“I heard. Jonah was happy. He’ll be occupied while Alexio is in terrible mood for the rest of the season,” I said on the edge of a sigh.
Micah snorted. “So glad I don’t have to deal with his shit attitude this season.” He went quiet for a moment, then rolled a little further into my arms. “I, ah—I think…”
I stayed silent. I could tell he was fighting with the words he wanted to say.
“You think I play good hockey, right?”
I frowned. “Yes. Play best hockey. So good goalie. Better than me.”
“Different than you.” He always said that. “It was just hockey, right? I mean, I know all of us are, like, weirdly sexually attracted to competence and gameplay. But it was more than that, right? That made you fall for me?”
“You want list?”
“It couldn’t hurt to hear.”
Grinning, I picked up his hand and brought his fingers to my mouth so he knew I was smiling at him. “Okay. Here is list. First—amazing at air hockey. And top-tier chirps. Make amazing soup, especially when I’m having bad day.”
“Vanya—”
“Quiet. I’m making list. Okay, so there is…how you are very organized. Which I know, I know, you must. But it help me be less of a pig slob.”
“That’s…okay. Sure.” He was laughing now, and it almost felt better than holding the fucking cup.
“You have most pretty eyelashes. I am obsessed.” I ran my thumb over them, and he sighed quietly, leaning into the touch. “And such pretty freckles.”
“Do you have any?” he asked, bringing his fingers to my cheek.
I let him explore, though the few small moles that could be considered freckles weren’t something he’d be able to feel. “Not really. Not really run in my family, you know?”
“Russian?”
“And Pakistani. My mama from there.”
Micah froze. “Right, right. Why did I forget this?”
“You under so much stress,” I murmured quietly. “And is not something I talk about too much. She pass when I was just little.”
He twisted in my arms and let his fingers brush my jaw. “If I could see, would I have known?”
I knew what he was asking, so I pressed his palm to my cheek and shook my head. “Most people don’t see it. Maybe sometimes. I look like my father mostly. I have my ammi’s dark hair, dark eyes. But am very Russian. At least, is what most people say. I wasn’t trying to keep secret.”
“No,” he breathed out. “That’s not what I was thinking.” He settled back down against me. “Sorry, I’m in my head a bit right now.”
“Is okay. Whatever you need?—”
“I’m quitting hockey,” he blurted.
I froze. I had expected him to say many, many things. That was not one of them. I took a moment to process, and things started to make sense. The way he’d been feeling, the way he’d asked me if it was more than hockey.
“Because of Hunter?”
“There’s a lot of reasons,” he said after a small pause. “Hockey was an escape for a long time. I never thought…” He trailed off for a moment. “I didn’t expect it to consume my whole life. I just wanted to be independent from my mother. I grew up shit scared that I would try and fail to be taken seriously in any job I went for and would end up back under the heel of her fucking boot.”
I held him a little tighter. The pain in his voice was so raw.
“I used to have nightmares that I was in her house and she was forcing me to do video after video, and every time I’d try to run away, she’d steal my cane or chop off my legs or tie me to the bed.” He let out a shaking breath. “Ridiculous, I know, but?—”
“No. It isn’t.”
