Page 114 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
Eli goes still. His fingers tighten around the bottle, the faintest crease forming between his brows. For a second, it’s like the whole rink holds its breath—the hum of the lights, the echo of the cooling system, everything fading under the weight of silence.
He swallows hard. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” I ask, quiet but steady.
“Because,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “I’ll want to believe you mean it.”
“I do.”
His eyes flick toward me, uncertain and afraid all at once. “You don’t get to mean it now, Max.”
The words hit like a clean check to the ribs—controlled, not cruel, but enough to make me catch my breath. I don’t look away, though.
“I know,” I say. “But I’m saying it anyway.”
Eli doesn’t respond. He just looks at me—eyes steady, unreadable. For a few long seconds, neither of us moves.
He exhales slowly, the sound almost lost beneath the thud of my heartbeat. Then he stands, shoulders stiff, and without another word, he steps off the bench and heads toward the locker room.
I stay where I am, clipboard in hand, watching until the tunnel swallows him. The peppermint stripes on his stick flash once under the lights before he disappears.
Fuck. What am I doing?
FORTY-THREE
ELI
The locker room’sloud when I come in—music, laughter, the clatter of sticks against the floor—but it all blurs out pretty fast. I hang my gear where it goes, drop onto the bench, and just breathe for a second.
The peppermint stripes on my stick catch the light. I should tape over them, pretend I didn’t use what he left, but I don’t move. Giving in and using his gift earlier was stupid, and I know it was him who left the roll in my cubby. He was the only one around that would have.
Especially me.
I look down at my hands, flex my fingers. Maybe I’m not just punishing him anymore. Maybe I’m punishing both of us. Because when he said that—out loud, where anyone could’ve overheard—it made me want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless.
I shove a hand through my hair, peel off my pads, and drop them into the bin one by one. The locker room hums around me—music still low, someone laughing down the hall—but my head’s somewhere else.
By the time I’ve stripped down to my base layer, I already know where I’m going.
Coach’s office smells like coffee and winter air. The door’s half open, light spilling across the floor. I knock once against the frame, and his voice comes without looking up.
“Starling?” He glances up from a stack of paperwork, one eyebrow quirking.
“Hey, Coach.” I step inside, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “Uh, the other day… You said something about it making us technically compliant. Did that—was that?—”
He sets his pen down and smirks. “Spit it out, Starling.”
I drag in a breath. “Permission. Was it permission?”
That gets his full attention. For a second, he studies me—really studies me—like he’s weighing how much he wants to know. Then he leans back in his chair, mouth tugging toward a grin.
“As far as I’m concerned,” he says, “you’re both grown men. And if Calder’s moving over to the women’s program next week…” He shrugs, casual as anything. “Whatever you two do on your own time is exactly that—personal.”
Something in my chest unclenches, though I try not to show it. I nod once, slow. “Right. Thanks, Coach.”
“Don’t make me regret saying that,” he calls after me as I turn for the door.
I don’t look back, but a corner of my mouth lifts anyway.
