Page 33 of Lovesick
Merit seems to knowexactlywhat I’m talking about because she yanks down whatever is underneath her sweatshirt, showing me a sliver of crumpled maroon. “I’m wearing it.”
“No, you’re supposed to wear itoverthe sweatshirt.”
She stands on her tiptoes so she can waggle her finger in my face. “That was never a part of the arrangement. I’m wearing your jersey, aren’t I?”
I’m aware she’s playing with me. She’s the cat, I’m the mouse, and she’s got my flimsy little tail wrapped around her claw.
“You want me to put in a good word with your dad? Wear it over the sweatshirt, Merit,” I growl, failing to weed out the deep-seated possessiveness inside me.
She descends to the soles of her feet. “Low-key really isn’t in your vocabulary, is it? My dad would have an aneurysm if he saw me wearing your jersey. There’s a romantic implication,” she explains slowly.
Usually, the patronizing thing doesn’t do it for me, but if Merit is the one putting me in my place, I’m more than willing to comply.
I perk up, flashing her a panty-melting grin. “Romantic implication?”
She flicks her ponytail in disinterest, tutting. “Yeah, never in a million years.”
“So you’re telling me there’s a chance?”
“How did you get that from our conversation?”
“I’m an optimist.”
“In a million years, you and I will both be dead,” she grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest, though she looks about as intimidating as a cupcake. The tip of her nose is red from thesnow-bearing temperature, and even though she’s bundled beneath layers, I still want to bring her into my arms and shield her from the cold.
“Maybe we’ll be trapped in the afterlife together,” I surmise, admiring her from a self-inflicted distance, a tepid warmth springing eternal in my chest.
I derive a genuine pig snort from her, and it’s one of the best sounds in this entire world. Better than the roar of the crowd before taking the ice, better than the blaring of a goal horn after scoring a shot, better than the hiss of glissading skates or the thwack of pucks against sticks. It’s the kind of laugh that you wish you could bottle up.
“Shit. That’s actually a fate worse than death.”
I know I’m toeing an invisible delineation between us—one that I’ve accepted to be gospel—but now, being this physically close to her but so emotionally far away, I’d be doing us a disservice if I didn’t test its flexibility just a little bit.
So, hoping that I’m not making an irreversible mistake, I inch the slightest bit over the figurative line until I’m crowding her personal bubble. “Pretend all you want, Merit, but I don’t think you hate me as much as you let on,” I whisper under my breath, right next to her ear.
I don’t touch her. I let the proximity speak for itself.
The Queen of Cover-Ups can’t even hide the shiver that rolls through her body. “And how can you be so sure?”
My eyes drift to the secret underneath her sweatshirt as unmatched pride swarms inside my stomach. A secret that nobody else knows about except us.
Even though my gum has lost its flavor, I still flatten it against my back molars. “Whose name is on your back right now?”
Merit has gone stock-still—as if she’s a doe caught in the line of a hunter’s crossbow—and although her cheeks are windburned, the timid blush that peeks through is unmistakable.No snarky comeback, no stubborn resistance. The only thing that she manages to do is part her lips with a delayed response.
“I’ll score a goal just for you tonight,” I whisper.
“Please don’t.”
“Too late. Already planning on it.”
I jog in place in the single-file line—gum disposed of and helmet equipped—galvanized to wipe the rink with the other team. I’ve been working all summer for this. Here’s my chance to prove to everyone that I belong here.
Harlan looks back at me and speaks, his mouthguard obstructing some of his words. “You ready, Captain?”
I nod, feeling anticipation burble in my belly like a hot spring. “Let’s fucking do this.”
The announcer’s stentorian voice soars overhead, booming around the arena as he welcomes the Wyoming Wildebeests onto the ice, introducing them by player. The large, heavy-duty lights wash the entire rink in a blue film, mimicking the caustic refraction of sunlight in a swimming pool.
