Zack
Page 25
“Zack?” she calls out again, and I hear her feet coming the rest of the way down the staircase.
“In here,” I say thickly, and I’m sure it might be the tequila holding my tongue hostage at the moment.
Kate rounds the corner and there she is. Sadly, she’s not wearing those same pajamas I caught her in the other night, and maybe that’s just as well. I’m afraid of what I might do to her if she were showing more skin. Instead, she has on a pair of gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt…very concealing. She’s hiding her body from my view and her hair is still wound up tight. And as always, her glasses are firmly in place and I have to wonder if she’d continue to wear them all the time if I told her they made her even sexier.
“What’s up?” I ask casually, my tongue seemingly loosened up a bit. I walk to the end of the table, grabbing the cue ball along the way. I place it on the table and break the rack again, sinking the nine ball in one of the side pockets.
“I heard noise down here. Just wanted to make sure it was you,” she says hesitantly. “You played a great game tonight.”
“Thanks,” I say, surprisingly pleased that she watched it on TV. Since I sank a stripe, I choose the twelve ball sitting prettily by the far-right corner pocket. I let loose on the sure shot, but it bounces against a corner and ricochets off, and I’m thinking I need to lay off the tequila.
Straightening my body, I hold the cue stick out to her. “You play?”
“A little,” she says with a small smile as she takes the stick from me. “I’m solids?”
“Yup,” I say, and lean against the wall to watch her. Because she’s concentrating on her shot, I use the unfettered opportunity to eat her up with my eyes. I’ve been keeping my distance from her, afraid close proximity would cause this stirring of feeling that I seem to have for her to get stronger.
It’s funny…but I can’t see the ways in which she tries to hide herself anymore. Now that I know what lies beneath, I can clearly imagine it in my head. You add that to the fact that Kate is one of the most outgoing people I know, who uses humor and silliness to make people laugh, and you have a woman who is an absolute open book just begging to be read.
Kate’s experience is clearly lacking, as she misses her shot by a mile. I have an urge to lean over behind her, show her the proper way to hold the stick and line up her angle, but me bending over her backside is a recipe for disaster.
She hands me the stick back and I walk around the table, considering my next shot.
“Can we talk about what happened the other night?” she asks quietly. “In the car…with the seat belt.”
My body jerks, feeling like it got zapped with electricity. My head swings toward her and I narrow my eyes. “What’s to talk about?”
Really? What’s to talk about? I freaked out, relived a terrible memory, but now it’s over. I’ve put it out of my mind again.
For the most part.
“Well…it’s just…you’re distant. I think you’re mad at me, and I want to apologize again, and hope we can get back on track.”
She thinks the reason I’m distant with her is because I’m mad at her for taking her seat belt off? I mean, sure…I was, in that very moment, but that was aggravated by fear. I know she wasn’t intentionally trying to do something stupid. I seriously had not given that any particular thought since then.
“I’m not mad at you,” I tell her sincerely as I glance back down to the table to pick my next shot. I’m fucking insanely attracted to you, I think, and it’s driving me crazy, and crazy makes me cranky, but definitely not mad.
Kate lets out a huge breath of relief and I hear her murmur, “Good. That’s good,” as I bend over to take my next shot. I sink it cleanly and start walking around the table to reach the cue ball on the other side.
Just as I bend over to eyeball my next shot, Kate says quietly, “I’m really sorry about what happened to your wife.”
Pain rumbles through me over the sincerity in her words and I close my eyes briefly to get it under control. “She wasn’t my wife,” I correct her.
“Oh,” she says softly. “I didn’t know…I just assumed.”
And I’m sure she didn’t know that. I didn’t publicize my relationship with Gina. I kept her and Ben out of the press as much as possible, not wanting it to invade my privacy. We were together for a long time…since attending high school in Nova Scotia. She was my first love. Not my only, but my first, and my longest and most definitely my deepest. Minus a two-year separation we went through when I first got drafted into the NHL, we’d been together ever since. Seven years we lived together and shared our lives together.
But we never got married, did we?
I know she wanted it, not that she would ever come right out and ask. We had discussed it once after Ben was born, and I was clear that I wasn’t ready for it. She never brought it up again. Didn’t mean I didn’t see wedding magazines lying around the house. Didn’t mean she wouldn’t gush on and on when a friend of hers was getting married. I know she craved that last bit of commitment from me, and yet…I just couldn’t give it to her.
This also causes me pain now that she’s dead. Because of my uncertainty, she died without having something that she probably very much deserved.
Guilt causes waves of despair to wash over me in such magnitude that no amount of tequila could ever dry it up. I need to redirect…change the subject…push this all back down and bury it again.
“In here,” I say thickly, and I’m sure it might be the tequila holding my tongue hostage at the moment.
Kate rounds the corner and there she is. Sadly, she’s not wearing those same pajamas I caught her in the other night, and maybe that’s just as well. I’m afraid of what I might do to her if she were showing more skin. Instead, she has on a pair of gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt…very concealing. She’s hiding her body from my view and her hair is still wound up tight. And as always, her glasses are firmly in place and I have to wonder if she’d continue to wear them all the time if I told her they made her even sexier.
“What’s up?” I ask casually, my tongue seemingly loosened up a bit. I walk to the end of the table, grabbing the cue ball along the way. I place it on the table and break the rack again, sinking the nine ball in one of the side pockets.
“I heard noise down here. Just wanted to make sure it was you,” she says hesitantly. “You played a great game tonight.”
“Thanks,” I say, surprisingly pleased that she watched it on TV. Since I sank a stripe, I choose the twelve ball sitting prettily by the far-right corner pocket. I let loose on the sure shot, but it bounces against a corner and ricochets off, and I’m thinking I need to lay off the tequila.
Straightening my body, I hold the cue stick out to her. “You play?”
“A little,” she says with a small smile as she takes the stick from me. “I’m solids?”
“Yup,” I say, and lean against the wall to watch her. Because she’s concentrating on her shot, I use the unfettered opportunity to eat her up with my eyes. I’ve been keeping my distance from her, afraid close proximity would cause this stirring of feeling that I seem to have for her to get stronger.
It’s funny…but I can’t see the ways in which she tries to hide herself anymore. Now that I know what lies beneath, I can clearly imagine it in my head. You add that to the fact that Kate is one of the most outgoing people I know, who uses humor and silliness to make people laugh, and you have a woman who is an absolute open book just begging to be read.
Kate’s experience is clearly lacking, as she misses her shot by a mile. I have an urge to lean over behind her, show her the proper way to hold the stick and line up her angle, but me bending over her backside is a recipe for disaster.
She hands me the stick back and I walk around the table, considering my next shot.
“Can we talk about what happened the other night?” she asks quietly. “In the car…with the seat belt.”
My body jerks, feeling like it got zapped with electricity. My head swings toward her and I narrow my eyes. “What’s to talk about?”
Really? What’s to talk about? I freaked out, relived a terrible memory, but now it’s over. I’ve put it out of my mind again.
For the most part.
“Well…it’s just…you’re distant. I think you’re mad at me, and I want to apologize again, and hope we can get back on track.”
She thinks the reason I’m distant with her is because I’m mad at her for taking her seat belt off? I mean, sure…I was, in that very moment, but that was aggravated by fear. I know she wasn’t intentionally trying to do something stupid. I seriously had not given that any particular thought since then.
“I’m not mad at you,” I tell her sincerely as I glance back down to the table to pick my next shot. I’m fucking insanely attracted to you, I think, and it’s driving me crazy, and crazy makes me cranky, but definitely not mad.
Kate lets out a huge breath of relief and I hear her murmur, “Good. That’s good,” as I bend over to take my next shot. I sink it cleanly and start walking around the table to reach the cue ball on the other side.
Just as I bend over to eyeball my next shot, Kate says quietly, “I’m really sorry about what happened to your wife.”
Pain rumbles through me over the sincerity in her words and I close my eyes briefly to get it under control. “She wasn’t my wife,” I correct her.
“Oh,” she says softly. “I didn’t know…I just assumed.”
And I’m sure she didn’t know that. I didn’t publicize my relationship with Gina. I kept her and Ben out of the press as much as possible, not wanting it to invade my privacy. We were together for a long time…since attending high school in Nova Scotia. She was my first love. Not my only, but my first, and my longest and most definitely my deepest. Minus a two-year separation we went through when I first got drafted into the NHL, we’d been together ever since. Seven years we lived together and shared our lives together.
But we never got married, did we?
I know she wanted it, not that she would ever come right out and ask. We had discussed it once after Ben was born, and I was clear that I wasn’t ready for it. She never brought it up again. Didn’t mean I didn’t see wedding magazines lying around the house. Didn’t mean she wouldn’t gush on and on when a friend of hers was getting married. I know she craved that last bit of commitment from me, and yet…I just couldn’t give it to her.
This also causes me pain now that she’s dead. Because of my uncertainty, she died without having something that she probably very much deserved.
Guilt causes waves of despair to wash over me in such magnitude that no amount of tequila could ever dry it up. I need to redirect…change the subject…push this all back down and bury it again.
