God, he pisses me off.
Relax. Stay cool. Don't fuck this up again.
It's five words. You've said harder things.
"I was out of line," I grit between my teeth, finally managing to say something.
He stops moving, but doesn’t turn around.
"On the ice. When you—" I stop. Start again. "When I went down. You were just—" Another stop. Jesus Christ, Nash. "I shouldn't have said what I said. In front of everyone. I was out of line and I—"
"Are you apologizing to me right now?"
"I'm trying to."
"Right." He turns around slowly. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. "Continue."
"I was out of line," I say again. Same words. Same delivery. I'm aware of how it sounds. I'm aware a normal person would put more into this — feelings, expression, something that resembles human emotion. I'm not built for more than this right now and he's just going to have to accept that this is really me giving it all of my effort.
He looks at me for a long moment while I've been just standing here holding my breath. "Okay," he says, evenly, giving me nothing back.
"Okay?"
"Okay, Nash. You were out of line. Noted." He turns back to his locker and I just stand there.
That's — not what I expected. I don't know exactly what I expected but it wasn't this. Some version of Rhys that made this harder. Not the one that finds the thing that gets under my skin, not the one that pushes back, that turns everything into something I have to fight my way through. Just a flat wall and his back to me.
"That's it?" I ask.
He throws his arms up. "What do you want me to say here?"
"I don't know. Something. You always have something to say."
He glances at me over his shoulder. "You want me to make you feel better about it?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"I just—" I exhale. "I wanted to say it."
He's quiet for a beat. Then he turns around fully and leans back against the locker and looks at me with that look — the assessing one, the one that has always seen right through everything I put up — and I hold still under it because I owe him that much. At minimum that. Probably much more, if I’m starting to be honest with myself.
"You know what your problem is?" he asks.
"I'm sure you'll tell me."
"Your apology sounds like it was written by a robot." The corner of his mouth moves. Just slightly. Just enough that I can breathe again and my heart can stop pounding. "Like you read it off a card. Very professional. Very thorough. Zero feelings whatsoever." He tilts his head inquisitively. "Six out of ten."
"I—" I stop. "Wait, six?"
"Six and a half, actually. You kept eye contact the whole time. That was brave. That saved you from a five."
My chest unknots against my will and red creeps up my neck. "Are you seriously grading my apology?"
"Someone has to. You clearly didn't practice."
"I practiced all week." The admission comes out before I can stop it, and I know I'm fully red now. He goes very still for half a second. Something shifts in his expression. Just enough. Like I just handed him something he didn't expect.
