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He pushes us to try harder, so much so that I’m most grateful to spend time just the two of us in his condo, or kicking it at home, rather than being out and on show. Even all the Meyer chaos is more relaxing than what we have to do to prove ourselves to the world and his father.
* * *
Idon’t go home with Jack after ice practice anymore. I hang out like a Rhett groupie and watch him practice. He shows early to watch me. Then we drive in his McLaren to Merc and Jack’s place where we eat breakfast together—the four of us and Stanley and sometimes the other mini-Meyers—until I go to work with Merc.
He brings his laptop and stays to do some work of his own. At first, I fucking worried. He’d be in the house with Jack. I know how much he still loves Jack and while he claims it’s platonic love, with them together so much, what if it transformed back to what it was? Merc had the same fear, but our fears were quickly soothed.
Mine when Jack told me that he’d gotten his head bitten off by Rhett when he had tried to talk to Rhett while working. I’m a fucking brat who tries to distract Rhett all the time while he works. His attention should always be mine. He never bites my head off. Get annoyed? Yes, but the most he’s done is say my name in the scolding way I’ve grown to like, trap me on his lap, and continue to work despite my whining.
It told me that Jack and I have very different Rhett experiences. Mine is way better.
Merc said his assurance was the fact that Jack texts him eight million times a minute when he dares to leave the house for longer than an hour and that includes the time Rhett spent working at the house.
“I don’t like him,” Rhett says when Scott leaves the ice. I put Rhett’s track jacket on after pulling it from his bag so I could surround myself with his scent while I kept warm. He’s already hopped over the boards and his towering presence stands firmly on the ice with his stick in hand.
“Why? Jealous?” Scott and I have come a long way since we started practicing together. I think we’re going to make good ice partners this year. We’re both driven. We’re willing to do whatever it takes to rank high.
“Yes.”
“Why would you be, baby? I know my ass is yours.”
He visibly melts. “So long as you know it. Come kiss me for luck.”
Pressing a quick kiss to my lips, he skates off, but I’m not convinced that he’s convinced. He’s got a scheming air about him that I recognize because I do the same thing when I’m scheming.
Rhett works hard when he’s on the ice, and I must be lovesick because I’m enjoying watching him put pucks into the net over and over.
Hell, I know what a puck is now.
He nearly kills himself doing drills for agility, power, and speed.
I find myself winding my way down the benches toward the boards to get a closer look. He’s fast for a big guy. His shoulders cut through the air like the turbine blades of a windmill. The sound of his skates carving the ice echoes through the arena. Chill air ripples across my face.
An hour and a half disappears in a blink and he’s walking off the ice. “Breakfast?”
We have two weeks left of this. I won’t miss the constant stream of events we have to attend for show, but I’ll miss this.
* * *
Later that morning, with the scent of motor oil burned into my nose, I watch a grease-covered Mercy swear repeatedly as he rolls out from under Mrs. Mavel’s old Buick. It’s old. Like, nineteen nineties old. That it still runs is a freaking miracle.
“I’m going to need a gasket that I’m hoping I can find at one of the scrap lots. If not, she might have to finally get rid of this thing, but what’s certain is that she won’t have it back anytime soon. It’s a lower intake manifold gasket.”
“Um, that’s deep in the engine, right?”
“Yeah, kid.” He smiles at me with all the pride in the world, but then it fades when he realizes what he’s in for with this vehicle. It’s a big job. “Guess you get the day off. Go annoy your boyfriend so at least I’ll get some enjoyment out of today.”
I almost ask to join him, but then I get a better idea. Today’s the day. I unzip my coveralls, shimmy out of the top of them, and tie the arms around my waist. “That I can do.”
He grabs his keys off the high wooden table near the door. “Tell Jack I’ll be gone for a bit, eh?”
He leaves and I saunter toward the house. Inside, Rhett’s at the kitchen table with Theo at his leg under the table looking for the best place to bite.
“Theodore,” Rhett says with the kind of voice that only Rhett can. It has Theo freezing mid-attack.
“I wasn’t gonna bite yah.”
“Yes, you were.”
