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And so I keep repeating it to myself as I watch him in the stands surrounded by my family, my beaming niece tucked in his arms as she waves and he smiles at me in this sweet, gentle way, in a way Sebastian hasn’t before.
I repeat it to myself after the (victorious) end of our game, as I hustle to the locker room and shower off, then meet my family. As usual, when they make it to my game, I’m lavished with hugs and congratulations, and of course, concerned questions about my shoulder and head, which are both fine. But this time there’s someone else waiting, a little distanced from everyone else. Someone I shouldn’t be having what feels dangerously like heart palpitations at the sight of.
Sebastian.
He hung around. He waited to see me.
Because that’s what friends do, Ziggy. And that’s what he is—that’s all he wants to be: your friend.
Still, I can be happy. I can enjoy this. Sure, my heart’s never jumped in my chest before with a friend, but then again, I don’t have a vast history of friendships to work from. Maybe this is just how friendship goes with Sebastian.
Or maybe it’s something more.
It doesn’t matter if it is, though, does it? Not when we are situated squarely and interminably in the friend zone. Not when he’s told me this is what he wants, and when I know, rationally, this is all I should want, too. Even in my small degrees of change and bravery that I’m reaching for, I’m always going to be me. Sebastian sems to enjoy me and my goofiness, my prim lectures, my sensory needs and preferences, as his friend, for now, but that doesn’t mean he’d want something from me beyond that—
But he kissed you.
More like I kissed him, though…he did kiss me back. Very enthusiastically.
It was just a kiss. Well, kisses. And good ones, like he said. It still doesn’t mean he wants more from me, or that I should let myself want anything more from him beyond friendship.
Friends. Friends. I’ll just keep saying it to myself, like a mantra. Yes, I’m attracted to him. No, he’s not nearly as sinister as I thought he was. But that doesn’t have to change that we’ve agreed to be friends, and that’s that. I can do this friend thing.
Clearing my throat, I walk toward Sebastian.
He pushes off the wall, his eyes fixed on me, and smiles the same way he did after I scored the penalty. “That,” he says, “was one hell of a game.”
I shrug, smiling back. “I know.”
His smile deepens into a handsome, long-dimpled masterpiece that does funny things to my stomach. “You doing okay? You took a hard hit.”
“I’m okay, yeah. I just felt a little stunned for a minute. It knocked the wind out of me. That’s why I didn’t get up.”
“So your head’s all right?” he asks, stepping closer. His hand comes up toward my face, but he stops halfway there, then shoves it in his pocket. “You got it looked at?”
“Yep, trainers took a look before they let me go. My head’s fine.”
His eyes dance between mine. “Good.”
Smiling, I shift my bag higher on my shoulder. “Thanks for coming.”
Sebastian shoves his other hand into his pocket, and peers down at the sidewalk, nudging a pebble with the toe of his sneaker. I realize that his shoes are the exact pink of the Angel City logo. “I was glad I could be here,” he says.
“Nice kicks.”
He peers up, frowning. “Don’t tell me you think I can’t pull off the pink, because we both know I damn well can.”
“I would never dream of giving Mr. Fancy Pants fashion feedback.” My gaze drifts up his body—he’s wearing faded black jeans and a soft-looking, but clearly high-quality, heather-gray T-shirt that hugs those inked arms and ties to the silver stripes along his pink shoes. It all goes in that way everything Sebastian wears always inexplicably goes. He looks like he walked off the set of a fashion shoot.
I clear my throat, hating that I can feel a blush warming my cheeks. “How’s the foot feeling? You said you expected Lars to make you suffer yesterday.”
“Ahh.” He shrugs again, hands still in his pockets. “Yeah, it was okay. I’m a little out of shape, but I’m getting back into it. Back on the ice tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll be ready in time for our first preseason game.”
“Oh.” I feel a little tug of selfish sadness. Now that he’s fully recovered, that means he’ll be busy again, back at his job of getting ready for preseason—dryland, PT, on the ice, doing preseason press with the team again. I know how consuming that schedule is. I’ve watched Ren live it for years. I know it means our spur-of-the-moment, spontaneous meetups for publicity that only had to accommodate my less demanding schedule are history. I know it means less time with him. And I’m inordinately disappointed by that.
Which is exactly why this development is a good thing. You shouldn’t be this disappointed that you’ll see less of him. You shouldn’t be feeling this much of anything about Sebastian Gauthier.
Well, I can feel one thing freely, without guilt or worry, and that’s excited for him, that he’ll be back to doing what he loves. “I’m happy for you,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’re eager to get back on the ice.”
