Page 124 of Wicked Minds
“Sure, but there’s a difference between going after something for yourself and doing it because you want to make the other person happy. To have them look at you with a gleam of pride, to imagine them standing beside you.”
Eyes searching mine, he states, “He’s no longer purely doing it for himself. Logan wants to be the best not only because hockey is his dream, but because he wants you to look upon his achievements and know they’re an extension of his love for you.”
My mouth is dry as I swallow, struggling to wrap my mind around what Royce is saying.
“How do you know that?”
Royce tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, the pad of his finger lingering on the corner of my jaw. “Because I see the way he looks at you, as if you’re his whole world. His future has always been hockey. Although if I were to guess, I’d say, evenif he ended up a fourth-line forward for some shitty team, he wouldn’t care as much as he once would have.”
His fingers curl around my jaw, the strokes light and reverent. “I’m not trying to scare you off. I’m just saying that Logan’s future is no longer solely hockey. It’s you.”
My heart thumps heavily against my chest. Only, it’s not with anxiety, but with steady assurance. A confirmation of what I’ve known deep down inside for a while but have refused to look too closely at. Logan wears his heart on his sleeve, and while noI love you’s have been exchanged, it wouldn’t surprise me if that’s where he’s at.
Is it where I’m at? I’m less sure of that answer. Unlike Logan, I don’t believe in soulmates and love at first sight, but I do believe in love, and if there is anyone I could fall in love with, it would be Logan Astor.
And if I looked inside myself, I might also admit that I could fall in love with the mysterious bad boy currently looking at me as thoughhe’sthe one confessing I’m his future.
We fall into easy conversation after Royce’s declaration. He orders food, and we munch on Chinese as we talk about lighter topics. When I bring up the sketch of me he’d drawn over winter break, he asks if I want to see it, and I follow him up to his room.
Just like last time, I pause on the threshold.
“Scared, Babydoll?” he teases, breath tickling my ear as he notices my hesitation.
“No,” I tell him honestly. “Just taking a moment to appreciate the privilege that it is to be allowed into your inner sanctum.”
His thumb and index finger grasp my chin, gently turning my head to face him. The brief brush of his lips is reverent. Deep. Monumental.
“You’re always welcome in my room, Ry. I’d hide away from the world with you any day.”
We’ve spent many nights over the last days and weeks, typically after my shifts or, more recently, on the nights he stays at mine, curled up on the sofa. Him drawing while I read. I can’t think of anything better I’d rather do. There’s something to be said about sharing a space with someone, both of you doing your own thing. Simply being together because you enjoy one another’s company but not feeling as though you need to fill it with words or lavish the other with attention.
“It’s a date,” I murmur against his lips. With a stroke of his finger along my cheek, he pulls away, placing a gentle yet firm hand on my back to nudge me into his room.
I go easily, breathing in the scent of leather and something gritty that is uniquely Royce. It wraps around me, a protective shield that both comforts and fortifies.
Keeping this hand on my back, he directs me over to his desk, nudging me into the chair while he grabs an A3 drawing pad.
He pauses with this thumb at the corner, his first sign of uncertainty.
“You don’t have to.” I glance up into his face, the war within playing out in the shadows of his eyes before he snaps his gaze to mine. In an instant, whatever was troubling him lifts, and he latches onto my gaze like it’s an anchor as he pulls open the book.
“I told you I would, James. I don’t break my promises,” he states, lifting his spare hand and running his index finger along my lower lip. “Besides, I want to show you. I’m just not used to being so…”
“I know,” I assure him, giving his wrist a gentle squeeze. “Your trust is hard won. I like that about you, and I’m more than up to the challenge of proving you can trust me.”
His exhale shudders, something loosening in his shoulders, and he nods before turning his attention back to the drawing pad. I linger a moment longer, taking in those dark, angry eyebrows, the sharp angles of his jaw, and his long, straight face. All of it paints a picture of a strong man used to depending on only himself. I so badly want to crack that impenetrable exterior, to see what lies underneath and show him that I’d happily protect him as fiercely as he’s willing to protect me.
Tearing my eyes away, I tilt my head to look down at the open drawing pad. As I lay my eyes on the intricately detailed sketch, a rush of emotion sweeps through me, leaving me breathless. Awestruck.
Before me lies an imperfect, scarred, beautiful woman. It’s me, and yet it’s a version of myself I don’t recognize. With every pencil stroke, Royce has woven a portrait that transcends mere physical resemblance.
My fingers reach out to trace the lines, almost as if I’m touching the delicate strands of my own identity. The drawing serves as a mirror that reflects not just my appearance, but the depths of my heart, my experiences, and my emotions. The way he’s captured the pain lurking in the corners of my eyes, it’s as though he can see to the inner sanctum of my soul, laying bare the facets of myself that I keep shrouded from the rest of the world.
There’s not just pain in the drawing, though. There’s also love and a vitality for life, a gritty determination I recognize intimately from the planes of Royce’s face.
In the gray lines, I can make out my undying love for my daughter, the passion I feel for dance, my drive and ambition.And in the dark shading lies the hidden crevices—the shadows, the fear, the scars that are my companions in the quiet of night.
A reminder that I’m not just light but also a complex tapestry of darkness and resilience.
