Quinton and I are lounging across the couch in his living room, some sitcom on the television screen, on one of the first nights we’ve snagged together all week.
Our schedules are both hectic this semester, not even lining up enough to grab lunch or dinner together like we did last term. Besides practice, I haven’t even seen him. We’ve been too busy to do much besides send a few flirty check-in texts, thanks to classes now being in full swing.
And if our little rendezvous in the library taught me anything, it’s that even studying together might not be the safest option if we want to actually study.
But we took a break from cramming tonight, and I have to admit, I’m glad. Happy to exist in this little pocket of space with him where we can relax and just…be.
He laughs at something one of the characters says on the screen, the decadent sound going straight to the organ in my chest as his fingers trail up and down the exposed skin on my arm.
Lately, he’s always touching me. Not sexually, but just seeking contact.
His thigh pressed against mine when we’d sit together on the bus to away games, or brushing against me in the locker room as we’re coming and going.
Some piece of his body connected to mine whenever possible.
Touches I much prefer over the kind we used to have. Harsh bumps and angry shoves whenever the words we’d toss weren’t enough. And then there’s the time I decked him, which neither of us are soon to forget. Even if it was four years ago now.
The memory sweeping into my mind takes over, and I realize, while we might’ve hashed out some details from the altercation, I still don’t entirely understand how it started.
“Can I ask you something?”
His hand pauses its dance over my skin as he looks at me, a crease lining his forehead from my tone of voice. “Okay.”
“How much of that night—the one back in high school—do you remember?” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Some of the shit you were saying…it sounded delusional. About my dad paying off the refs so we would win?”
He lets out a heavy sigh, sinking back into the leather cushions. “I know it probably seemed like I was having some sort of psychotic break right in front of you—”
“Understatement of the century.” I smile and reach up to his face, my thumb smoothing out the frown lines. “But continue.”
Teeth scrape over his bottom lip. “You have to understand…I come from a world where people lie and cheat and backstab for sport. They control everyone and everything around them, always have. Me included. And if I don’t comply, then he threatens to cut me off.”
“That’s…”
I don’t have words for what that is.
“Yep. And he let the hammer fall with that fucking ultimatum at Christmas.” He drags in a deep breath through his nose before letting out a long, slow exhale. Something I’ve realized is a method of keeping calm. “So I have to go home every week for Monday night dinners under their premise of looking like decent parents when it’s really an excuse for my father to grill me some more about giving up hockey, or else, and my mother to set me up with another high-society girl I can’t stand. All so I can be a little carbon copy of him in another fifteen years.”
My nose wrinkles, appalled by what he’s saying. “Seriously?”
He lets out a long sigh and glances over at me. “I wish I was kidding.”
I blow out a long breath and sink back into the couch, the gravity of his situation sinking in. I just can’t believe he waited until now to tell me about his dad’s threats.
I hate that he’s been carrying the weight of it himself for almost two months now.
“What a bunch of bullshit.”
His expression is thoughtful for a moment, a small little crease between his brows. “Look, I know I’ve told you a lot of awful shit about my parents, but I don’t want what I say about them to shape your opinion of them. They’re my parents at the end of the day, and…”
I get what he’s trying to say, I do. But the things he’s told me paired with the crap I overheard his father spewing at him after our game earlier this season, my opinions are already made. I don’t need to afford them a chance to change my mind.
Because unlike Quinton’s case, some books really can be judged by the cover.
“They’re trying to mold you into something you’re not. And to say he’ll cut you off if you go against his wishes, it’s…disgusting.”
He shrugs, doing his best to act indifferent. “It is what it is though. Can’t exactly change it.”
No, he can’t change who his parents are any more than I can. But wanting to change who people are at their core is different than wishing you had a different last name than them.
“That’s not what my world is like.” I shake my head, hatred for two people I’ve never met threatening to bubble to the surface. “I can see why you might think it, coming from how you grew up. But no matter how successful my father and Coach might’ve been in the NHL, my family…we’re not those things. Cheating and stealing isn’t who we are. Neither is forcing you to be someone you’re not.”
“I know that now.” His eyes soften around the edges.
“Good, because I’d hate to have to deck you all over again.”
Those little divots form deeper in his cheeks. “Duly noted.”
He continues mindlessly coasting his fingers along my skin, attention drawn back to the television screen like he didn’t just break a tiny piece of my heart all over again. The same way he did the day on the Ferris wheel, telling me the closest thing he’s ever had to a parent his entire life is his fucking au pair.
That’s not how it should be.
I want him to know what a real family is like. He deserves it.
He deserves a lot of things. Far more than he’s been given.
“Quinn?”
His attention shifts again, and when he smiles at me, my stomach does a little cartwheel. “Yeah?”
“I don’t wanna freak you out or anything…” I start, not completely certain if I should act on this impulse without running it by my family first. But the feeling in my chest outweighs the warning in my brain, and I push forward anyway. “I have dinner with my parents and brother tomorrow night, and I was wondering if you wanted to go?”
It’s impossible to miss the way his spine stiffens.
“You want me to meet your parents? Your brother?”
He says it like it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard. And then I realize the offer sounds a lot like something a boyfriend would do, not just a…whatever we are.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Not in that way, or anything. It’s just dinner.”
The look on his face is still one of utter disbelief, now mixing with a hint of uncertainty. His eyes shift between mine, and I can tell he’s trying to work through what brought this on. Why I’d throw yet another wrench into things, once again blurring the lines and the rules when they were working perfectly fine before.
And from the crease still etched in his forehead, he’s not finding any answers.
A knot forms in my throat, and I wet my lips before looking away, suddenly feeling way too transparent for my liking. “It’s probably a bad idea, right?”
“No, it’s…” His words trail off.
“Just forget I said anything. Seriously.”
He shakes his head. “Oak, no. I wanna go, I do. I’m just a little confused about how this’ll work.”
And now I’m the one who’s confused. “What do you mean?”
“Your parents aren’t blind like mine. They’ve seen us fight and bicker and come to blows for years. And you expect them to just sit down and have dinner with me?”
Understanding dawns on me, and while his worries are valid, there’s one important thing he’s seemed to forget.
“We’re not those people anymore, Quinn.”
“I know that, but do they?” He pauses, a sharp laugh coming from him. “And what, you’d be bringing me as…your superstitious fuck buddy? I’m sure your parents would love that.”
I know he filled the end of his sentence with the most ridiculous option for a reason. So I’d correct him, letting me fill in the blank so he’d know exactly where I stand.
The problem is, I don’t know where that is.
Or maybe the real issue is I do, but screwing with the status quo is the last thing we should do. Not now, when things between us are in a good place.
Maybe this is a bad idea after all.
But I don’t listen to the thoughts worming their way into my head, and keep pushing forward.
“I can introduce you as whatever you want. My rival. My teammate. My friend.” Blue eyes flash up to meet my gaze and he rolls his lip between his teeth. It’s the most vulnerable I’ve ever seen him, but I refuse to let it deter me. “Just Quinn could work too.”
He’s silent, mulling the options over in his head. But when thirty seconds pass and he still hasn’t said anything, a rush of anxiety courses through me.
“It’s your family,” he finally says. “It should be whatever you’re comfortable with.”
Again, leaving it open-ended, allowing me to fill the gaps. Keeping the control of this whole relationship squarely in my hands.
In the exact place—I’m starting to realize—I don’t want it.
