His breath whispers against my cheek, and those words make me want to come apart at all my seams all at once. But I’m not here for me. I’m here for him.

Also, we’re in the middle of an urgent care.

“I got this Nat Taylor sixth sense freaky thing.” I don’t want to put any space between us, but I also would rather not draw more attention, so I slip back a few inches. “Not to be a creep.”

He laughs, a fragile, faded sound, one that might break my heart, if I let it.

“You all right, Mouse?” I hold out the pack of cigarettes in the narrow space between us. “Maybe let’s go outside?”

He huffs out that broken laugh again, then snatches up the cigarettes with one hand, takes my fingers in the other. And he leads me right out into the brutal, biting cold.

Snow whips our faces as we stroll the sidewalk alongside the building. I swear people in Day River don’t feel the cold, but I guess it’s a nice privacy screen between us and the rest of the world.

Nat stops walking, turns, and then his arms are around me again. “Now that you’re here, I think I might be okay.”

His warm breath whispers against my skin, like a caress against that frigid air. And somehow, that tangle of warmth and honest vulnerability makes me feel soft and safe, like a ship docking in a safe harbor from the tumultuous storm, like coming home.

I press my fingers into the firm muscles of his back to pull him closer, and he melts against me. “Tell me what happened.”

He sighs, and to my dismay, extracts himself from my arms to flip open the pack of cigarettes and slide a lighter from his pocket.

And while he lights up, he tells me the story of his afternoon. He reclines against the wall of the urgent care building, and I nestle in next to him, shoulder to shoulder, like we’re keeping each other upright. Or maybe we’re simply sharing warmth in this ungodly cold.

“Damn,” I murmur as he pauses to inhale, exhale. “And I’ve just been emo-crying on the floor of the rink.”

“Really?” He turns wide eyes on me. “You want to talk about it?”

I wince, sorry that I spoke, that I, once again, made it about me. “Not really. More of the same old stuff.”

“So, if you’re not gonna talk,” he flicks ash off the end of the cigarette, “then it’s on me to do all of the conversational heavy lifting.”

“Metaphorically and literally,” I agree. “Because you could definitely outlift me. ”

“Are you worried about the tournament?”

“We’re not talking about me,” I protest, giving him a nudge in his oversized biceps. “You’re the one having the absolute day from hell.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to have a shit day too. And honestly . . .” A pause for a drag. “You’ve got more than enough reason.”

I let my eyes flutter closed. “Sure. I guess. I don’t know.”

A beat of silence. Two.

And then, he asks, “Want to know something about me?”

My eyes pop open. Our breaths are twin clouds of warmth in the cold. And without realizing I’m gonna do it, I shift closer to nestle myself under his arm. “Tell me anything. Everything. I am here to listen.”

His fingers weave over my shoulder blade, tracing featherlight patterns through my jacket, sending a wave of soft heat through my skin. “When I was in high school, I played for the school team.”

I close my eyes, let his words wash over me. Let his low, chocolate-smooth voice soothe me. And I listen.

“Most people took one look at me and thought, well that loser kid’s going nowhere. Because they compared me to—” He cuts off sharply. Like he’s choked on his own words.

“Compared you to Jesse,” I supply.

“Jesse. And my dad. Rey Taylor.” He pulls on the cigarette, blows out a slow, quiet exhale. “Obviously, I wasn’t as good as either of them, so who cared?”

“Damn.” I open my eyes to peer into the clouded green crystal of his. Out of focus. “That’s pretty heavy for a kid.”

“Yeah.” His voice is a murmur against my cheek. “But I was gonna prove them all wrong. I wanted it. I wanted it so fucking bad . . .”

I nod, and sadness clutches at my lungs. “I know what that feels like.”

“I know you do.” His arm tightens around me. “But I never really believed in myself.”

“Hard to believe in yourself when no one else does, right?” I ask, words barely a whisper. “Especially when you’re seventeen.”

“But it had to be my destiny, because what else was there? ”

A vise squeezes my lungs in an icy grip, choking my breath. I know that feeling too. To want something so badly you’d break for it. Over and over and over until you can’t unbreak.

“And when you’re a stupid seventeen-year-old kid,” he says, “the universe isn’t afraid to come smack you down. Tell you that everything you thought you were or were meant to be was wrong.”

Those words resonate so deeply, I feel it viscerally, in my gut and in my bones. They hang between us, like the clouded ghosts of breath in the icy air.

“And what”—I choke out finally, so low I barely hear myself—“are you supposed to live for if your dreams are a lie?”

“Exactly,” he breathes. An escaped beam of light streaks through clouds and snow to cut a sharp curve through the green of his iris, the black of his pupil. “I got so lucky Syd came along."

“So what was your smackdown, then?” I ask.

“Myself. My own stupidity.” He holds out the hand with the cigarette, and we both stare at his bruised knuckles. “I fucked up. Coach kicked me off. And it was like . . . Like how could I have been the one to destroy my own purpose?”

“That’s exactly what the darkness feels like,” I murmur, still staring, transfixed, at those tattooed fingers as they lift again. “How do you fight yourself? Your own shortcomings?”

“Right,” he says, and his voice goes so soft I almost miss the next collection of words. “But I don’t think your darkness is a shortcoming.”

“Ha. Right.” But why does my stomach feel fizzy? “You know that I’m the one who’s here to say nice things, right?”

“I’m not hearing that many nice things?” He tilts his head, one brow lifted.

“Jerk.” I catch his cheek against my palm and pull him close, so our foreheads touch. “Just when I thought you were being nice.”

“What about me has ever suggested anything nice?” The faintest hint of a smirk turns the corner of his mouth upwards .

That does something to my insides that I can’t decide if I love or hate. So I let my fingers slip from his cheek and my gaze turn out into the pattering snow. Invisible fingers clench my ribs in sudden tightness.

My eyes feel way too wet and I’m blinking way too hard and what is happening here? “I didn’t mean it. I think you’re nice. Well, sorta nice. Well, I like you, and I guess maybe that doesn’t mean anything, but like . . . I’m sort of a nice guy and you’re sort of a nice guy.”

He groans. “You’re making it worse.”

“My specialty.”

We stand there, tilted against the wall, in the snow, holding each other. Breathing in sync, hearts beating in sync. The faded afternoon light filtering through the snow in fits and starts grows greyer as the sun drops beneath the ragged skyline.

I’ve almost forgotten what we were talking about when he speaks again. “You want to know the worst part?”

“What’s that?” My words dodge snowflakes on a bitter breeze.

“It was entirely preventable.” His words slide out slowly, like children tiptoeing through a sleeping house, afraid to disturb even a mote of dust. “The fight. Getting kicked off the team.”

I tighten my arm around his ribs, letting him know I’m still here, not going anywhere.

“I was completely fucked up,” he says. “I knew it was going to be a big game—biggest of my career. Scouts, agents . . . everybody . . .” He trails off. “Couldn’t tell you why I did it, except that I’d been slipping for months. Just like everyone expected me to.”

“Maybe it was easier,” I murmur. “To just give up and be what everybody expects you to be. What you expect you to be. Rather than always trying to fight it.”

A sad little huff of laughter escapes. “How do you always understand me so well?”

“I’m telling you. Nat Taylor sixth sense—”

“No, see it is creepy—”

“Shut up.” I smack my open palm across his chest. “Finish the story.”

“Which is it? Do I shut up or finish the story?” His brows arch in twin peaks of innocence.

Why is that so freaking adorable? God, Olls, get it together. “Finish the story.”

His brows relax into sobriety, and the lines of his face harden. I almost regret making him finish, except that I want to know. And I know he needs to talk.

“I cracked. And now . . .” He shakes his head, dislodging snowflakes. “I can’t reopen that dream and all those possibilities—for good and bad. I can’t break like that again. I can't lose faith in myself like that again.”

“That’s why you don’t want to do the tournament,” I realize. “Because you’ve stopped believing that you belong on the ice.”

His green eyes glow. “Is that how you feel on the dark days?”

My lungs shudder on an in breath. Release it. Struggle to pull in another, and I realize it’s because my throat’s too tight, an almost panicky choke tugging my chest closed, turning my breath ragged.

“It’s how I feel on most days. But the dark days, I can’t talk myself out of believing it. On dark days, that’s my truth, and it consumes me.”

Nat’s arm tightens around me. Pulls me flush against him so there’s no space between us, so we could be one person, one being, sharing a body as much as a soul. And he holds me. Holds me together, just like I’m holding him.

“This isn’t forever,” he murmurs against my hair. “This thing you’re feeling right now. It won’t last.”

“Maybe not,” I concede against the soft skin of his throat. “But it’s a cycle—and I’m afraid that’s forever.”

“But aren’t all cycles?” he asks. “Day and night, tides, winter and spring. Life is a cycle, and sometimes the only way we get through the bad is knowing that it cannot last forever and good has to come too.”

I choke on my own tears. Can’t speak through them.

He presses his forehead against mine. Whispers a soft request against my mouth. “On days when you see only darkness, let me be your light. Can I do that for you? ”

Snow kisses our cheeks in pinpricks of cold.

“No.” The word pops out of my mouth with surprising vehemence.

“Why not?” His dark brows furrow. “It’s okay to ask for help, you know that, right?”

Something that might be fear flits along the underside of my ribcage, wraps cold fingers around my stomach. “I don’t need help.”

I don’t need people—because needing people is such a dangerous game. To emotionally attach yourself to someone . . . to put your already fragile feelings in someone else’s hands . . . No.

“Asking for help isn’t a bad thing,” Nat continues, those green eyes so bright, so earnest. “God knows I’ve taken enough help from people with raising Syd.”

I shake my head, pull my eyes closed against the green gaze. “It’s different . . . emotionally needing someone.”

“Is it, though? I needed Brenda, and God knows I needed Syd.”

My eyes fly open. “Do you know how dangerous it is to need someone who doesn’t need you back?”

We stare at each other, me and him. Green eyes to brown.

“Who says I don’t need you?” he whispers, and he doesn't blink. “Isn’t that why you’re here now—because you knew I needed you?”

“I . . .” I let the thought trail off. I’m starting to lose sensation in my fingers, and probably my toes, but I’m not about to admit my vulnerability to the cold in front of a Day Riverean. “I’m here because I couldn’t be there when I didn’t know if you were okay.”

“And I wasn’t.” Nat tilts his head back towards the sky, so the white flakes shatter against his tanned skin. “I haven't been okay for a long time. My life was hollow until you showed up. You made me stop and breathe and appreciate each moment. How many times have you helped me with Avery and Syd? You pulled me out of a fight. You made me think that this team might actually make it—that I might actually have a place in the hockey world.”

I’m breathing too hard again, and doing that fast-blink thing like I’m gonna cry .

“I need you, Olli James. I really fucking need you. And I’m asking you to let yourself need me back. Just a little.”

“Damn.” The word tumbles out of my lips. “You sure you’re not a poet, Mouse?”

He laughs, a soft, faded sound. “I’m serious. I need you—and the team needs you too.”

“Right.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” His arm tightens around me, and damn if I don’t melt like an overheated stick of butter. “You belong at the rink.”

“So do you.” And then, I take a gamble. “When was the last time you checked your phone? I bet at least five people have texted you wondering where you are.”

He cocks an eyebrow in that unfairly sexy way he has. “I’m sure more people have texted you.”

“Bet.” But it’s with my heart lodged in my throat that I light up the screen—and nearly fall over. “Forty-seven unread messages.”

“Good fuck.” Nat looks up from the screen of his own phone. “Well, you definitely win.”

“Right.” My eyes flit down row after row of notifications.

Olli? Where are you?

You okay?

Please text me back and let me know you’re okay

We’re starting to worry about you, Cap

Cap.

Not even Captain . Already we’re on nickname terms—Cap. Why does that make me feel choky and weird all over again?

“They all believe in you,” Nat says, and I feel him watching me. “They all believe in you as a captain, as a teammate, and as a part of the whole. That’s the thing about a team—none of us is perfect. We fill in each other’s gaps.”

“Crap, Mouse, you’re making me all teary again.”

He laughs softly .

“So, how many for you?” I slide my phone back into my pocket without marking any of the messages as read. Maybe I’m a loser dweeb, but I kinda want to bask in the glory of this many people caring about me.

“Twenty-three.”

I laugh. “Oh, the glorious irony.”

“I think it’s a sign,” he says. “That we both should go to the rink.”

I pull in a shaky breath, meet his gaze once more. “You gonna skate, Mouse?”

“I’m gonna do even more than that.” His mouth pulls into a somber, sad smile. He blows out a long, slow breath, like he’s bracing himself to say whatever he’s about to say. Oh boy. “I’m skating for Avery.”

“But . . .” I startle right off the wall. “But then how could you be Forty-Seven?”

“I wouldn’t.” He shrugs. “I don’t want to try out for the Dingoes, Olli. When I say that part of my life is over, I mean it. It was my dream once, but my life’s so different now. I’m different now. It’s not my dream anymore.”

I stare at him, like I’ve basically been doing since I got here, while the words sink in. “You’re kinda brilliant.”

He grins. “I kinda am, right? The beauty of masks.”

“Except . . .” I blow out a long, long breath. “Are you really sure about that? You don’t think it’s time you stopped wearing a mask? Go out and show the world how good Number Forty-Seven is?”

“Maybe it’s time you stopped wearing a mask,” he murmurs, and for some reason, those words hit me.

He’s right. “Damn.”

“What?”

“Damn.” I lean my head back against the wall. “I’m gonna do something crazy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m going to the rink tonight to talk to the team. And . . . Actually, there is something you can do for me. ”

“Anything.”

“Make sure Syd is there too. Filming.” I lean out around him to stare at the parking lot. “Also, we’re gonna have to drive fast.”