“Yeah, there’s one about twenty minutes away.” He starts the car and the engine purrs to life. “So,” he says, driving around the garage toward the exit, “let’s work on that trust thing.”
“Huh?” I tear my gaze away from the car window.
“You said trust had to be earned, and doesn’t that go along with getting to know someone?” I nod. “So I’m trying to get to know you.”
He turns out of the parking lot and into traffic.
“Oh.” I tuck a piece of brown hair behind my ear.
He chuckles. “Do I make you nervous?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie.” He flashes straight, white teeth. “So you’re obviously a freshman,” he says, “you want to be a stylist, and you like chocolate. What else should I know about you?”
“I have two brothers.”
“In other words, they’ll rough me up if I mess with you?” He glances over at me with a shit-eating grin.
I roll my eyes. “Not likely. Dean’s too into his cars and girlfriend to notice and Lincoln is only in high school. What about you? Any siblings?”
“A sister. Sabrina.”
“Older or younger?” I ask.
“Older.”
“Ah.” I smile. “So you’re the spoiled youngest child.”
He chuckles and flicks on the blinker, turning onto a main thoroughfare. “I guess you could say that. So where are you from, Grace?”
“Virginia,” I answer. “What about you?”
“Mountains,” he responds. “Nice. Born and raised right here in Massachusetts. What made you pick a school up here?”
I shrug and answer honestly. “Freedom.”
He glances at me with raised brows. “That bad, huh?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Not bad, just … overwhelming. My dad’s way overprotective. I know he means well, but it can be kind of stifling. I wanted the chance to figure out who I am.”
He nods. “Seems reasonable.”
“And so far, it’s landed me in a car with a stranger.”
He laughs, clearly amused. “Am I still a stranger to you?”
I look at the dashboard clock. “We’ve known each other approximately thirty-five minutes, so yes.”
“What will it take for me to not be a stranger anymore?”
I twist my lips in thought. “A few days?”
He nods. “I’ll take it.”
He pulls into the Target parking lot and hops out, coming around to get my door before I can blink.
“Whoa,” I say. “I guess manners aren’t completely dead.”
He shrugs with a crooked grin. “I try.” He grabs a shopping cart from one of the return areas and wheels it over to me.
“Are you shopping too?” I ask, falling into step beside him.
“No, but aren’t you going to need a cart?”
“Yes.”
“Then it gives me something to do.” He pushes it a bit faster and hops up onto it so he’s gliding along. He nears the automatic doors and I fear he’s going to crash into them. “I command you to open!” he yells, and they slide open just in time for him to roll inside. I breathe out a sigh of relief.
“You’re like a big kid, aren’t you?” I laugh.
“Eh, yeah, I guess so. I don’t see the point in acting like a stuffy old fart. Might as well have some fun with life. You’re only here once.” He jumps off the cart and wheels it over to the dollar section. “Need any notepads?” he asks, picking up a handful of the kind with magnets on the back.
“No,” I say, picking up some windmill type thing and flicking the ends with my finger.
“Too bad, you’re getting some,” he says and drops the notepads in the cart. I shake my head and move on. He pushes the cart behind me. “What are you here for? I’d say we should divide and conquer but I’m afraid of getting lost.”
I look back at him and he winks. “I need pillows, lights, a corkboard, a rug—”
“Basically you need the whole store?” he cuts me off.
I sigh. “Yes.”
“Okay, well, the home stuff is this way.” He turns the cart down an aisle, cutting through the kid’s clothes.
“How old are you?” I ask him.
“Grace—” he clucks his tongue “—don’t you know you’re never supposed to ask anyone their age? How scandalous of you.” I eye him, and he sighs. “I’m twenty-three.”
“Stop,” I tell him, spotting a clearance end cap. I pick up a fluffy white pillow and drop it in the cart.
He eyes the pillow with distaste. “That looks like an animal.”
I raise a brow. “Did I ask for your opinion?”
“Well, no.”
“Exactly,” I say, looking over the other clearance items. There are a few candles I’d love to grab, but they’re a fire hazard so I have to refrain. Bennett follows behind me as I turn down the pillow aisle. I pick a few more.
“Do you really need so many?” he asks. I glare at him. “Right.” He raises his hands innocently. “You don’t want my opinion. Zipping my lips.”
I move on to the rug aisle and choose a plush white rug. I should probably ask Elle if she likes it before I buy it since it’s our room, but since she’s not here and she’s too much of a bitch for me to care about her opinion, I go to put it in the cart anyway.
“Hey, let me help.” Bennett jumps into action, grabbing the rug from my hands and stuffing it in the cart. There isn’t much room now.
“Thanks,” I say.
“No problem.” He smiles.
“So,” I say as we head further into the home décor, “you like sour patch kids. What else should I know about you?”
He grins. “My favorite color is red.”
“The color of blood?” I laugh.
“No,” he says with a wicked grin. “The color of love.”
I laugh even harder. “Oh, you’re good. But your favorite color isn’t really anything earth-shattering. Give me the good stuff.”
He chuckles and jumps up on the cart again, gliding on. “Like what, I lost my virginity at fourteen to an older woman and now I’m damaged goods?” I stop in my tracks and he laughs. “I’m kidding, Grace, but the look on your face is priceless.”
I try to school my face into normalcy. “What look?” I mutter.
He simply grins and kicks off again like he’s on a skateboard. “There’s not much to tell, Grace.”
I look at him closely. “You know that only makes me think there’s a lot to tell.”
He points. “Lights.”
I head toward them but quickly do an about face. “Nice try,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re avoiding.”
He grins. “Maybe so.”
“Come on,” I plead. “Give me something.”
“You first,” he challenges.
“I’ve never done something like this,” I admit. “Go off with a stranger, but, I kind of like it. Doing the wrong thing.”
“I’ve done it a lot. The wrong thing, I mean,” he says, his hazel eyes growing dark. “I’m trying to be a better person, though.”
“And what is this?” I ask. “Us, right here, right now? Good or bad?”
He looks torn. “Bad,” he finally admits.
“I’m keeping you from something, aren’t I?” I ask forlornly.
He looks away. “Yes, but it can wait.”
I sigh. “I don’t want you to get in trouble on my behalf.”
His eyes snap back to me, a fire shining in them. “I’m a big boy, don’t worry about me.”
“Bennett—”
“Hey,” he cuts me off. “We’re only killing more time standing here talking about it. Let’s get what you need and get back.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shit, I didn’t mean for that to sound like that.”
“Like you’re an asshole?”
He winces. “Yeah. I mean, I guess I am. No, I know I am, but I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”
“I don’t think you’
re an asshole,” I say softly. “An asshole wouldn’t have bailed on whatever it was you needed to do to help me out.”
He cringes. “I didn’t have entirely selfless motivations.”
“Oh, really?” I raise a brow.
“I thought you were hot.” He grins. “Who wouldn’t help out a hot damsel in distress?”
I laugh. “Well, thank you. No matter your motivation, thank you.”
He laughs and tilts his head. “That wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.”
“What can I say?” I turn away from him and look back over my shoulder. “I’m full of surprises.”
We head to the grocery section next, and I grab a few random items, like water and cereal bars.
“What’s your favorite chocolate?” Bennett asks, flicking his fingers toward the candy aisle.
“Not any of those. I prefer my chocolate fix in the form of a cupcake. Are you going to make me some?” I joke.
He rubs his jaw. “Ah, probably not.”
“I was kidding.” I pick up a box of oatmeal and put it in the already overflowing cart.
He picks up the box and looks it over. “You actually eat this stuff?” He looks horrified.
I laugh and snatch the box from his hands. “Yes. Some people like it.”
“Not me.” He makes a face and pushes the cart forward. “This is more my speed.” He grabs a box of Captain Crunch and shows me.
“A kid’s cereal?”
He winks. “This is the good stuff.” He puts it back on the shelf.
I look over everything I have in the cart. “I think I’m done here.”
“Anywhere else?” He points to the various aisles surrounding us.
“Nope, I got it all.”
Side by side, we head to the checkout. Bennett chooses the least busy checkout lane, which still has two people in front of us.
The man in front of us finishes putting his items on the conveyer belt and glances back. His dark brows furrow and he stares at Bennett. “Do I know you?” he asks.
I look between the man and Bennett. The man has to be in his fifties, so there’s no way he’s someone Bennett went to school with.
Bennett shrugs. “No, sorry. You must be mistaken.” He seems unperturbed by the man’s staring, but there’s something in his eyes—a wariness that bothers me.
“Yeah, I guess so. Sorry.” The man turns back around when the cashier begins to scan his items.
I don’t ask Bennett about the encounter. We’ve only known each other two hours tops, so I don’t feel like he owes me an explanation. Besides, after this, I doubt I’ll see him again.
Bennett begins unloading my items onto the conveyer belt, and while his back is turned I grab a pack of Sour Patch Kids from the checkout candy rack and toss it onto the pile he has formed.
He laughs and turns to look at me. “For me?” He points at himself.
I smile. “Who else would they be for? I’m certainly not going to eat them.”
I can tell the gesture pleases him. It’s a small thing, sure, but the small things usually mean the most to someone. It’s the little things that show you pay attention.
The cashier begins to scan and bag my items and Bennett immediately grabs them up, setting them in the cart.
“Leave those out,” I tell the cashier, pointing at the Sour Patch Kids. She nods and scans those last and hands them to me. “Thanks,” I say, and swipe my credit card. She hands me the receipt, and I stuff it in the bottomless pit that I call my purse.
I follow Bennett out to his car where he stuffs the rug in the back. It’s a tight fit in his small car, but he makes it work. I hand him the bags and he fits them in beside the rug.
He closes the trunk and goes to return the cart while I get in the car.
When he gets inside, I hand him the Sour Patch Kids bag. His eyes immediately light up like a little kid and he rips the bag open, popping one in his mouth. “Here, have one.” He holds the bag out to me.
I shake my head. “Sour’s not my thing.”
He shakes it. “Come on, just one? For me?” He literally pouts—I’m talking bottom lip curled under and puppy dog eyes, the whole shebang. So, of course, I cave.
“Fine.” I grab one and bite into it. Immediately, my lips pucker and I spit it out, the red candy landing on the floor of his car in a blob. I glance over at him sheepishly. “Sorry.”
He looks at me with a straight face, and I expect him to yell at me for spitting out a gob of gummy on his floor, but instead, he bursts into uncontrollable laughter. His laughter is contagious, and I can’t help but join him. I pick up the red gummy and wrap it in a tissue from my purse.
“You weren’t kidding about not liking sour things.” He shakes his head, driving back toward campus.
I can still taste it on my tongue, the tangy flavor sticking to my taste buds. I wish I had some water.
“Here,” Bennett says, almost as if he’s read my thoughts, and hands me a half-empty water bottle. “I promise I don’t have anything contagious.”
I shake my head and take the bottle from him. I untwist the cap and lift it to my lips. The water is slightly warm from sitting in the car, but it’ll do. The tart flavor from the Sour Patch Kid finally leaves my tongue and I put the cap back on the bottle.
“Thank you so much for doing this.”
He glances at me with a raised brow. “For making you spit out a Sour Patch Kid in my car?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No, for bringing me here to get my things. I’m sorry you had to ditch your plans.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “It’s okay.” Something in his tone worries me, though, like maybe it’s not okay.
We arrive back at campus and he parks in the garage in the same spot. I grab the bags from the back and he carries the rug. We walk side-by-side back to my dorm—at least I know where that is.
When the building approaches, I say, “I can get that,” and try to take the rug from him.
“I’ve got it,” he says, swiveling out of my way. The end of the rug nearly whacks my legs.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I don’t want to hold you up any longer.”
“It’s fine, Grace.”
I shrug and start up the steps. I pull out my ID card from my purse and swipe it to so we can get inside. My dorm is on the third level, but thankfully, there’s an elevator. The doors ding open and we step inside. I hate the awkward silence that’s fallen between us. I’ve never been good at this—talking to guys I like and knowing the right thing to say. I wish I was one of those girls that always knew the right thing to say, or was confident enough in her sexuality to put herself out there, but that’s just not me.
The doors slide open and show us an empty hallway. “It’s this way,” I say and he picks up the rug again. I lead him to my dorm room and he sets the rug down beside the door. “Well,” I begin, shuffling my feet as my awkwardness grows even more profound, “I guess this is goodbye.” I should probably ask for his number, but I don’t want to seem desperate. Besides, he was only doing me a favor and probably doesn’t want to see me beyond this.
He shrugs and steps back. “I don’t think this is goodbye, Grace. Something tells me I’ll see you again.” He gives me a closed-mouth smile, ducks his head, and leaves.
I watch him get into the elevator and just before the doors close, he winks.
“You’re late.”
I swallow thickly. I have no good excuse for being late, and even if I did, Coach Harrison wouldn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t like to hear “I’m sorrys”, either.
“I’m here now,” I say instead.
His shrewd green eyes narrow. They see everything and know too much.
“You smell like perfume.” His voice is gruff and his finger taps restlessly against his desk—the same desk he had when I went to school here. It’s old and worn, with scrapes and chunks of wood missing.
“I wasn’t with a woman,” I defend. “I mean, I was.” I shrug, wincing. “But not like
that.”
“Dammit, Bennett.” He slaps his hand against his desk so hard that his pen cup bounces and rolls to the floor. He glares at the cup and pens now littering the floor and then at me. “Pick them up, asshole,” he says.
I sigh and bend down to pick them up. My hurt leg and knee protests with the movement and I wince. Coach notices but doesn’t comment. The cast I’ve worn for months only came off a week ago and my leg is still stiff. It’s not used to the freedom of mobility which is a damn shame considering the game I play. Getting out on the ice again is going to be brutal.
I make quick work of picking up the pens and stuff them back in the tin cup with a clatter. I set the cup down on his desk with a little more force than necessary and his lips lift just the slightest bit.
Coach Harrison is a hardass. It’s why I’ve always liked him and why he’s the right guy for this job—the job of getting me back to my team. Sure, my team has plenty of people who could help me, but they don’t want to. All those assholes want is to see me fail. I’m determined to prove them wrong.
I called up Coach about a month ago, and after some persuasion on my part, he agreed to train me in his spare time—even going so far as to let me work with the university team. I’ve seen the guys on the team play and they’re good—yeah, it’s not the same as my NHL team, but I was one of these guys only a few years ago, so chances are, at least one of them will end up playing professionally. I know this is what I need to get back to my team, to go back to my roots. I’ve lost myself along the way, and it fucking sucks. I’ve always been cocky, according to everyone I know, but according to my manager, my head’s gotten even more inflated. He’s right, and I fucking hate that he’s right. I needed a major reality check, and I hate that it came in the form of an injury—a near career-ending one at that.
Coach leans back in his chair, sizing me up. I have no idea what’s going on in his head—his stoic expression sure doesn’t give anything away. Finally, he sighs, his leather chair creaking when he adjusts his weight.
“You’re not ready to get back on the ice,” he says. “Hit the gym.” He begins gathering his things.
“That’s all you have to say?”
He pauses what he’s doing and looks up at me with an expression like I’m the dumbest person he’s ever encountered. “I saw that look on your face when you bent down. I’m not sending you out on the ice like that. Go do some fucking yoga and loosen up that leg.”
The Game That Breaks Us Page 2
