Page 74 of Facing Off
“It’s not that difficult,” mutters Sonya.
“I wantlots of things.”
“Name one.”
“I—”
“Something of actual value.”
“Okay, because I was going to say an eight-pack, but when I’m committed to the gym, it happens anyway?—”
“Be serious?—”
“I’m trying?—”
“If you don’t answer, I’m walking,” she threatens sharply.
“Sonya, just…don’t.”
“Then tell me what’s something of real value that you want, and it can’t be a joke. Because if this works, if yourteam helps me and Bob Pepita hires me for his ballet, then I get everything I want. So tell me what you wantmorethan anythi?—”
“You.”
Sonya freezes like she’s been caught by some headlights shining suddenly and overly brightly on her. Her pupils dilate.
It’s completely silent for multiple, painful, prolonged heartbeats. Until Sonya finally screws her eyebrows together and swears under her breath. “I said be serious.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” My grin is so artificial it must be a sticker. I laugh. “Let me go again. I want…”
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
When I don’t answer, Sonya stands up. She’s looking down and rubbing at her jeans, the movement mindless. “If you won’t cooperate, then I’ll have to think of something myself.”
“Yes. Do that.” I gesture magnanimously that I’ll accept whatever she comes up with, still reeling from how two seconds ago I declared, out loud and so boldly, that I wantedher.
Sonya begins to pace, slowly ticking her fingers. “Okay, here’s what I know. Your GM is threatening to trade players before you can pull together as a team.” Her second finger goes up. “I’m extrapolating because you play it off, but I think the pressures of being a captain are a lot on your shoulders.” Third finger. “There’s also something about you worrying about being selfish.” Fourth finger. “And the World Hockey Championship, you wanted to go but didn’t think you deserved to? I haven’t forgotten that.”
I’m gaping at her.
She remembers every clumsy word I blurted out to her from the rage room. The ones I’d played off as nothing.
Her hands hit the surface of the counter and slidecloser to me. Like she’s a detective and I’m a suspect, squirming under bright lights. “Are you sleeping properly?”
“No.”
Shit.Why did that answer pop out of me?
A crease forms between her eyebrows. “Are you under a lot of pressure?”
“Yes.” It’s my Sonya problem acting up again. The compulsion to share with her things I don’t tell anyone else becomes even more unruly. It’s under my skin. Inside me.
She taps a finger on her lip, frowning deeply as if she’s genuinely upset. “Does anyone on your team know you feel this way?”
“No.”
What are you doing? Stop dumping this on her.
“Do you want to tell them?” Sonya asks, pausing to stand still.
