Page 53 of Rookie Season
Someone nudges my shoulder pad, and I look up to find Sandine in my space. “Not bad out there today.” He lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. “You did okay, Kid.”
I’m so shocked by his compliment, I’m almost struck speechless, and I mumble a delayed, “thanks,” in response.
Sandine stalks off toward the showers and Penn and Fisher mimic silent screaming and dance around like little girls.
“He totally complimented you,” Fisher whispers.
“He loves you,” Penn says in a hushed tone.
I roll my eyes but can’t wipe the smile from my face.
Because I feel like letting someone in for the first time in a long time, I played my best tonight, and I wasn'tdistracted. Maybe all these things can coexist. Maybe I can allow people into my life—into my heart.
And maybe everything will be okay.
CHAPTER 21
ALLEGRA
After a few weeksof living in Loft 3B, I’ve found a new normal, and I like it.
The weather has turned chilly and damp, and the evenings are getting darker, but I’m content. I miss my family—especially my mom—but I enjoy my job, I love my roommates, and best of all, Noah’s finally acting like my existence in his life isn’t some burden for him to carry. Almost the opposite, in fact.
I’ve also switched out punishing runs on the treadmill for punishing dance practices at the studio after everyone else leaves for the night.
Dancing again is cathartic, and this time I’m doing it solely formyself.Channeling everything I feel into choreography and movement that makes me feel like myself again, even if it is behind closed doors where nobody is watching instead of onstage like I used to dream of.
And the best part is that after I’ve totally exhausted myself every night, I get to come home afterwards to snuggle up on the couch and bingeMatchmaker Mansionwiththe boys, Harry curled up and purring in between me and Noah.
I’m so engrossed in pouring every ounce of myself into working on my dance routine that Halloween sneaks up on me. I come home after four back-to-back classes one afternoon to find three mobsters sitting at the kitchen table…with what looks like an entire special effects make-up department of a movie spread on the table in front of them.
When he hears me come in, Fisher whips his head around so fast the fedora on his head almost flies off. “Ally, you’re home, finally! We need help.”
“I can see that,” I reply with a sputter—because the man is wearing a fake mustache that’s half stuck on and hanging over his lips. For what reason, I have no idea. “Can I ask what’s going on?”
Noah looks up at me with those brown eyes, and my heart picks up speed. While Fisher looks almost cartoonish in his costume, Noah actually looks good in his ridiculous pinstripe suit, the black shirt underneath complementing his dark eyes and hair. “Archibald had the bright idea of accessorizing with makeup.”
Fisher folds his arms defensively. “The internet said that stage makeup could accentuate the look.”
I bite my bottom lip to hide my smirk. “And do you have any idea how to apply stage makeup?”
“No,” he admits.
At that moment, Penn lifts his gaze from where he’s been looking in a compact mirror, and I almost collapse in laughter. He has a fake cigar hanging out of his mouth and a blunt red streak on his cheek that looks like a terrible attempt at a fake scar. “Help us, Ally,” he moans glumly.
“Okay, worry not, boys, the professional is here,” I tell them when I’ve recovered from laughing.
First, I give them all makeup remover wipes to clean themselves up. Then, I line the boys up at the table and proceed to help Fisher stick his mustache on properly before slicking back his hair with a ton of gel. I then use a lipliner pencil to give Penn a much more realistic looking scar on his cheek before advising him to wear dark sunglasses and leave his mob suit jacket behind so he can roll up the sleeves on his shirt to show off his tattoos to complete his look.
Finally, I get to Noah. He’s taken off his pinstripe suit jacket, and underneath he’s wearing suspenders that make his shoulders look impossibly broad, like if he flexed, he could snap the straps in half. With the other boys, I jumped right in, but even the thought of touching Noah’s face or hair makes me feel a little flustered.
“What are you going to do to me?” He asks in a low voice, quirking half a smile, and the suggestiveness of his sentence makes my stomach bottom out.
I swallow. “Um, maybe we could comb your hair back like this,” I say as I show him a picture on my phone.
He nods, and I get to work, squirting a glob of hair gel into my hand and then running my fingers through his thick, dark hair. As I tousle and tease the strands, I notice he seems to enjoy having his hair played with. His shoulders relax, and his breathing becomes softer, shallower. He’s practically purring. And I feel like Ireallyshouldn’t be as aware of this as I am.
“There,” I say when I’m done, reaching out to pull one strand of hair out of the slicked-back gelled style to rest on his forehead. As I do so, my fingers brush his face, and I feel him shiver at the contact, resulting in my own shaky breath. I feel like a moon in his planet’s orbit, a gravitational pull keeping me close—but not too close.
