Page 57
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Paloma is pacing in front of me now, quiet as she looks toward me and then away again. Over and over. Normally the movement might give me anxiety, but with her here, where I can see that she’s okay, I feel calmer. If I could use that serene energy as a superpower, I’d encase her in it.
Finally, she stops and chews on her lips before speaking.
“I’m . . . I need to explain. My nightmares are bad. Dreams feel really real to me, but so do the bad ones.”
My brow furrows. “Okay?”
“I just don’t want to freak you out. I haven’t . . . well, I’ve never slept next to or near someone when I’ve had a bad nightmare.” Her eyes well, but she holds back the tears. “I’m worried I’ll hurt you.”
I look her over.
Paloma is maybe five-foot-six, give or take an inch, to my six-foot-six. If anyone could hurt the other, it’s me. But something stops me from even hinting at that prospect.
Instead, I offer, “That’s okay. I’m good. I’ll wake you up faster than you could hurt me.”
She’s not convinced, but eventually Paloma settles on the bed nearer to the window, underneath the already-rumpled bedding. I sit atop the untouched bed closer to the door, propped up against the pillows and headboard, eyes trying to focus on the muted NHL season-opener game playing on the television.
But I feel her eyes on me every few moments. Her wary emotional turmoil is stifling in the air. She said she’d try to trust me, but she doesn’t. And it’s making it hard for her to sleep.
“You like hockey?” I try, pushing through my half-closed up throat, hoping the shift in concentration will help lull her like it often did for me as a child.
“Yeah.” She blushes, turning on her side to look at me, tucking a hand beneath her pillow. Her hair is messy and long, looking brighter than her usually darker flat brown. I wonder briefly if it’s dyed. “It’s really fast and interesting. I’ve always enjoyed it.”
“Did you play?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve never really skated before, but I like to watch it. I . . .” She pauses, swallowing and closing her eyes. “I want to work on a team—not as an equipment manager, but as an assistant coach or something. It’s stupid—”
“It’s not.” My hand rakes through my curls, tangling lightly before I smooth them through my fingers. “I think it’s great, P. You’d be amazing at it.”
There’s a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she nods.
“And swimming?” I ask, desperate in so many ways to understand her.
“It’s . . . yeah. It’s important to me.” She watches me with her same inspecting gaze, in a way I find more comforting than unnerving. “What about you? With hockey? You love it?”
“Oh.” I pause. No one has ever asked me that before. Probably because my dad is Adam Reiner, and I’ve never not played hockey. “Um. Well, my dad played in the NHL before he got hurt. His best friend did, too. And then he stuck me in skating classes and hockey as soon as I was old enough. I was a big kid—”
“No,” she says, perching her hands beneath her face, eyes sleepy but sparkling. “You? Big?”
My cheeks color as she rolls her gaze over me playfully. I know I look different than Rhys or Freddy, or most of the guys we’ve played with. I’ve always been tallest, but the biggest, too. Muscular, sure—I work out with the team. I’m heavily conditioned and trained. But it’s muscle with a layer that’s softer than the more cut forward and centers.
Maybe there was a time I would’ve been embarrassed by it, but with the way Paloma looks at me it’s almost impossible not to be proud of it.
“Yeah. But I wasn’t very aggressive with the puck. Not like the other kids. But I liked playing goalie. So I just stayed there.”
“That’s not really an answer,” she mumbles, eyes fluttering.
The way I feel about hockey is different than Rhys or my dad—I’ve always known that. I stayed because it was easy for me. I’m good at it. But it’s not my passion. It’s not what I want to do forever.
I just don’t know how to tell anyone.
Except . . .
“I don’t love hockey,” I admit into the quiet of the room, turning my head toward her. “I just play because I’m good at it. Because my dad loves it, and I feel closer to him and my friends when I play. But it’s not . . .”
“It’s not like poetry is for you,” she finishes for me. “That’s what you love.”
