by Chloe Liese
Ren clears his throat and shakes his head, snapping himself out of whatever that was. His easy smile is back as he pushes the package closer. “Right. Well, I didn’t want to make it weird by giving it to you at work tomorrow, and I thought it would be even weirder if I mailed it to you. Plus, I had your jacket, so…”
Yanking the package my way, I tug warily at the string. Knots are the bane of the arthritic’s existence. But the string unravels effortlessly.
I glance up at him and feel myself smile. “Thanks for avoiding the double knot.”
He smiles bashfully and nods. My smile deepens as an unfamiliar warmth floods my chest. I pull the paper away, tearing it easily. A bundle of soft cotton drops onto the counter and I lift the fabric. “A dress shirt?”
Ren steps closer, flipping it over before he smooths it along the granite counter. I stare at his hands longer than is most likely “appropriate.” But they’re…beautiful. Long and faintly freckled. Upon closer inspection, they’re also red at the knuckles, like he recently punched something.
“Maddox ruined your other one,” he says. “And I was pretty sure it looked like this. Is it a good match?”
I stare at the shirt, processing what he’s saying, my fingers sliding along the buttons. They’re different. I can tell that immediately. I have four of the same shirts, pants, and blazers that I wear to all games, and while this shirt looks almost identical, I can feel its difference. I pull at the shirt gently and watch it snap apart.
“The buttons—” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “The buttons are adhered to a durable magnet. The panel around them holds the opposite magnetic pull and is reinforced so they can take a good tug.”
I normally leave my shirts buttoned but for the top two, so I can slip them over my head and not deal with buttoning them. Buttons are a bit hard for my hands—especially early in the day or late in the evening, when they’re at their stiffest. Despite the pains I take to ensure my clothes are comfortable, I never considered clothes could be easier while still allowing me to wear what I wanted.
“Ren, where did you…” My throat feels weird, thick with an emotion I can’t begin to name.
“My sister is a physical therapist, but she’s an overachiever who nerds out on adaptive everything, from clothing to kitchen utensils.” He shrugs. “She’s mentioned them before, said a shop in the Fashion District sold them.”
Peering up at Ren, I am so damn confused. Clearly, he’s aware of my challenges, to the point he bought something for me out of consideration. Yet there’s no trace of that stifling, demeaning claustrophobia I’ve felt with just about everyone else I know. In this moment with Ren, I just feel…seen. And I feel a terrible need to kiss him.
Damn weed. It’s all to blame.
Weed never makes you this horny.
Shut it, pothead brain. No more wisecracks.
“That’s really thoughtful of you.” Tentatively, I wrap my hand around his, squeeze it once, then release it, before I give in to the impulse to tug him my way and kiss him senseless. “Thank you.”
A furious blush crawls up Ren’s neck, past the playoff beard. It’s beyond sweet but so odd to see this side of him. Because the Ren I’ve seen the past three years is humble, yes, but confident, assertive, striking. Rookie of the Year. MVP. Thrown on all the magazine covers, voted for hottest this, sexiest that. The guys tease him about it, and he just shakes his head and moves the conversation along. Ren’s got it all, and he’s always seemed pretty happy about it.
But then there’s this other side I glimpse, that I’m seeing right now. When he blushes and does his nervous tic of scratching the back of his neck. Almost like he’s uncertain of himself, not the confident guy who’s taken the hockey world by storm.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “I hope it’s not…” There it is. He scrubs the back of his neck. “I hope it’s not crossing a line or anything.”
“No, Ren. It’s a very thoughtful gesture from a caring friend.” Ren’s eyes flicker with something I can’t read. “I mean, I know we work together. But we’re friends, aren’t we?”
Aren’t we?
“Definitely. Yep. Completely.” He nods, shifting his weight.
Silence falls. I’ve learned how best to try to make small talk. I’m still not great at it, and I definitely don’t like it, but I’ve memorized some ways to move through quiet gaps in conversation. I just don’t feel like playing normal right now. I feel like being the real Frankie with what I’m starting to suspect is the real Ren. So, I let the idle hum of my fridge, the whisper of crickets outside my kitchen window serve as our soundtrack. I let myself stare at Ren how I probably shouldn’t, while he gazes at my mouth with the kind of focus that I’ve only ever seen him devote to game tape.
The moment bursts like a bubble when the doorbell rings.
Breaking his stare, Ren glances toward the front door. “That’s the Chinese?”
“Unless someone else from the team brought me magnetic-snap slacks.”
He laughs quietly. “Right. I’ll check it, if you want.”
“Thanks, that would be great.” When he turns away, I scramble for the joint I stubbed out earlier and furiously light up.
5
Frankie
Playlist: “Atlantis,” Bridgit Mendler
Watching him walk toward the door, I try really hard not to check out his ass, but you need to understand how hard that is. One, all hockey players have incredible butts. It’s a fact. Two, Ren has a really fantastic butt. It deserves to be immortalized in sculpture, a marble homage to the glory of the male backside.
I bounce on the exercise ball to lose my jitters, drag on the joint, feeling its acrid sweetness fill my lungs. That long hit mellows my racing thoughts enough to help me stop ogling Ren and get myself together. Jesus, I am a mess. I stub out the last of it and wave the air to clear the smell a little.
“Wow.” Ren reenters the kitchen, sets down the massive bag of food on the counter, and peers inside. If he’s perturbed by the cloud of secondhand marijuana he’s standing in, he doesn’t let on. “Feeling extra munchy tonight, are we?”
I tear open the bag and nearly drop the moo shoo pork. Ren catches it. Gently setting it down, he lifts the lid and sets it aside, glossing over the moment as he smiles at me.
“Can I get plates?” he asks. “Chopsticks?”
He rounds the counter before I’ve answered. A rush of self-consciousness pricks me. “Only if you join me.”
Ren freezes at the cabinet and looks over his shoulder. “Frankie, I don’t want to take your food.”
“Please share it with me, Ren.” I hold his eyes.
Don’t go there. Not you. Please don’t make me the poor creature you help and fuss over.
Ren’s pale eyes sparkle with his deepening smile. “Well, okay.” He pulls out plates and bowls, then shuts the cabinet and makes himself at home, riffling through the drawers until he finds chopsticks and spoons. “But I call first dibs on the wonton soup.”
As he serves me first, I realize he was joking about getting first crack at the soup. Ren serves us equally with easy efficiency while chatting about nothing in particular. I hate being served normally, but this is friendly, comfortable. I don’t feel one bit coddled. He also sucks at chopsticks worse than I do, which helps my ego.
“You sure you don’t have joint problems, too?” I mumble around a mouthful of moo shoo.
Ren laughs and covers his mouth. “I beat the hell out of a punching bag before I came. My hands are useless right now.”
“Makes two of us.” I smile at him, and he smiles back. My focus shifts to his battered knuckles. “Any particular reason the punching bag earned such a beating?”
Ren pauses mid-chew, looking slightly caught off guard. “Um. No, not really. I just hit the bag to help keep my…temper in check.”
I frown at him. “You? A temper? This coming from the guy who has yet to brawl in his three years playing for the NHL, except for shoving a guy off
of him when he tries to start something. The guy who hugs babies like that’s his job, not hockey. Who signs anything, anytime a fan asks. You have a temper?”
“I did almost ring Maddox’s neck the other night. Give me credit for that.”
“Eh.” I sip some wonton broth. “He’s had it coming. I’d be more worried about you if you hadn’t throttled him.”
“But you get my point. It’s not that I don’t have a temper, I’ve just figured out how to manage it. Lots of bag work. ‘I must be cruel to be kind.’”
I swallow my bite of moo shoo. “Hamlet.”
Ren pauses, and a smile makes his eyes crinkle handsomely. “So, she does know her Shakespeare.”
“I have a good memory. When I hear something, it sticks. But yes, I like some of Shakespeare’s plays. Hamlet is not one of them. That guy likes to hear himself talk way too much.”
“So does Maddox,” Ren mutters.
“I wouldn’t blame you for hating him.”
Ren taps his chopsticks against his plate and stares off in thought. “I don’t hate him. I hate playing with him. He has a terrible energy.”
“And here I thought he was just a dick.”
Ren laughs loudly—a deep, beautiful belly laugh.
“Wasn’t that funny,” I say self-consciously.
His laughter dies off. “I don’t think you realize how witty you are, Frankie.”
I glance down at my moo shoo and scooch it across my plate. “I think you need to get out a bit more, if you find me witty, Zenzero.”
He’s still looking at me when I peer up. Clearing my throat, I take a long drink of water. “You were saying, about Maddox? Before I made you aspirate a wonton.”
Ren blinks away finally. “He frustrates me. He should show you and every other person he crosses paths with a lot more respect. But Maddox is still the asshole jock that I’m sure he was in high school.”
“Which you weren’t.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was good at sports, but I was also the kid who got emotional in tenth grade English when our class read aloud Romeo and Juliet.”
I bite my lip so I don’t laugh. I think that’s insanely endearing and healthy, that Ren’s in touch with his soft side, but I know firsthand how hard it is to tell if someone’s laughing at you or with you. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.
In the past, I wouldn’t have thought anything could bring Ren down. I wouldn’t have worried about laughing. But in the past few days, Ren’s shown me that much more lies beneath that chipper smile. All I ever knew him to be was this effortlessly upbeat, hunky, talented guy. The sun shone out of Ren’s ass, the world was at his fingertips, and secretly, that level of happy-go-lucky perfection grated on me.
But what Ren’s shown me is that inside this mature exterior of the pristine swan, there’s a long-ago ugly duckling. A sweet, awkward dork who never really fit in, who still maybe doesn’t feel like he fits in anywhere. And that means we have a metric shit ton more in common than I ever thought.
Not that commonality is important. For someone I’m not attracted to. Who I don’t want to sleep with. At all. Ever.
I clear my throat and try to straighten my posture on the exercise ball. “So, having to rub shoulders with Maddox bothers you. The punching bag is how you deal with your frustration that the bullies are still at large.”
Ren glances up from his food, looking surprised. “Among other things, yeah.”
“Well, listen.” I snap a fortune cookie in two and give him one half. “If it makes you feel any better, you got the last laugh. Matt’s a mean-spirited prick. His reputation is shit, and I think we’ll end up having to pay another team to take him. Then look at you, look where you are.”
Ren accepts his fortune cookie. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
I almost fire back a blunt remark about false modesty, but I’m stopped by this newfound knowledge he’s given me: Ren honestly doesn’t see himself how everyone else does. He isn’t feigning humility or fishing for a compliment. He really means what he says when he expresses self-doubt. If anyone can empathize with seeing yourself one way and being perceived so dissonantly from that, it’s this mostly invisibly ill, autistic woman right here.
A new crack forms in my heart. This is a travesty. No one this wonderful should feel so unsure of himself.
I toss the fortune cookie in my mouth and crunch. “Ren the Red. You’re a twelve out of ten, inside and out. I bet the queue of women waiting for you is longer than the line for the next Apple product.”
“Women I don’t know.” Focusing his attention on his cookie, Ren slips out the fortune paper and stares at it.
“Well, that’s why you get out, buddy. So they become women you do know. Problem is, you’re a saint. I’ve never even seen you with a woman. I’m aware puck bunnies aren’t your thing, but in the off-season, you let yourself have some fun, right? Now that you’re not a rookie anymore, your career’s totally on track, maybe you’re ready to look for someone who’s relationship material.”
“There’s someone.” His eyes dance across the fortune cookie paper. He folds and pockets it.
“And?” I press.
“And she’s unavailable for the time being. I’m also not sure she sees me that way.”
“Then she’s thick as a brick. Move on, dude, that’s her problem.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work right now, but maybe one day it will. That unavailability won’t last forever. When it ends, I’ll work up the courage to tell her how I feel.”
“Does she know you’re waiting?”
Also, shit. What guy waits for a woman these days? Most men I’ve known do not have that kind of old-school courtship patience. They can’t even wait ten minutes in a Starbucks line for a mediocre latte.
He runs a hand over his beard. “No. And right now if I told her, it would put her in an awkward position, which isn’t fair to her. The timing’s just not good.”
“Well, welcome to working in professional athletics. The timing is never good for a relationship. Not until retirement. But, then again, as you know, some of the guys are blissfully paired off, at least until playoffs, when their partners are over an eighty-game season. I don’t mean to sound so cynical. If anyone could make it work, it would be you.”
Ren crunches his fortune cookie and stares at me curiously. “I can wait. I’ve waited this long. A few more years won’t kill me.”
“But you should have fun, Zenzero. Get your kicks. A guy like you shouldn’t be sitting on the shelf.”
“A guy like me?” A wry half smile tugs at his mouth. “What’s that mean?”
My high is slowly dissipating. I grope frantically on the counter for my root beer gummies and rip open a new bag. Tugging one between my teeth until it snaps, I chew and buy myself a minute. My unfiltered brain still wins out. “You know women drool over you.”
He stands, then clears our empty plates and bowls to the sink. “You’re not answering the question.”
I watch him run water in the double sink and add a splash of soap. The jerk is going to wash my dishes and prove the very point I’m about to make. “Dammit, Bergman, you’re the total package. You’re thoughtful, talented, handsome, and a true gentleman. You’re a prince of a man. Okay?”
Ren stops washing for a moment. Then he starts scrubbing again. I watch him rinse the plates and prop them on the rack to dry without saying a word. Finally, he turns and leans his hip against the counter, arms folded across his broad chest. “Do you think that? Or are you saying what you assume other people think?”
Of course, I think that. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t?
I tear another gummy with my teeth. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.” His jaw is set, those pale cat eyes locked with mine intensely.
Dread washes over me. God, I have to be horrifying him. Here I am, half baked. Barely clothed. And so far past the line of professional behavior.
“Ren, I—” I swallow nervously. “I’m s
orry. That was an inappropriate direction I took us. I’m unfiltered to begin with but the cannabis doesn’t help. Please ignore everything I said.”
Ren walks toward me, stopping at the counter where the gummies sit. Holding my eyes, he plucks one from the bag, sets it between his teeth, and tugs until it breaks clean in half. My eyes shift to his mouth.
Joseph in a Juniper Tree. Watching Ren tear a root beer gummy like a lion ripping open his prey just turned my knees to jelly. Thankfully, I’m already sitting. Well, bouncing, on the exercise ball. I’m one of those people who needs to be in perpetual motion.
“You still haven’t answered me,” he says, unsticking his jaw with a loud pop. “Wow, these are chewy. And for the record, we’re not at work. It’s not inappropriate at all.”
I grab a fistful of gummies and shove them in my mouth. Hopefully, I’ll choke and black out so we can forget about this mortifying corner I’ve backed us into.
“Oh, it’s inappropriate,” I say around my grotesque mouthful. “You’re a player, I’m your social media manager, no matter where we are. I’m sitting here in my ‘Boy Who Lived’ panties, high on hashish, nagging you about your intimate life. It’s so far past inappropriate, I almost want to fire myself.”
Ren’s face tightens with an expression I can’t read. “You’re not going to fire yourself, Frankie. You’ll be at work tomorrow.”
“I mean, you’re right. But only because I like my insurance and the mild weather. I’ll be there, on one condition: no more nice gestures like this, especially when I’m marijuana-ly impaired.”
Ren’s laugh is warm. It ripples along my skin, making the hairs on my arms and neck stand on end. Pushing off the counter, he sweeps up his keys, then smiles down at me, that easy, sunshiny Ren Bergman smile. “Goodnight, Frankie. See you tomorrow.”
He’s halfway down the hallway when I call, “Ren!”
In one smooth turn, he now faces me. “Yes?”
I tell my heart to stop trying to run out of my chest. “Thank you.”
