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The buzz of the drink I chugged before we left is really starting to kick in, giving me more courage than I usually have. Which leads me to pressing her contact on my FaceTime call log.
It rings once, and I wonder if I should have texted her first.
Second ring.
Third ring.
I’m starting to regret calling when she answers.
It’s pitch-black, and her voice is a raspy whisper when she says, “Hello?”
Shit. I woke her up.
“Hey. Are you sleeping? Go back to sleep. We’ll talk later,” I softly tell her.
A soft light floods the room as she turns on her lamp on her nightstand. She squints as she looks into the camera, completely bare-faced with her hair in disarray. With certainty, she is the most beautiful girl I have ever met.
“Is everything okay, Cam?” she asks with concern etched in her voice.
Nodding, I assure her, “Everything’s fine, baby. Go back to sleep. Call me tomorrow.”
She yawns and asks, “Do you need to go?”
That’s when I notice the rapid rise and fall of her chest and the sliver of fear in her sleepy stare.
“Not at all.”
She rolls onto her side, and I struggle not to look at her breasts that are now pressed against the thin layer of her tank top. Sometimes, when I’m around her, I feel fifteen again. Like I have no self-control and am seeing a woman’s body for the first time.
“I was having a nightmare actually. You called at the perfect time. How was the game?” she asks as her eyes still struggle to stay open.
“It was good—really good actually,” I tell her. “What was your nightmare about?”
“The usual,” she sighs.
“Still don’t want to tell me his name?” I ask, trying to hide the desperation in my voice.
“I don’t ever plan on it.” She closes her eyes. “In my dream, I had just gotten home after getting my hair done. He didn’t approve of it and made sure I would never color it like that again. He chased me with a knife and cut all of it off with the blade and then stabbed me in the stomach. It felt so real. Then, I woke up when you called.”
“I’m glad I did. I’m a hero.” I smile at her before genuinely asking her, “Are you okay?”
She shrugs. “It was just a bad dream.”
“That doesn’t mean that you’re okay.”
“I’m a little shaken up, but I’ll be fine. I hate that about you, you know?” She rolls her eyes.
Laughing, I ask her, “What do you hate?”
She groans. “That you can read me. That you can see me so damn clearly. It’s aggravating.”
I can’t help but see her. She’s a beacon of light. I knew it the day I saw her. I was instantly drawn to her and not just because of the attraction I felt toward her. She gets my pain and my past without needing me to explain what it feels like. She already knows. I don’t have to put on some front with her or wear a mask. We seem to strip each other of those layers and be true to ourselves, the good and bad.
“You’re aggravating,” I say, teasing her. “I disagree though. I think it is the furthest from aggravation. No one ever sees me, not in the way you so easily do. They see Cam Costello, a starting forward for the New York Nighthawks, someone invincible. Which is true. I am bulletproof, by the way.”
She giggles, and my heart jumps.
“Talking with you has been all I look forward to outside of hockey lately.”
