I didn't text Nathan.
I almost did, three times, and stopped myself all three times.
Instead I lay there thinking about Dylan.
Then fucking do it for once.
Lying there in the dark with nothing to distract me from myself, I was starting to understand that wanting to be better didn't mean anything.
Doing it did.
16
The next two weeks I thought aboutthen fucking do it for onceapproximately eleven hundred times.
Then we beat the Sentinels 4-2.
The Morr Roar came down from the upper bowl three separate times, which was either a record or close to one. By the time we hit Broderick's, the whole team was running on the electricity of a game that had gone exactly right.
I was supposed to be celebrating. I was, technically. I had a drink, of water, but it kind of looked like vodka, and a table, and Dylan, which was more than most nights.
Cross was near the wall.
He'd positioned himself where he could see the room, drink in hand, back to the corner, and he was wearing—I clocked this without meaning to—dark trousers, a pale gray button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Practical. Nothing flashy.
The thing about Nathan Cross was that he was objectively good-looking in a way that didn't require any effort from him. Black hair. Pale skin. Blue eyes that you could see from across a room. A jaw that had apparently been engineered specifically to make people think about it.
I knew all this. I’dknownall this.
What was new was that, from what I could tell, he was also slightly drunk.
The edges of him were softer than usual. The precise internal management had slipped a notch, just one, just enough. He was still Nathan Cross—still still, still contained—but tonight he seemed more like a man who had temporarily stopped holding something very heavy and wasn't sure what to do with his hands.
"You've been staring at doc for twenty minutes," Dylan said.
"And you’ve been babysitting me for just as long."
Dylan snorted. “Longer.”
Then Dylan set his beer down like he had something to say and was deciding how to say it.
"You haven't touched your drink,” he said.
I picked up my drink. “It’s water.”
Dylan let that sit for a second. "Did you know Cross used to work for the Portland Ravens?"
I turned. "What?"
"Before he came to us." Dylan had his elbows on the table, turned slightly toward me. "Three, four years back. I was still in juniors but I heard it from Voss, who heard it from someone on the Ravens staff."
"What happened?"
"Player got hurt," Dylan said. "Career ending.” He paused. "From what I heard it wasn't Cross's fault. Surgery went fine, recovery went wrong. But Cross took it hard. Left after the season."
"Who was the player?"
"Don't remember the name.” Dylan picked up his beer. "Why?"
