Rhys:
okay
Then:
Rhys:
same time tomorrow?
I close my eyes.
I put the phone down, pick it up, and stare at it.
Then I decide to ignore him and put the phone face down on the floor and sit in the silence and tell myself this is fine.
It's fine.
I shower quickly, change, and head across campus to the coffee shop. Through the trees and a couple smaller buildings dotting throughout, it sits right at the edge of the student union, small and always slightly too warm, perpetually smelling like burnt espresso and something spiced and vanilla.
I’ve worked here since freshman year. Most guys on the team are funded by parents who send money to them constantly, without thinking about it — mine don’t. The job gets me tuition reimbursement and a single dorm room to myself and I have never once taken either of those things for granted.
I don’t mind the work. I actually like it. During slow stretches I run plays in my head, work through positioning problems, think about what we could be doing differently. It’s just another way to stay focused.
The afternoon rush has already thinned out by the time I get in. I work through the quiet — restocking cups, wiping down the two small tables by the window, getting ahead of the closing tasks for tonight.
The door dings.
“Well.” That voice. That specific tone, light and smug at the same time, like everything is a joke only he knows the punchline to. “Don’t you look cute.”
I don’t look up. I just clean the table harder. Two days of no sleep. Two days of nonstop hockey. Two days of my father’s voice running underneath everything, like water breaking through a small crack in a dam, drowning my thoughts until it’s all I can hear. And Rhys walks in like it's nothing. Like everything is always nothing.
“Just tell me your order, Callahan.”
I hear him approach, but I keep my eyes down. The thing aboutRhys is he takes up all of the air in a room without even trying — I can feel him crossing toward me before I see him in my peripheral vision, this gravitational thing that I am actively choosing to ignore.
He gets close. Too close. He always does this.
His breath near my ear before he speaks. “How about you surprise me,” he says.
Something in me snaps like a cable pulled too tight. I step back and turn on him. “What is your problem? Why do you always have to be like this? Make everything into a fucking joke?”
His expression shifts. The smirk immediately drops. “You sure you’re okay?”
“It’s not a joke, it’s never a joke, you do this constantly and you know exactly what you’re doing—”
“You’re unbelievable.” His nostrils flare. “After everything, after running out on me. I say two words to you and you freak out. Not everything is me fucking with you, Nash. Fucking lighten up.”
I need to stop. I can feel the edges of my control getting thin and I know this feeling, know what comes after it, and I need to walk away and get back behind the counter and remember that I am at work and I am a captain and I am better than this. I turn and start back toward the counter.
His hand closes around my wrist. Not hard. Just firm — stopping me. Holding me there. I go very still, my body tense.
“What the fuck is your problem? You’ve been avoiding me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Just leave if you’re not going to order.” I snap.
"I'm not going anywhere,” he huffs.
"Fine, then stand there and shut the fuck up."
