Crush

by Mae Wood

  “That was so awesome,” I said again, trying to force myself to mouth-breathe.

  “I’ll get cleaned up.”

  “Gonna get you dirty again,” I whispered.

  His eyes widened in surprise.

  “I’m here,” I said, running a hand up his jersey. “Let’s enjoy it.”

  He bit his lip, gave me a brief nod, and turned away.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ryan

  “So—” said Greg once we were in the locker room.

  “So—” I parroted back. “That’s Kenzie.”

  “She’s something else.”

  My fingers stuttered a bit as I tugged my laces loose. He’d better not say anything bad.

  “In an awesome way,” he continued.

  “Yeah. Absolutely.”

  “How long have you been together?”

  “We’re not,” I snapped, throwing my gear into my bag. I was pissed. I’d played hard tonight, trying to work it out of my system. But then I’d hear her whoop from the stands or chant my name and this combo of sadness and anger would pick up again.

  “Sorry, I thought you said girlfriend.”

  “I did. Past tense.”

  “Good to see the Saint back. But she’s legit young. Is she, like, a marketing intern?”

  “Nope.”

  “She’s young.”

  “We’re old. Everyone seems young.”

  “We’re thirty. That’s not old. How old is she?”

  “You’ve got a lot of questions, man,” I said, hoping he’d shut up. I really didn’t want to talk, and I especially didn’t want to talk about what was making my chest burn.

  “I’m not the one with a secret girlfriend.” He sang the last word, challenging me to deny it.

  It wasn’t going to work. I’d told him the score already. Girlfriend, past tense. Nothing else to say. So, I didn’t say anything.

  “Really, how did you meet?”

  I rolled my eyes. He wasn’t going to give this a rest, so I gave in. “Met her through work. She’s cool.”

  “She in PR? Because she totally looks like she’s in PR or marketing. Pretty and young.”

  “Nope,” I said, deciding to change the subject before I had to outright lie to one of my best friends. “You and Tamara cool again?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “She wants to—well—she’s been hinting that we should get married.”

  “It’s been like six years, so she kinda has a point,” I said, glad that this convo was now about him and not about me. “Gonna do it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Well, that’s the enthusiasm every woman dreams of,” I said, taking a sly shot at him. It was cheap, but he deserved it. He had what I wanted, and he kept pissing it away, confident that Tamara would always take him back, that she’d always want him. “Sofa always open for you.” It was as much of an apology as he was going to get from me.

  “Except when it’s not.”

  “Yeah,” I said, walking to the showers with a towel around my waist. “After tonight it’s all yours again.”

  “You give me shit about being all over the place with Tamara and then you’ve got this hot mess going on with Kenzie? Girlfriend, not-girlfriend. What do you mean ‘after tonight’? Is this why you were a beast on the ice?”

  This time I wasn’t going to answer him. I didn’t want to think any more about whatever Kenzie and I weren’t. I slung my towel over the stall door and turned on the shower, dousing my head under the stream of cool water.

  “Dude! Your girl is hockey nuts!” shouted Cheesy Pete to the bank of shower stalls.

  “She’s cool,” I said, dreading where this conversation was going.

  “And hot.” It was Samson this time and I didn’t like his tone. He channeled early-twenties, women-are-for-fun Ryan way too well.

  Once more back under the shower, I let the crashing water drown out the talk that had picked up about Kenzie.

  “Stop,” I said, turning off my shower with force. “For real. No talking about her.” I was loud. My shout echoed off the tiled walls. I marched back into the locker area and began dressing in my street clothes in silence.

  “Hey, man,” said Sugarbear, one hand holding a towel at his waist, the other combing through his short hair. “Sorry about that. Just having fun.”

  “We can talk about Elsa, if you want.” I sat down, tying my sneaker laces. I didn’t even look up at him.

  “No.” His answer was a whisper, but stronger than steel.

  “Got it?”

  “Yeah. Got it,” he said.

  Dressed, I went to find Kenzie. She was leaning against the wall just outside the men’s locker room. “Hey,” I said.

  “Great game,” she said. “So, I need to ask. Bonus?”

  “It’s the team’s backup jersey. Bonus player.” I reached to take her hand, but she pulled back from me, the space between us letting me know that she hadn’t changed her mind about where we were. We were nowhere. We didn’t exist. I bit my lower lip as that sank in.

  “Oh, that makes total sense,” she continued like we were casual friends. “And the Saint?”

  I whipped my head toward her. “Who told you that?”

  “Greg. Who I’m definitely calling Scooter for the rest of forever. Is it because you save pucks?”

  She’d given me an out. I could take it. I could let her know that she’d made the best decision in her life on the way to the rink. I could also completely kill Greg at the moment.

  “Ready to get out of here?” I said, not answering her.

  “If you are. Don’t you need to say bye to everyone?”

  “Nah, we’re good to go.”

  In the car, the distance she’d put between us grew, the heat between us replaced by a cool emptiness. I knew I was pissy from her breaking up with me, and I wasn’t interested in a last round of sex, even if she was down for it like she claimed to be. I was angry from the locker room talk and from the way my body felt hot and cold and so damn confused over her, over us. After the tongue-filled kiss as I’d stepped off the ice, I was even more messed up than before.

  “So, the Saint?” she pressed again.

  This would do it, I thought. This would firmly end this thing between us. Kill it with fire. Because while women who knew about the Olivia situation seemed to dig it—that I was ready to commit and had been unjustly rejected—no woman I’d ever met dug the Saint story. If Kenzie wanted to know, then she’d know. Even if I didn’t want to remember—even if I hadn’t been that guy in years.

  “It’s not about hockey.”

  “Isn’t there a movie—”

  “Nope,” I said, deciding I’d be straight with her. That I’d give her this little piece of trivia and we’d both move on. There was no reason to be circumspect. She wanted what she wanted—which wasn’t me—and it wasn’t my business to push back. Two people had to be into a relationship, not just one. “Back in college, I slayed pussy like St. George slayed dragons. Patron saint of G-spots,” I said. “Got shortened into Saint G and then the Saint sometime by junior year.”

  She didn’t respond, just stared out of the passenger’s side window as we drove through the city.

  Back at my place, I brushed my teeth, threw on a T-shirt and boxers and ceded the bathroom to her. I was surprised when she crawled into my bed without any clothes on. It didn’t feel like a game though. She wasn’t playful and she wasn’t obviously angling for sex like she had been after the game. I had no clue what to make of it. I’d done my best to kill it in the car ride home, to do what she asked, to do what was best for both of us. But it was clear, as she snuggled next to me, that whatever this was, maybe it wasn’t over. Maybe it was just quieter now. Mellower.

  And maybe that was okay, I thought as I shucked off my shirt and pulled off my boxers, her naked skin soft and warm on mine. I wanted to bury myself in her. In all the ways I could, but I was tired. Tired from the game, tired from our pre-game sex, tired from our roller coaster, tired
from being in this uncharted place that was us.

  Wrapping her in my arms, I kissed the top of her head. “Night, Kenz.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Kenzie

  His alarm went off early, but I was already awake. Strange bed with a man who hadn’t ever been quite a stranger. I’d slept hard for a few hours, but then couldn’t get comfortable. In the darkness, I kept replaying my decision in my head, going through the reasons why the timing wasn’t right, wondering over the magic connection between us, and not regretting in the least that I’d just cockblocked him and Elsa.

  After Ryan had slipped off into the locker room with the guys, Elsa had asked if we were a thing. “Yeah,” I told her. “We are.”

  “Cool,” she said, with a quick nod. “Good to know.”

  Nope. I didn’t regret that lie one bit. The rest of last night, I didn’t regret it either. I just needed to accept it. Accept that this wasn’t right. Accept that he was a player. Accept that what felt magical to me wasn’t the same to him. I was beyond in love with him, and he was the Saint.

  I tried to be glad that we’d ended this on my terms, but I couldn’t. So, I stared at the cheap roller shade over his bedroom window and tended my heart the way I tended grapes, pruning away even at good parts that wouldn’t give me the best fruit that I wanted.

  He apologized about the alarm and I stayed in bed, pulling up his blankets around myself, while he got ready for work. Things were cold between us. I kept my hurt quiet, and if the Saint had any sadness, he kept that close to his chest.

  “See you at nine thirty, Kenzie. I’ll be good.”

  “Cool. I’ll be good too.”

  “Oh, and if you want to snoop more after I leave, be my guest.”

  “I’m good,” I said. “Probably sleep more.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  It was just after six. And I knew I wouldn’t sleep for a minute.

  I walked into his office at nine thirty on the nose, a big go-cup of coffee in hand. I was tired and wired. Unlike yesterday when I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, I didn’t look at him any more than I had to. The meeting wrapped well before lunch and I was back at home before I breathed again.

  I was packing up stuff in my childhood bedroom to take to my new place when my cousin walked in with a glancing knock on the doorframe to get my attention.

  “How was the banker guy?”

  “Ryan’s good.”

  “The moms have been talking about the two of you.”

  My stomach dropped a foot and I spun to face her. “What?”

  “About how nervous and quiet you get around him. About how he is the worst at pretending to be cool but looks at you anytime he can.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. Kenzie—”

  “It’s over, okay?” I shook my head at her, telling her to be quiet, to let me continue. “It was fun and it’s over. One hundred percent business from here on out.” Any lingering regret I’d had about last night completely vanished. Ryan was a guy, I reminded myself. Guys were half the population of the planet. And I’d totally find another when the timing was better.

  Drennan raised an eyebrow at me. Admittedly, I had never given her any reason to trust my judgment when it came to guys.

  “I’m serious, Drennan. For real. Over.”

  “Okay, but they are watching you.”

  “No doubt, but we’re done. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I buckled down with work, focused on learning all I could from Nate, trying to stuff his decade of knowledge about our estate into my brain, and into settling into my new place. I had rented a small guesthouse from the parents of a friend of a friend, and then scavenged what I could to furnish it. I kept busy with the vines and with trips to hang out with Drennan in Davis so that I didn’t have to think about him, steeling myself ahead of the calendar appointment that kept yelling at me from my computer. Wednesday would be the first time I’d spoken to Ryan since I’d left his office.

  I could do this. I could be a grown-up.

  We were staring at the phone in the middle of the table, waiting for the call to start. I wiped my hands across my thighs. The worn denim was smooth on my palms and I perched on the edge of the table. I was too antsy to sit, much less lounge in a chair like my mom was doing.

  “Ryan Royer.” His voice rang out from the speaker, announcing that he’d joined the call.

  Those three growled r’s in his name scratched my skin, heating me up, making me itch for him. I scrubbed my hands on my jeans again, trying not to remember how his hands felt on my skin. And failing. Hot and teasing, ghosting or kneading. I wanted his hands back on me. It had been a week. Not even. Six days.

  Buckle down, I told myself. Focus. It’s over. Professional. I’d thought about this meeting nonstop—a meeting with his boss and my mom and aunt around. I’d thought about how we were going to fool all of them into thinking we were casual business acquaintances and that under no circumstances had we been fucking like rabbits.

  I’d thought this was going to be easier, that having a conference call where I didn’t have to be in the same room as him, didn’t have to look at his eyes, or his hands—didn’t have to walk by him and get a whiff of the warm, citrusy soap he used—that it was going to be easier to fake it on a call.

  What a joke.

  Maybe all the phone sex had ruined his voice for me. Ruined his voice in the best way, because I wanted him right now. I wiggled my ass back and forth on the table before flopping down in a chair and clasping my hands between my knees in an attempt to be still.

  “Hi, Ryan,” my aunt said. “It’s Theresa. You’ve got Shelly and McKenzie as well.”

  “Great. Marlena’s on, so let’s dive in.”

  Ryan and Marlena launched into the discussion, leading us through the timeline, the statuses, and the prospects. Ryan was so composed on the phone. So professional, so in command, that I wanted to make him weak, to rattle him, to have some proof that my decision had crushed him. To get back at him for all the reasons I was squirming in my chair. I wanted to make him squirm too. I wanted to make him come undone. And I knew just how to do it. Blowing him. I’d never given him a good, dedicated blow job. His loss.

  As he talked interest rates and call terms, I imagined being on my knees in front of him, trailing a finger up and down the fly of his suit pants, toying with his leather belt, making him shiver with anticipation—

  “McKenzie, do you have any questions?”

  It was my mom asking me. I could tell by the set of her mouth she was frustrated with me.

  “Um, yeah,” I said, stalling for time. “I need to know the dates for LA and New York as soon as you get them.” It was stupid and obvious and didn’t add a lick of value to the meeting. I high-fived myself in my head out of embarrassment. Grown-up. I’m a grown-up. He’s a grown-up. We’re all grown-ups here.

  “Gotcha,” said Ryan. “Nancy is handling the logistics. She’ll circulate those details as we firm up meetings. Anything else?”

  “McKenzie, that was really disappointing,” shot my mom after the call ended. “We’re trusting you to represent us well. You can’t do that in front of investors. You can’t just sit there and act like—like that. You’ve got to do something, say something. At least pretend to be engaged in the conversation.”

  I pulled out my phone, checking for texts, hoping to have one from Ryan but knowing I wouldn’t, and wishing that I had somewhere to be that would get me out of this room. “I know, Mom. I really do. I’m working all day in the vines and reading all night, trying to get my hands around Nate’s and Aunt Theresa’s plans for the new acreage and what we need to do when it’s ours in September. And Ryan says that it’s not my job to know the deal inside and out. He says that’s his job. He says my job is to do what I do. He says I only need to know what I do, and to know why I do it.”

  “‘Ryan says,’” said my aunt, quoting me, one eyebrow raised.

  My
mom leaned back in her chair again, her arms folded across her chest. “Kenz—” she exhaled.

  “Trust me—”

  “We are trusting you,” said my aunt, “which is why we’re frustrated—”

  “Got it. Going to work some and then I’m going to meet up with some friends in Davis. Staying with Drennan.” I stood up from the table and clutched my notebook and pen to my chest.

  “Kenzie—” said my mom.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  I spent the rest of the day hunched over my computer, pouring through our ag tech software with Nate at my side, learning new things about the land that I thought I knew—like the way the water tended to pool at the end of two rows because of the incline and the slightly denser soil in that little area and how we had to adjust the irrigation on two sprayers to account for it. By the time Nate called it a day, I was exhausted.

  I sat in my car with an overnight bag in the back seat, the plan for a night out with my cousin and friends feeling less fun by the second. Because I didn’t want to talk to anyone but Ryan, and I couldn’t talk to him anymore. Not in the way I wanted to, at least. Grown-ups. Maybe we could be friends. Yeah, friends. I laughed at the idea of us being friends, of us meeting up for brunch and it not ending with us naked somewhere. I missed him. Tears of regret burned my eyes and I gave in to what I wanted and texted him.

  Me: Hey. Sorry about that disaster of a meeting. My head wasn’t in it.

  Ryan: Hey.

  Ryan: I’ve seen worse.

  Me: You’re texting me back?

  Ryan: Part of me wants to remind you that you dumped me.

  Yeah, I had. A week ago. I couldn’t undo that. I had to own it.

  Me: Yeah. Can I be sorry about that too?

  Ryan: Depends.

  Me: I miss you.

  Me: I was thinking about blowing you the whole meeting.

  Ryan: Think you should be sorry.