Page 44 of Hot Shot
“When you get the hoodie, drop what you have to wash off in my room and I’ll put it together with mine.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Are the sandwiches smoking?”
“What— Shit!” Bran lunges for the stove and grabs the frypan. Moving it to the side he curses. “Fucking hell. Can’t use that butter now.”
“I don’t mind it a bit brown.” Mom used to make grilled cheese a light golden color but Dad always managed to burn the butter but somehow the sandwiches still tasted good.
“A bit brown yeah, black, no.” He shakes his head, frowning at the pan before huffing and bending to the cupboard where the pots and pans are kept. “I’m not even going to waste time cleaning it.”
I watch him as he mutters about paying attention and slaps things around. First a glob of butter then the bread and cheese. I want to laugh. His antics are amusing but the look he gave me before is stuck in my head.
What has him sad?
Is it the dreams he’s been having?
Maybe if the right opportunity arises, I can ask him about them over lunch.
Branton
Blake Watts has always had more faith in me than I ever had in myself.
Over the last few days, since the night we went into town for dinner, she’s proven again and again my actions didn’t shake that faith.
And if I could just snatch a little of it, believe in myself the way she does, I can use it to shore up my courage. Because it will take everything I have to do what I need to. I’ve put it off long enough.
The nightmares I’ve been having are proof of that.
If we’re going to continue to build this relationship—the way we always should have—on and off the ice, there can’t be any more secrets.
And I’m holding in a big one.
One I’m scared will ruin everything we’ve rebuilt since I woke to find her in my living room.
The same living room she’s been working in for most of the day. I hate to disturb her, then again, that could be my shaky courage finding excuses not to do this.
Excuses like cleaning up our lunch dishes. Throwing two loads of laundry in the washer, switching them to the dryer. Sweeping the kitchen floor.
All cowardly bullshit I don’t want to keep doing.
Snapping my spine straight and pulling back my shoulders the way her dad used to tell us showed we were confident—would make usfeelconfident—I move across the room until I’m beside her.
“Blake?”
“Hmm…” She’s so engrossed in reading the files of possible Rogue players on her laptop she barely acknowledges me at first.
“Come for a walk with me?” I hold out my hand and wait for her to take it; the ease with which she slips her hand into mine brings a smile to my face.
Her faith, her trust, her support. She offers me all of them freely and even though I feel unworthy, I’m taking them.
Because after I tell her this final secret, I’ll try my hardest to be the man she deserves if she’ll still let me.
“Should I shut down my laptop?”
“No. We won’t be gone long.” Or she won’t if she decides what I have to say is something she can’t forgive.
