Page 33 of Icing the Cougar
The age gap between us, which I already knew there’d be issues with, is now here, front and center. I’m on one side, alone, and he’s on the other, laughing with the guys who will never see me as anything but a fucking punchline.
I squeeze my eyes shut and think. I will not cry. I will not let them have that.
The phone buzzes again
Jasper:?
Nothing else.
I imagine him sitting on the bench in the locker room, gear half-off, sweat drying on his skin, staring at the phone. Maybe he cares. Maybe he’s just worried I’ll make a scene. I don’t know anymore.
I want to text him back; to tell him I heard everything. To tell him he’s just like the rest of them. To say that I’m done.
I can’t. Not yet.
Instead, I just sit, elbows on knees, and stare at my hands as people come and go through the hall.
The sudden burst of an open door makes me look up to see Jasper coming out of the locker room door. He’s still in his practice gear, laces flapping, sweat running down his face anddarkening the lines of his neck. His eyes scan the hall, wild and searching, and when he spots me, his face goes soft. Then he sees the way I’m sitting—curled in on myself, arms crossed—and something in him freezes.
“Trin,” he says, voice hushed like we’re in church or a hospital. He jogs over, stopping just short of the bench, unsure if he should reach for me.
I keep my head down. “Don’t,” I say. My voice is steady, which surprises me. “Just—don’t.”
He hesitates, hands flexing open and closed. “What happened?” he asks. “Did someone—”
“I heard your teammates.” The words come out flat. “All of them. The locker room pool, the jokes. My ‘expiration date’.” I look up and meet his eyes, which is a mistake. “Congratulations, Jasper. You’re the only guy on the team who’s ever fucked a woman over thirty.”
The color drains out of his face. “That’s not—Jesus, Trinity, it’s not like that—”
“Stop.” I hold up a hand. It’s shaking, so I ball it into a fist. “Just stop.” Every word tastes like rust. “You think I didn’t know what this was? I’m not stupid.”
He kneels in front of the bench, puts his hands on the metal between us like he can build a bridge out of it. “I never told themanything. I swear. They’re just—assholes. Guys talk. It doesn’t mean shit.”
“Doesn’t it?” I push up from the bench, feeling the cold ridges imprinted in the back of my thighs. I stand over him, arms folded so tight my shoulders ache. “Because from where I’m sitting, it’s pretty fucking clear who the joke is here.” My voice cracks. I hate it.
He stands too fast, almost bumping into me. His hands reach out, then drop back to his sides. “It was never a joke to me. Not for a second. You have to believe that.”
I take a step back. Then another. Every inch I move, he looks more panicked, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. “Jasper, don’t.”
He flinches like I slapped him. “Please. Just tell me what I have to do to fix it. You know I don’t give a shit what they say. I’ll tell them all to fuck off. I’ll drop anyone who—”
I shake my head. “You can’t fix it. That’s the point. This was never going to work.” My voice is soft now, but I keep going. “I thought maybe if I gave it time, if I just let myself forget how old I am compared to you, how different it all is…” My chest contracts, squeezing all the air out. “I heard them, Jasper. I heard you laughing along with them.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks completely lost. All the confidence, the swagger, the bone-deep stubbornness—it’s gone. He’s just a young man who doesn’t know how to hold on.
“Trin,” he says again, softer this time. “I love you. You know that, right? I fucking love you.”
The words hit, but instead of warmth, they are cold and empty. “I wish that was enough, but it’s not.” I step back with my arms crossed like a shield. “I can’t be the person you use to prove you’re not like them. I can’t be your rehab project, or your secret rebellion, or whatever the hell this was supposed to be.”
He moves forward again. “You’re not. You’re—fuck, you’re everything. You’re the only reason I even made it through the last month without losing my mind.” His eyes are wild, and I almost believe him.
I remember the sound of his teammates’ laughter, the way my name sounded in their mouths. I remember how he laughed too, even if it was just to keep from being the odd man out. I remember what it feels like to be the punchline.
“I’m sorry,” I say. This time, the tears are there, but I don’t let them fall. I owe him that much, at least. “I can’t do this.”
He says my name again, yet it’s already too late.
I turn and walk. I don’t look back. Not once.
