Out of Play

I point my stick at Mitch. “I make no such promises to him.”

He honestly looks scared as hell, which is ridiculous. It’s not like I’m going to put her in skates just to knock her down. I shake my head like he’s being stupid, and he nods because he knows me well enough to catch my meaning—calm the hell down.

He backs up a few steps without a word before turning and heading to the locker room. Just as I finish showing Rebecca how to tighten the stiff laces, Mitch reappears fully geared up, showing me that he’s maybe not as chill as I want him to be. At least not yet.

His brows knit together as I skate away, leaving him with Rebecca, who’s still staring uncertainly at the skates on her feet.

After a few minutes of Rebecca stumbling and slipping on her own, Mitch’s arms are around her waist and he’s skating backwards. Fast. She’s just staring up at him with her girlie googlie eyes trusting that he’ll keep her safe. I guess that’s what Mitch wants. He couldn’t handle a girl who isn’t afraid to harass him. Mitch accepts who I am, but I feel like Bishop actually likes it. I didn’t realize there was even a difference before now. It makes the whole blond girl situation that much worse. Maybe I just suck at reading people.

Mitch lifts Rebecca up on the side where the team benches are and stands between her legs for a kiss. She runs her hands through his hair, keeping their faces together, and I might be all charitable and nice about some things, but I’m not that nice. I hold in a smile as I flip Mitch’s skate with my stick, almost sending him to the ice.

“What the hell, Pe

“I said I’d be nice to her, not you!”

And just as Mitch races my way to retaliate the way we all do with each other, Coach hits the ice.

Time for what’s probably going to be the best part of my day.

Rebecca’s smile splits her face as she climbs off the wall and onto the team bench. And I hate admitting this, but I’ve got to give the girl props for getting out on the ice.

I guess Mitch could do worse.

…

When I step upstairs into the kitchen, Mom and Gramps are watching some cheesy sitcom, and Gramps looks completely zoned. It makes me wonder how much of his meds he’s on today. I hate it when she does that—it seems like cheating. Like she drugs him up so she doesn’t have to worry, but it robs him of getting to be himself. I’d never do that unless I had to. I’d rather Gramps make ten steak and strawberry pies than watch reruns of Seinfeld all day while zombied in front of the TV.

“Hey, honey!” Mom smiles too wide and wanders to the table. “We got pizza. Is that okay?”

“Fine.” I pause at the table and want to ask why she’s home, but instead I just say, “Haven’t seen you in a while. Must be busy.”

“Yep. Been busy.” This is her way of agreeing with me without opening up for anything further.

I wanted her to say something more personal than business or schools or hockey so I can, because part of me is dying to talk to someone. Irritation sets me on edge.

I pull open the box and grab two slices, not really wanting to see my mom if the conditions are a drugged up Gramps, a closed-off Mom, and bad comedy reruns. “I’m sore. Going to jump in the hot tub.”

Her nod and smile feels forced, and I’m not sure when things got so weird. “Okay. Not too late.”

I have to bite my tongue to ask why she cares how late I’m in the tub because she isn’t here most nights. But I hold it in. Yep. Good deeds. I’m still on a roll. “Thanks for the pizza.”

I stack my two slices and run downstairs before Mom starts in on more questions. Maybe I do like her new schedule.

After quickly slipping into my suit, grabbing a soda, and jerking off the hot tub cover, I slip into the nearly scalding water. Better. Feels like I’m practically living in the hot tub these days, which is fine. The cold air bites at my face, but the steam from the tub keeps me from freezing. The stars tonight are incredible—tiny dots of light in a black sky. I keep hoping for the Northern Lights, but it’s probably not cold enough.

I close my eyes and try not to listen to the drumming coming from Bishop’s cabin. Try not to picture how in the zone he is when he’s playing. Try not to think about how cool it would be if he was playing for me. Or how the blonde feels about him playing for her. But then it stops. I try not to notice that either. My body floats, and I let it. Let my body hover in the center of the huge tub.

“Hey.” Bishop’s voice is close.

I don’t jump. Don’t move. Don’t open my eyes. I don’t want to do anything to show him how happy I am he’s here because I should be more pissed than relieved. But I’m not. “What do you want?”

“What are you so pissed about?” he asks.

“You want a list, or do you just want to thank me for not ratting you out to your babysitter?”

“He’s not my—” But then he stops.

“That’s what I thought.” I let the corner of my mouth pull up but still keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to look at his brown eyes. I don’t want to look at the guy whose lips were on mine, and who I turned away. I don’t think I have the guts to tell him about Mitch when it doesn’t matter anyway, because Bishop already has someone. “Where’s your girlfriend?” I even keep the snotty out of my voice and try to sound bored.

“She’s not at all my girlfriend.”

I finally sit up and open my eyes, try not to notice the very nice shape of him in the dim light of the porch, and raise a brow.

“Okay. I mean…,” He hangs his head for a second before his eyes find mine again. “Fuck, Pe

No way I’m letting him turn this back to me. “I’m not. I asked a very simple question.”

His face falls as our eyes stay focused on one another.

“I screwed up. I was pissed and lonely and I called her.”

Right. Now’s when I should tell him to leave. Instead, I close my eyes and once again relax deep into the tub, resting my head on the edge. If he wants to take this as a fuck-off, he can. If not, he can keep digging himself in a hole.

“I didn’t… We weren’t gone long. Practically just turned around and came back.”

Practically. I wonder what happened during that “practically.” I hate that the thought of it hurts, and I hate how happy I am that he’s out here talking to me because it’s dangerous to like someone this way. Mitch proved it. And Bishop proved it last night. “Whatever. It’s not like I have any claim on you or anything.”

He takes a deep breath. “You can.”

I can. I can have a claim on him? Does this mean that he wants me to? Is he trying to move forward again? I don’t move, but open my eyes. Damn, he’s not playing fair—looking vulnerable again. But I have too many questions to let it go. It shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t care.

“So, did you just hang out with her long enough to get laid?” I close my eyes and slump again, trying to seem disinterested when in reality, I’m holding my breath waiting for his answer.

It’s so silent he must be frozen. “I didn’t sleep with her, but she kissed me.”

“Did you want her to?” My heart’s banging in my chest, making his drums seem like kid toys. I should not be reacting like this.

“No. And she’s gone now. Back home. I mean, I only sort of kissed her back—”

“So, it doesn’t count or something?” I swear guys have an excuse for every stupid-ass thing they do.

He slides his fingers across his lip ring again. “Damn, I don’t know. Does it count?”

I let the silence hang between us for a moment. “Depends on how you felt about it, I guess.”

“I sent her home.” His voice is quiet. “I’m here next to you. That’s how I felt about it. Feel about it.”

Something in not just his words but his tone makes me feel like I should share something. “The night—” you kissed me, is what I almost say. “The night Gramps had a hard time, and all that. I was at the party, and I realized Mitch doesn’t and won’t like me the way I thought I liked him. It’s weird because things between us have been confusing for a long time, even though I thought I knew what I wanted from him. The other night with you… My head was a mess, and I ran.”