"It's absolutely a thing, it's been a thing since I was made captain, ask anyone."
"I'm asking you and you made it up, right now."
"I made it up and then it became a thing. That's called leadership, Rhys. You should be amazed." He beamed a sly, dimpled smile at me.
I stole four of his fries and held them in my hands. He watched me do it and said nothing, just picked up his burger, and snatched one quickly with his mouth when I wasn’t looking, with a bright look in his eyes and a smile full of fries. We ate for a while in the comfortable way — not needing to fill every second, enjoying each other’s company without it being weird. I hadn't had that with anyone here yet. Hadn't had it in a while if I was being honest.
"Ok, your turn, Captain." I set my burger down and winked at him. "Tell me about yourself."
"Ok, well. I'll show you how it's done.” He returned the wink. "Marcus Hale. Beloved captain of the hockey team. Nursing major. Graduating next year.” Then his expression softened just slightly. "My dad has Alzheimer's. I want to be able to take care of him properly when he gets to the point where he can't take care of himself.”
A second later he leaned back again like he hadn’t just knocked the air out of my lungs a little. “Other important facts about me: I like hiking, basically every sport on earth, and humiliating people at beer pong.”
I applauded. He clapped me on the back, his fingers lingering there a second before he pulled them back. After the laughingsettled I looked sideways at him, directly into those caramel eyes. "No, you're right. Definitely better than mine." I meant it. I hesitated for half a second before adding, “And I’m sorry about your dad. That’s… really something. Choosing nursing because of him, I mean.”
Marcus looked at me then with this strange expression I couldn’t immediately place. Head tilted slightly, mouth pulled at one corner like he was studying me closer than before.
Or maybe like he suddenly wanted to.
"Thank you, Rhys. Really."
After a while I set my burger down again and took a breath.
"You shared something real, so I will too." I looked at the counter. "I got into hockey because of my uncle, when I was six. He died when I was fifteen and I didn't play for a whole year after. I thought I'd never play again — thought it would just hurt every time I got on the ice." I shrugged. "Eventually, I played anyway. Turned out the ice was the only place it didn't hurt as bad."
"No," Marcus said, shaking his head. "It didn’t stop hurting, that’s just the only place you could use the pain, channel it into something good.”
I looked at him again. He was watching me with that same expression. The moment felt so heavy all of a sudden — chest tight, the way he was looking at me overwhelming in a way I hadn't expected, hadn't braced for. I grinned and bumped his shoulder to break the spell. He bumped back.
We walked back to my car after and the air was different. Charged in a way that hadn't existed two hours ago. I could feel it in the quiet. In the way we kept looking at each other and then away again. In the extra half second he stood too close every time we stopped walking. When we got back to the car he had his hands in his pockets and was looking somewhere just past me and shifted slightly closer. "That was really nice," he said. "It was really nice talking to you, Rhys. I'm glad thishappened." The full dimpled smile again, aimed right at me.
I looked up at him in disbelief. "Wow. That's a lot. And two reallys."
"Shut up." I smiled when he groaned.
"I had a really, really, nice time too, Marcus."
He stood there one second longer than he needed to. Then gave a small wave and jogged back toward the athletic building.
I watched him go.
I got in my car and sat there without starting it. Hands loose on the steering wheel. Heart still beating a little too hard for a conversation over burgers and stolen fries.
Hockey, I told myself.Chemistry.
It sounded a lot less convincing than it did this morning.
Chapter 9
Jamie
Two more weeks pass where I see Rhys alone for our morning sessions, whenever we can fit them into his schedule.
Four minutes past six. Late again.
I hear him before I see him — footsteps in the tunnel, stomping down the hallway, the precise rhythm of him. Whatever he’s carrying knocking loudly against the wall once before he mutters something under his breath, and something in my body registers him before my brain does.
I keep running the drill. Eyes forward. Puck on my blade.
