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“Sorry, again. I’m just grumpy.”
“I get it. It’s fine.” His voice is a little raspy, and I’m not sure whether it’s sleep catching up to him or he’s trying to whisper. There’s something soothing to it.
“What has you stressed? Besides the obvious,” he says, more soft laughter filling our small space. I laugh too, giving in for the night. There’s no reason we can’t make this easy. Cordial. Maybe even friendly. All on the surface, of course.
“I’m still not officially cleared from injury. I mean, I’m cleared medically, but the powers that be still need someone to sign something or click something or?—”
“Right. Put a rubber stamp on a file. I get ya,” he breathes out with the kind of sigh that makes me think he’s been through something similar.
“Right? So many hoops. You’d think the school was the one injured and not me.” I blink my eyes open briefly to disrupt the visual of Chelsea Mickelson playing my position instead of me.
“They might sit me for the first few games.” I don’t know how I let that confession slip out, but now that my words have hit the air, my chest opens wider and I take a full breath.
“Yeah, but those games don’t matter. They won’t be conference. And it’s just to make sure you come back fully ready. They don’t want you getting hurt again.” His words echo what my coaches have said. Surely, he gets the truth, though. He knows that’s what they have to say. They don’t owe me a spot. If someone proves to be better than me, that’s the player they’re going to get behind.
I shift so I’m on my back again and I roll my head to look him in his waiting eyes. I wonder how long he’s been looking at me like this. He’s either secretly an incredible actor or he’s genuinely interested in what I have to say. His eyes are kind, a slight squint due to the soft smile on his full lips. His hand is propping his head up, his fingers disappearing into the soft waves of brown hair. It’s too bad this isn’t the version of him I met first—the sober guy with kind eyes. Instead, I got the jackhole at the kegger who was so sure I would sleep with him our freshman year.
“I don’t want to think about it. I just need to keep rehabbing and working out as much as I can until I get cleared for the court.” My chest squeezes with all the negative thoughts swirling around about my playing time, what that means for my plans, and Chelsea’s decent showing at practice.
“I get it. Topic closed. Feel free to open it up anytime you need to, though. I’m a good listener.”
My mouth spreads into a fast smile at his response, but before it turns into a laugh I get a good look at the sincerity on his face. He’s not being cheesy or fake. So instead, I nod.
“Deal.”
I roll back to my other side, maybe running away from the tension I felt just then. Somehow I can tell his eyes are still onme. A part of me likes it. It feels safe in the dark to let him look at me. It makes me want to show off for him, physically. To tempt him, of course. Nothing more than that.
I kick my blanket off and stretch my arm up over my head, knowing it will make my shirt rise up enough to show my midriff and the curve of my hips.
“How old is your little brother?” His question comes out with a tinge of nervous wavering in his voice. He’s looking at me for sure.
“I don’t have one.”
“Oh, I thought . . . when you said I was annoying like a little brother. So. . . any siblings?” His voice is simmering again, soft and deep. I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose.
“Just me and my mom. I mean, I have a dad. Legally. But that’s about it.” My mind shifts its weight from Chelsea to my father, and that’s an easier frustration to deal with. I’m good at that one.
“Oh. I’m sorry, if you even want to hear sorry for that. I get it if you don’t.”
My thoughts pause and I smile with my eyes closed as I take in his words. Nobody has ever quite reacted that way when I mention having a bad relationship with my father. It’s kind of nice to hear sorry. And it’s also nice to have the option to reject it.
“Thanks,” I say. “How about you? Brothers? Family?”
“Well, you know about my mom already—my hot date for Sunday.” He follows up with a soft laugh and I roll my face slightly into my pillow. I’m a little embarrassed about that. I’m sure it came across as jealousy when I thought he was on the phone with some puck bunny.
“My dad passed away last year. He was a great guy, but he lived pretty hard and it basically wore out his parts. Liver, kidneys, among other things.”
What he isn’t saying is his dad was an alcoholic.
“I’m sorry,” I say, biting my bottom lip before adding on, “If you want the sorry. If not, save it for later.”
A short breathy laugh leaves him.
“Thanks. And I’ll take it. He really was a great guy. He was nothing but kind and warm and generous. None of those stereotypical bad traits that usually go with being the life of the party at the corner bar.”
I picture Cutter holding up the pitchers a couple of nights ago and how everyone cheered his name. I wonder if the elder McCreary was adored like that. Maybe that’s where his charm comes from.
“And brothers—yeah, I’ve got those. I’m one of five. Flynn and Todd, you probably know. Then there’s Patrick, he’s the oldest and has a baby girl. Andrew is next, and he has twin boys. I guess that runs in the family. We all grew up playing hockey in southern Iowa. Our town is called Springs, and it’s barely on the map, but . . .”
