Page 83 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
Everyone in the front row winces, and a collectiveooheddies out on warm breaths. Cali’s on her feet within a second, nervously chewing on her nails while her eyes zip from player to player. Her leg’s been shaking this entire time, subjecting my ass to a miniature earthquake, and her concentration face looks a lot like an I’m-going-to-shit-myself face.
I slowly drop the poster (probably for Teague’s best benefit) and rub my hand over the outside of her leg, encouraging her to look at me.
“Relax, Spitfire. He’s doing great,” I say, nodding my head as he chases after the puck.
Cali sits down with a sigh, anxiety sparkling like a half-lit fuse in those deep blue eyes of hers, and her leg has taken abrief pause from its ongoing quaking. “I’m just…he hasn’t made a goal yet, and the game’s over in three minutes.”
“I know. It takes a while for players to gain enough confidence to score goals, especially if they take on new coaches during the season. Your brother’s never had any coaching before.”
I give her thigh a squeeze, and the tension in her worked-up shoulders loosens just a bit. “I know. I don’t expect him to score a goal. I just don’t want him to be disappointed, you know? He’s been working so hard, and what if the other kids are still picking on him and?—”
Never in my twenty-two years of life have I ever met someone with a heart as big as Cali’s—a heart made to hold an infinite amount of love despite the small physicality of it. Her compassion is so great that it could set off an avalanche in the stillest parts of winter, that it could be felt across snow-drenched mountain gorges and in the most hard-to-reach crevices.
“As long as you’re proud of him, he’ll be proud of himself,” I reassure her, draping my arm around her frame and pulling her gently into my side, where she rests her head on my shoulder.
A flyaway hair of hers tickles my cheek, and if we weren’t in public, I’d stick my face in her curls and inhale until cinnamon flows through my bloodstream. I want to stay like this forever. My first home and my second home, meeting each other for the first time. Hockey—once the greatest love of my life—passing the baton to the one person who trumps it completely, and who’s rebuilt my entire way of living by tilting my world on its axis.
Just three months ago, I was getting my ass ripped by this five-foot-seven spitfire in front of my entire hockey team, and I was determined to hunt her down, find some random dog shit and bag it, then light it on fire and throw it on her porch. Buteverything’s changed. No fecal warfare or pyro projectiles for me.
She’s my whole world, and whenever I look at her, I wonder how a single person could mean so much to me—how she unknowingly has the power to destroy me completely.
She instantly raises her head to glance at me. “I am proud! I’m so proud of him! Oh, God. Does he not think I’m proud of him?”
A deep laugh gathers in my chest like a rumbling thunderstorm. “He does. I’m pretty sure you’re the proudest sister in this entire universe.”
“Oh…”
While she’s still facing me, I gently hook my thumb under her jaw, my eyes falling to her lips and lingering there, a grin stretching over my own. I don’t kiss her right away. I internally freak out that I even have the privilege of kissing this girl, and I revel in the proximity she grants me, the one that only ratchets my growing, inexplicable need for her.
She stares down at my mouth, then she nudges her nose against mine, and our foreheads gently knock together. Her minty breath is warm as it hits my face, and if I hadn’t lost all branches of thought, I would’ve made the first move. But she kisses me this time—a slow, indulgent kiss that triggers butterflies in my belly and strikes me with enough brute force to render me speechless.
There’re no aggressive tongues or grabby hands. It’s something chaste yet everlasting in memory.
We both pull away at the same time, and if her cheeks are the slightest shade of pink, then mine must be as subtle as a flashing traffic message board.
The game continues to roar around us, and I keep an eye out for Teague’s jersey in the cyclone of red-and-white bodies, all ofwhom are still screaming at the tops of their lungs and ping-ponging around like out-of-control fireworks.
“How are you feeling? About your mother?” I ask, interlacing our fingers together. Cali’s freezing from the rink, and I squeeze her palm a little to try and circulate some warmth. Her scars have begun to thicken, which means she hasn’t felt the need to harm herself. And that’s a good sign.
I know her mother is a sensitive topic, but we’re moving her into the facility tomorrow. I need to know that Cali’s going to be okay.
I’m surprised (and relieved) that she’s allowed me to help with her mother’s expenses. I don’t think I would’ve been able to sleep or eat or drink if I continued to stand idly by as she dealt with everything by herself. It’s my unofficial duty to protect Cali and her family. It’s the only thing in this world that matters to me.
Her chest rises with a steady breath, and the tip of her tongue plays peek-a-boo against her lips. “I’m actually doing okay,” she says quietly.
“Cali, that’s great.”
She glances out at the rink. “And Teague…I think he’s doing okay too. I don’t think he fully understands what’s going to happen, though.”
“I think it’s better if he doesn’t understand. He’ll look to you for security because he’s so uncertain, you know? Instead of spiraling,” I admit, rubbing my thumb over the ridge of her knuckles.
“I never really thought about it like that.”
It feels like my aching heart grows twice the size. “You’re his whole world. However you react, he’ll react.”
That worried, tightly pulled expression of hers morphs into a rare calm that I wish I saw more of, and realization settles likerapid-hardening cement in her arctic irises. “I have to be strong for him,” she concludes.
“You have to be strong for yourself,” I correct.
