As I stand, I catch Zack in my peripheral vision. He hasn’t even closed his textbook. When I hear him sucking in a breath as though he’s about to say something, I seize the opportunity to bolt before he can get a word out. I don’t want to face him. I can’t.
Grunts and smacks echo in the studio. A small group of fourteen-year-olds are lined up in front of dummies, throwing jabs left and right. I’m simply not in the mood to demonstrate move flows to a bunch of hormone-driven teenagers. Christos has this same group next week, so I know they won’t fall behind in the program. Pacing along the line, I make sure to examine and correct when needed, but it’s more robotic than anything. Mentally, I’m not here.
When the session is finally done and the equipment has been sanitized and stored, all I can think about is going home, taking a scalding hot shower, falling face down on my bed, and drifting into sleep’s blissful oblivion. I send Christos a quick message letting him know class is done and I’ll be home shortly. No recent messages from Zack, and I force myself to ignore the slight twinge in my belly.
Locking the office door, eager to finally have the day over with, I hear the front door of the studio opening. Puffing out an exasperated sigh, I walk out to the main room while rummaging through my purse for my keys. Elusive little fuckers.
“Sessions are done for the day. Class schedules can be found on our website,” I mutter, still absently looking through my purse. As my fingers slip against the cool, jagged metal, I collide into a solid wall of muscle.
Jaw tight and his shoulders squared, Zack peers down at me with a look of forced amusement, as if to say “caught ya.”
“Lucky for me I contacted the owner to see when the last class of the day was.” He stiffly moves past me and stops just a few feet away. “It seems the apprentice is lacking some communication skills.” Turning to face me and folding his arms across his chest, he narrows his eyes into sharp slits. “Let’s work on that, shall we?”
PANIC SHOOTS UP MY SPINE, sharp and hot, and I feel like an animal backed up into a corner. I underestimated Zack, and should have known he’d show up here. Why that thought never occurred to me, I can only blame on my utter mental fog of late.
I’m trapped, and this time, pretending to not hear or see him won’t pull the hook out of my mouth. But I refuse to cower in front of him, so I pull my shoulders back and force my eyes to meet his. A storm is brewing within the oceans of his eyes. He’s the hurricane, and I’m the ship that dared tread on his waters.
“Fifteen text messages, four calls, and three classes,” he grits through his teeth, still standing firm. “And you’ve been avoiding me like I’ve contracted fucking leprosy.”
My mouth slacks open to offer some half-assed response, because lord knows I’m too chickenshit to tell him the truth. That being with him is like finally seeing the sun after years of being in the dark. That being with him scares the hell out of me. That being with him could break me.
He cuts me off before I can manage a word. “Yeah, I know, I’m a just a meathead carrying a stick, right? Well, I’m not a fucking dumb jock. I’m sure that’s news to you.” He steps toward me.
I want to back away, but my feet remain rooted where I stand. Within two wide strides, he closes the distance between us. My nose is mere inches from his chest, and I can’t resist the urge to inhale deeply. His scent floods my senses in a delicious mix of crisp fall air and his cologne. Big mistake, I realize, when a shudder that I hope to hell is imperceptible racks my body.
He arches his neck down, bringing our faces closer together. “Why have you been ignoring me? And spare me the ‘I’ve been swamped with homework and my phone isn’t working’ bullshit.”
Scrambling to maintain my composure, I lift my chin in defiance. “Yes, I’m sure being on the receiving end of those lines for once would be quite the blow to your ego.”
He snorts out a derisive laugh and shoves a hand through his dark hair, making it even more unruly. “Unbelievable.”
I heave out a sigh and decide on giving him at least a sliver of the truth. Less of an explanation than he deserves, but my heart has tucked itself behind the walls it’s had eleven years to construct. I decide it’s best to treat this relationship like a Band-Aid and rip it off in one swift motion. It’s still painful, far more than I’d like to admit, but my gut tells me I’m doing the right thing.
“You’re a great guy, but we’re different. We run in different circles. Hanging out with you has been fun, but our ties were loose enough to begin with.” Even I wouldn’t believe the lies oozing from my mouth. God, I’m pathetic.
He shakes his head. “I call bullshit. Everything was fine before the night of the party. Then you took off like a shot.”
More specifically, everything was fine until our kiss. That’s written within his pointed glare, where the storm brews stronger still.
“I know you felt that kiss like I did. This pull between us, can’t you feel it too?” His voice takes on a breathy quality, as if he’s reliving the moment our lips met.
I don’t dare tell him how many times I lay awake thinking about the very same thing.
With hooded eyes, he presses on. “I can still taste you. Still feel you beneath my hands.” His fingers furl and unfurl as if manifesting the memories into a physical reality.
I feign a careless expression, trying my best to not falter in front of him. “It was just a kiss. It didn’t mean anything.”
It meant everything . . . it still means everything.
He cocks an eyebrow, and his upper lip curls. “You’re many things, Dahlia, but I never pegged you for a coward or a damn liar.”
And with that final jab, he turns on his heel and strides out of the studio. The ding of the door indicator mocks me as it slams behind him.
I can only stand there, statue-still and feeling as though I’m floating in the middle of a vast sea with nothing but driftwood keeping me afloat. I have to fight against the urge to let it slip away and allow the last remnants of the storm to pull me under.
DISHES CLANK ON THE COUNTERTOP, and the smell of burnt oregano fills the air of the kitchen. I hate oregano, but saying as much to a Greek family is just short of sacrilegious.
Christos hovers over the stove, wiping his brow with his forearm as he prepares herbed potatoes, a dish towel marred with various spills slung over his shoulder. Worried that expecting his mother to cook for so many people would be too much for her, given her age and her worsening arthritis, Christos took it upon himself to host Christmas dinner this year, and I think it’s more pressure than he expected.
“Let me know when you need the oven, paidí mou, and we still need to set the table,” he says, a tinge of panic in his voice.
I’ve been charged with baking the karidopita, a Greek walnut cake recipe infused with syrup. It’s sinfully decadent and delicious and my personal favorite. When I was eleven years old, Christos’s mother, Agatha, prepared it on my first Christmas with the Anastas family. Just the memory of the first time I sat at Agatha’s ornately decorated table fills me with warmth. I’d never experienced such a familial environment before. People laughing and smiling with each other as they shared their lives over a communal meal. I’d expected to feel left out and only welcome out of pity, but they’d treated me as if I’d always been there and engulfed me in their loving embraces. I gained a family that night, and I will forever be grateful to Christos for that.
Roughly two hours later, every dish has been set on a clean and decorated dining room table. The house is silent save the crackling wood burning in the fireplace. Any minute, the house will be bursting to the seams with family.
Footsteps echo in the living room as Christos descends the staircase, dressed in a crisp shirt and slacks. “Thank you for all of your help this evening. How my mother managed to do this all these years is a mystery to me.”
I hug him tightly when he stands next to me in front of the fire. “You’re welcome. I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.”
He leans away and stares at me, his brown eyes shining with warmth. After planting a brief kiss on my temple, he announces that he’s going to set out the mulled wine and glasses. Not a second after he walks out of the room, the front door flies open and the house explodes in a din of boisterous voices.
I’m yanked left and right, my cheeks squished by people grabbing them and peppering kisses on each one. I just know I’m going to spend the rest of the evening scrubbing them raw to remove the various lipstick shades.
Helen, engulfs me in an embrace so tight, I could swear she squeezes every bit of oxygen out of my lungs. When I’m finally released, Helen reaches into her purse and pulls out a tiny pink box wrapped with an elaborate bow.
“Dragées for you from your cousin Niko’s wedding. Put them under your pillow and you’ll see your future husband in your dreams,” she tells me, patting me gently on the cheek
My future husband, huh? Little does she know I ran from an amazing guy after one kiss as if I were Cinderella fleeing the ball. I wonder what Zack is doing tonight? How will he and his family spend their Christmas Eve? Is it a barrage of every relative or a small gathering of immediate family? Are they filled with grief over his mother’s passing, or do they celebrate her life and all of the time they had with her?
So many times today, I was infinitely close to texting him. Nothing as inquisitive as my current wonderings. Just a simple “Merry Christmas.” But I froze when I opened our text conversation and saw the last message he’d sent me.
Zack: Nothing in my life has ever felt as right as kissing you. Please tell me you feel the same. Tell me anything. Plz.
Zack, I feel the same, but I’m scared shitless is what I want to tell him, but I don’t. I can’t.
My vision blurred, and I shut off my phone and threw it on the bed in frustration. Not with him, but with myself. Because I did feel the same. I do feel the same. Kissing Zack was . . . God . . . it was everything. But the damage has been done, and every night, I find myself lying awake and staring blankly at the ceiling, wishing he both would and wouldn’t text me. I feel as if I’ve gone insane. Hell, maybe I have.
A month has passed since he confronted me in Christos’s studio. That makes a total of seven weeks since the night that turned me into a coward. After the initial three weeks post-kiss, he ceased any and all communication with me. No texts, no calls. He passes me in the halls and cafeteria as though he has never seen me before in his life. As though I never even existed to him. It feels like a stab to the gut, but this pain is self-inflicted, as I caused him to hurt. I hurt like hell too.
I raise a hand to my chest in an attempt to ease the dull ache there, one that won’t leave. I keep reminding myself that it’s for the best. That we’re both better off. Trouble is, I can’t tell whether or not I’m lying to myself to save face. Doesn’t really matter anymore, I suppose. I pushed him away until he eventually threw up his hands in defeat and left. Forfeited. That was the goal, wasn’t it?
Agatha walks through the doorway, dressed fully in black, as is custom for the first two years of a Greek Orthodox becoming a widow. A warm smile spreads across my face when I see her, and I move to her side to lead her into the dining room. She mutters in Greek about how beautiful I am and how she prays for me every night. While I’m not fluent in Greek, I’ve acquired a general understanding of certain words and phrases in the years I’ve been in Christos’s care, and I pull her that much her closer to me before she sits.
Walking in from the kitchen holding a silver tray laden with a crystal decanter and glasses, Christos spots his mother and beams. Agatha’s return smile lights up her face. Briefly, I think back to the nine Christmases I spent with my mother. Or rather, how many I didn’t spend with her. I can only recall one or two years when she showed up to whatever dilapidated housing she’d manage to infiltrate with a gift. One year it was a stuffed blue seahorse I named Twinkles. I carried it around for years until I lost it one night while running from an irate restaurant owner who’d caught me soliciting his customers for food.
My life changed forever the night Christos saved me. But nearly twelve years later, the memories still hold power over me. Seven weeks ago, I had the chance to break away from their bondage.
And I squandered it.
WE LOST. I’LL REPHRASE—WE were obliterated. Nothing fucking worse than losing a home game because one player can’t pull his head out of his ass. Even worse when that one player is me. On Keith’s worst day, he’s still better than how I’ve been lately.
Walking into the locker room, I rip my helmet off and slam it onto the bench while the rest of the team pours in. It wasn’t entirely my fault. Sure, I missed a few opens and lost the puck one or two times, but it wasn’t all . . . oh, who the fuck am I fooling?
I’m fully expecting a brutal cuss-out, but instead, the whole team remains silent, my team captain shooting me death glares as he yanks his locker open. I wouldn’t blame him if he chucked his padlock at my head. Since he’s a senior playing his last few months as captain, I’ve been gunning for the vote to wear the C next year. But with the downright disgraceful way I’ve been playing lately, that feels more like a pipe dream. I should be rocking the big L right now for loser.
“Graves!” Coach’s bellow reverberates in the room.
Yep, I am royally fucked. Even my teammates flinch at the sound of his voice.
With my shoulders slumped forward, I push past the guys, who all wear an expression of “Yeah, you had this coming.”
In Coach’s office, the burly man is sitting behind his desk, leaning back into his chair with his fingers laced across his stomach and twisted scowl on his face. Fuck, I’d rather slam my dick in a sliding glass door than face him right now.
He tilts forward, resting his folded hands on the desk. “Listen, Graves, we all have off days, I get that, but lately you’re playing like you’ve never been on the goddamn ice.”
He’s speaking more quietly than I expected. That scares me more. I almost wish he would just bite my head off and be done with it.
Casting my eyes down, I open my mouth to defend myself, even though I have no excuse to offer. “I know, Coach, I’ve just been under a shit-ton of stress. Classes this semester are kicking my ass.”
Fucking liar that I am. That explanation sounded even more pathetic out loud than it did in my head. I wonder if Coach can smell my bullshit.
He cocks a brow and turns toward his computer. The only sounds in the room are the ticking of the clock above the door and sporadic clicking of his fingers on the mouse.
Coach faces me again. “If you can’t handle the pressure,” he says as he jerks his head, “there’s the door.”
Shit. I need to get the hell out of here. If he finds out the real reason why I’m playing like a sad sack of dicks, it’ll never fly. “Coach, I—”
“I’m benching you next game.”
Fuck!
My head snaps up and I step toward him. “No! Look, I know there’s nothing I can say that’ll fix the last couple of games, but I swear to God—” I don’t get the chance to finish my sorry-ass plea as he holds up his hand to silence me.
“You’re giving me no choice. You’re putting the team at risk, and I can’t have any liabilities out there if we have any hope of getting into the Frozen Four,” he states, a small bit of pity in his tone.
My teeth clamp down on my cheek, locking the soft flesh in a vise-grip that has me tasting blood. I slam my hand on the desk. Un-fucking-believable.
Coach rises to his feet. “Consider this a warning. Chest up and start playing like you give a shit.” He dismisses me with a wave.
Nodding tightly, I storm out of his office and stride back into the locker room. Ignoring the guys, I stuff my shit into my gym bag and haul it over my shoulder. I’ll shower when I get home. Though the grime of the game is nothing compared to the guilt that crawls beneath my skin.
I catch Keith in my periphery. Fuck, I can’t deal with him bitching at me. Don’t get me
wrong, I deserve it, but I’m in no mood. While he opens his mouth, I shoulder past him and exit the locker room.
Maybe it’s not just my mood. Maybe I simply can’t bear the weight of my best friend’s disappointment on top of everything else.
I COULDN’T FACE KEITH FOR the remainder of the day. I drove like a madman back to our apartment and it’s a wonder I didn’t sideswipe anyone. Once I finally made it, barely in one piece, I grabbed as many beer bottles out of the fridge as my arms could manage, shot up the stairs to my room, and locked the door as though I were some errant child angry with his parents after being grounded. I just wanted to drown out Coach’s voice playing like a broken record in my mind.
Benched. Never in all the years I’ve been on the ice have I been benched. Been in the penalty box a few times, but what can I say? I was a rowdy little shit when I was a kid. Mom always called me her little Tasmanian devil. A veritable whirlwind of chaos that never slowed. She was thrilled when I started playing hockey. She said I needed an outlet to pour my energy into.
I’d give anything to talk to her right now. She was my confidant, my beacon of light, and like Dahlia, she neither took nor gave any kind of bullshit. I could come to her with anything, and while she never passed judgment, her advice was anything but sugar-coated. She fully believed in seeing the world as it is, not as we wish it to be.
There was a time when I felt as though I had it all. Two parents who, in their twenty-two years of marriage, were still mad about each other, an older brother who occasionally pissed me off, and a bright future in the rink.
Then “D” Day came. The day she sat Finn and me down at the kitchen table, still smattered with the crumbs of breakfast—my first clue something was wrong—and uttered the word every person fears. Cancer. She’d been diagnosed with stage three small cell lung cancer. That was the day my “all” crashed and burned to the fucking ground.
Sweet Insanity (Sweet Series Book 1) Page 11