Page 81 of The Home Grown
“That sounds like a headache for Jess,”Mike says, after blowing out a low whistle. He takes it upon himself to waltz right into the salon, closing the door behind him. “Hope she gets things—hey, are these all your certificates?”
He stops at the front counter, studying the row of frames mounted to the wall behind.
“Some of them are mine, some are Kathryn’s,” I say, starting the close-down routine, reaching for the pull cord of the blinds.
“Oh, wow. You’ve done a lot,” he says. “Looks like there’s not much you can’t do.”
“You sound surprised,” I say. “I’ve been busy. And get this, I’m still not doing what I want to be doing.”
“What’s that?”
“Bridal—” I stop myself, wondering why I’m opening up to someone who felt it appropriate to use me … to make me feel disposable. I finish drawing the blinds closed before turning towards him. “Mike, why are you here? I know you came to apologise, and I appreciate it. Butwhyare you here? You could have texted or called or whatever.”
“I—” He leans back on the counter. “I, I wanted to say sorry in person, and I’m not naive enough to think that a fancy bouquet is going to fix things but, I wanted to—I don’t know, Kitch.” He doesn’t even look at me. He keeps his eyes fixed on a point in front of his fancy looking trainers. “I’m shit with this sort of stuff, and you know I don’t think things through.”
“So that’s a reason to say ‘thanks for the flowers, I forgive you?’”
“No, of course not, but that’s why I’m here. I want to make things right because I shouldn’t have asked you to lie for me. And I should have considered how it’d make you feel. But of course, I didn’t.” His cheeks flame red as he peeks a look at me. “I didn’t want to not try, I guess. I didn’t want to let history repeat itself.”
“Slightly different, Mike, but okay.”
“How is it?” he says
“Because this time, you made me feel cheap—like you messed up and thought‘Oh, I know who can get me out of this hole … I’ll ask Ellie. She’s got nothing else better to do.’” My voice transforms into a shaky mess as I finish speaking.
“Nah, this is what I’m saying, Kitch. I don’t think things through, do I? I didn’t actively think about how it’d come across. I didn’t consider how it’d make you feel, but honestly, it wasn’t like that.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I purse my lips, finally meeting his eyes.
“I really like you,” he says.
And there’s that look again—the same look I saw him wear in my kitchen.
Oh, God. This isn’t good; there’s a smile trying to fight its way to my lips.
“I’m sorry that I made you feel anything other than … wanted, I guess.” He straightens up and moves forward a step. “But I do want you.” He rubs his hands over his face. “… ah, fuck. See? I mean, I want to spend time with you, get to know youmore, I want to dothattoo but—I’ll shut up now.” He snaps his mouth shut and watches me, apparently waiting for a response.
“I—I don’t know what to say,” I stutter.
“Can we start over?” he says. “Pretend like none of this—well, actually, I know I still need to look for that wedding paperwork, but can we start again? Because I know it’s crazy to think this way but, do you think that maybe, just maybe, this all came about because we were meant to reconnect?”
“I don’t know, Mike.”
He exhales, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. Team GB sweatpants. And I know I shouldn’t care—or at least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself, but I do. I feel…
“I should have tried harder before. When I got back from Germany … I should have?—”
“Did you get in?” I say, cutting him off. “Team GB. Did you get in?” I eye the logo on his hat this time, completely taken aback that I didn’t notice before.
“Uh, yeah. I guess—I mean, the roster is changing a lot, so nobody has a guaranteed long-term position, but yeah. For now, I’m in.”
I can’t help myself. The moment pulls me in before I can think better of it. My feet move before my brain catches up, and suddenly, my arms lock around his neck.
Only yesterday, I didn’t really understand the significance of this achievement, but the forum has been an eye-opener. A lesson in British ice hockey, if you will. Mike’s a homegrown, a player developed in Britain, turned professional in Britain and now he’s on the national team. The boy next door—playing forTeam GB.
And here I am, my arms around his neck and my head half-resting on his shoulder, where I get a big ol’ whiff ofhim.His aftershave, his skin—fresh and musky—causing a tingle to run all the way through me.
I realise my mistake, but before I can pull away, he’s settled his arms around my waist and he squeezes me, ever so slightly, but enough to close the tiny space between us.
