Page 57 of The Last Kind of Kiss
The game, as I predicted, progresses in the same manner. A lot of back and forth between the players, some cringe-worthy body slams, and pucks zooming around with so much force that they could probably take out some poor spectator’s eye if it wasn’t for the plexiglass. Bristol’s a beast out there. He’s not super aggressive, but he’s self-assured, and he doesn’t back down from a fight. He’ll end one, but he’ll never start one. Something about that tickles my lady peach, if you know what I mean.
Oh, and not that it’s newsworthy or anything, but he’s also managed to score four more goals. That’s five kisses. FIVE. There’s no way I’m getting out of this. Please, God, have a tornado break through the ceiling and suck me up so I don’t have to suffer through this embarrassment.
We’re on to the last period of the game, the score is 8-5, and the Riverside Reapers are definitely taking home a win tonight. I’d argue that Bristol’s taking home alittle morethan just a win, though. A few girls down the row have this huge sign plastered to the glass, and they both sporadically scream out Bristol’s name, each of them adorned withhisjersey number on their backs. I’m not sure why, but this wick of jealousy lights inside me, and I have to suppress the urge to make physical contact with both of their faces.
There’s thirty seconds left on the clock. Everyone’s suspended in nerve-racking anticipation. Bristol’s only missed one out of the six shots he’s taken tonight. The Reapers havebeen playing their asses off the entire game. Number sixty-five, Kit, has ironclad possession of the puck, careering through Wolverines like they’re a bunch of brainless bowling pins. He zeroes in on the goal, but the defense flocks to him instantly, and he ends up passing to Hayes, who’s teetering on the outskirts waiting for an opening.
Ten more seconds.
Hayes grabs the puck, narrowly dodges an incoming lunge from his adversary, and covers a few more feet before taking a shot. When he gets knocked up against the boards, the puck’s trajectory falters and slingshots somewhere to the side, but it doesn’t matter. The buzzer blares victoriously as the final score—8-5—flashes on the neon scoreboard, inciting roars of euphoria from the audience. Bristol and his teammates flood toward the center in celebration, forming a huddle and cheering with their sticks thrusted high in the air.
Aeris and I both rise to our feet and clap, and my heart swells with undeniable pride. It rivals the commotion around me, and everything happens in a rapid fire of events. One second Bristol’s laughing and shouldering his teammates, and the next, he’s skating over in my direction, exiting the side passage, and taking his helmet off to kiss me. The cameraman follows him just in time to catch my surprise on the Jumbotron, but it’s quickly succeeded by the feverish rush of his lips on mine, broadcasted for the entire world to see. I don’t resist him. I don’t hesitate. I melt on the spot, letting him rob me of breath and rationale, and my hands move treacle slow to cup the sweaty side of his face. In a non-fairy-tale-esque sequence, I’d probably tell him to go shower first.
But right now, all I can think is:
Never stop kissing me.
20
NO GOOD DECISIONS WERE EVER MADE IN A LOCKER ROOM
BRISTOL
Inever wanted to stop kissing Lila. And I probably wouldn’t have if I didn’t smell like actual ass. Kissing her just felt…right. It didn’t feel like some grand gesture for the cameras. I didn’t even do it for that reason—it was just some instinct that came over me. It wasn’t a celebration without her. I seized the moment and let my heart lead. Will I get shit about it later? Probably, but it was worth it.
It was so fucking worth it.
Oh, and I still have four more kisses to cash in on. The night’s just begun, my friends.
I dry the ends of my wet hair with a towel, coming around the corner to find Hayes still waiting for me with his phone in his hand. “Gonna carpool with Aeris and some of the guys. You still meeting up with us at Beer Comes Trouble?”
Those two are attached at the hip, I swear. One time I heard them complaining about how much they missed each other when they were only one room apart. They’re crazy in love, and you can feel that love whenever you’re around them.
“Yeah, I’ll catch up with you guys. I should probably find Lilafirst,” I tell him, neatly folding my damp towel before placing it in the communal hamper.
“Alright, just text me.” He waves goodbye and steps out of the locker room before sprinting to go find Aeris.
I’m usually always one of the last ones out of the locker room. I need a major de-stress session after every game, and yes, that does consist of a twenty-minute shower where I either dissociate or pat myself on the back for an awesome play. It’s nice to have some alone time. I love my teammates with my whole heart, but it can get rowdy at times with five other guys constantly around. I spend a good ten minutes air-drying before I have to embark on a night of endless drinks and socialization that’ll probably drain my entire battery.
Adrenaline’s still coursing through my veins—more so from the kiss rather than the game. All I can think about is Lila. All I ever think about is her. Sometimes I’m not as present as I should be during practice; sometimes the campaign slips to the backburner; sometimes I can’t even fall asleep because my mind’s constantly goingLila, Lila, Lila.
Talking to her about Summit was a conversation that needed to be had. It wasn’t easy, but it was time I told her the truth. She seemed pretty normal during the game earlier, so I’m not sure what’s going through her head. She was probably just acting unbothered for the cameras. The weeklong cold shoulder was hard to accept from her, but I know she needed space to think about everything.
I’d rather chew my own foot off thaneverput her in a position like that again. She didn’t deserve it. And if I was her, after this campaign, I’d run for the hills. I have a lot of self-work to do. I have a lot of therapy to do. I have a long road of forgiveness ahead of me for Summit’s passing. But I also have a long road of accountability ahead of me for the way I treated Lila.
I take a seat on one of the benches and hang my head, lettingthe last droplets of water slap against the cold ground. The entire locker room is configured in a giant rectangle that has each player’s respective cubby lining the walls, our pièce de résistance being the giant Grim Reaper logo plastered on the floor. We’ve even got blue LED lights tucked away in the corners for some ambient lighting.
I hear the door swing open, and since I’m positioned toward it, I don’t really bother with raising my head. It’s probably just one of my teammates. But then I’m hit with this strange clacking noise that can only be created by a heel of some sort.
Even through the guilt, when I look up, I’m met by the exact person I was hoping to see.
“Sorry. I, uh, I thought you would be…dressed,” Lila rambles, averting her eyes and pretending to look around the room with the worst poker face I’ve ever seen. There’s a light blush powdering her cheekbones—though maybe that’s just the lighting.
“I should be. I can get dressed now. It’s no big?—”
“You don’t have to. I can leave. I was just…coming in here to congratulate you,” Lila cuts in, looking small in my oversized jersey. The hem of it hangs to her thighs, swaddling those mile-long legs of hers I love. She also looks small in a different way, like she’s embarrassed about having interrupted whatever it was that I was doing. Her face is still downturned, and I wish…fuck, I wish she would justlookat me.
When she turns to leave, I stop her.
