Page 87 of Poetry On Ice
My heart spasms, contracting so hard it aches, and then it beats. Aches and beats. Aches and beats. Squeezing so hard in my chest it strangles me, and I can’t make myself form words.
He holds me and rocks me gently, whispering, “I love you,” over and over. He says it until I start to believe it’s real. That it’s really happening. That he means it. That this is my life.
He says it until I start to believe it.
“You don’t have to say it back,” he says when he pulls away, shifting in my lap to get a better vantage of me. Maybe I’d feel a modicum of relief if it weren’t for the fact he has that crazy glint in his eyes. The glint that’s made a lot of really strange, out-of-control shit happen in my life recently. He lets me see it and lets me see the second it changes from soft and sweet to fucking impossible. “’Cause I know you love me too, Decker.”
“Goddammit, Robbie,” I cry. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to say I love you from you to me and also from me to you. That’s not a thing. Everyone knows tha—”
“Oh no? How’s it supposedto work then?”
“You’re supposed to say you love me, and then you’re supposed to let me say I love you.”
I hear it as soon as I say it. He does too. The air in the room stops moving. For all I know, the planet stops turning. The only difference between Robbie and me right now is that he’s not even a little surprised.
But then I wind my fingers into the hair that’s fallen into his face and brush it back, exposing his face. His beautiful face. His mouth. His cheekbones. His eyes and all the good things they contain, and holy shit, how did I ever think I could come within a hundred feet of this guy and not fall for him. I must have been fucking insane.
I had no chance. No choice at all. I never did. I look into big pools of hazel-green, watching as they ripple. The dappled shadows I see in them clearly spell out my name. Calling me softly at first and then louder and louder. I answer the call. I take a deep breath and dive in without looking back. “I love you too, Princess. I tried not to fall for you. I really did. But I couldn’t help it.”
It’s Robbie’s first game back. We’re about to go on the ice, and Bodie is standing near the door, handing out cage helmets like they’re confetti.
“What’s with the cage, bro?” asks Jeff Sams, one of the rookies. “This ain’t college.”
“Um,” says Bodie, twitching his head in annoyance, “Robbie had a serious concussion, and we’re not about to let him go out there wearing a cage helmet on his own. It’s called being a team player. Look it up.”
“He doesn’t need a cage helmet. No one else uses one after they get concussed.”
Rookies in general can be irritating, but this one in particular is an acquired taste.
And I can’t say I’ve acquired the taste.
“Well, Jeffery,” says Bodie, slowing his words to make them more easily understandable, “Robbie’s mom is a doctor, you see, so I think you’ll find she knows a little more about the dangers of brain injuries than you do.”
“Yeah, asshat,” I say to the rook as I pull my own fucking cage helmet onto my head, strapping it on pointedly, “it’s a matter of health and safety.”
Pejic and Luddy each take a cage helmet as well. They both look a little reluctant, and I can’t blame them. I feel like a prize-ass wearing the damn thing, but Robbie’s been difficult about it, and the more I’ve thought aboutit, the more I’ve realized his mom is right. It’s crazy that people play this game with their faces exposed.
Especially people with crazy beautiful faces.
Faces I want to wake up to in the mornings.
Faces I want to be the last thing I see at night.
Faces I don’t, under any circumstances, want to come to any harm.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” grumbles Robbie. Bodie and I ignore him, vigilantly supervising as he puts on the helmet.
It’s not that I don’t like Bodie. Hell, in the past week or so, I’ve seen a side to him I respect the hell out of, so I might be wrong, but I do slightly suspect there’s a mild competition happening between us. I’m not one hundred percent sure about it, and I hope I’m wrong, but it does feel a tiny bit like we’re competing for the position of Mr. and Dr. McGuire’s favorite son-in-law.
Not son-in-law, obviously. That’d be crazy. It’s way too soon to be thinking like that.
Jesus. No. I mean, favorite boyfriend of a McGuire sibling.
It’s a thing. And even if it isn’t, that’s what I mean.
Robbie takes to the ice like a duck to water. There’s no hesitation, no hint of a waver or a flicker of uncertaintyin his performance despite what happened the last time he played.
Having him back feels really good. Surprisingly good. Even better than I thought it would. Like slipping your hand into a glove on a cold day. A warm glove that fits perfectly. A glove made for you.