“That sometimes life takes a turn we didn’t see coming. That a single choice can irrevocably alter the path of our lives, and we have no idea what choice that might be and where it might take us. I mean, I’m pretty sure Callisto didn’t think her life would end up how it did simply because of her choice to be with Zeus. And poor Arcas, that kid was born into this world, at the whim of a whole family drama that completely upturned his life. Zeus, I’m gonna hazard a guess here, his ‘let’s make them bears to keep them safe’ was a fairly impulsive solution, because it protected his lover and son, but at what cost? They were lost to him forever, their lives irrevocably altered, likely not in any way they’d have wanted or hoped.
“So, I think…” I tip my head, examining the constellations stretched across the sky. “I think it’s a reminder, that there’s a lot we can’t control in life, that sometimes we get dealt a real shit-kicker, but…in ending up where we never meant to, even in bodies we don’t recognize, situations we didn’t ask for, there’s still a little beauty to be found. Purpose. Meaning.” I point to the bears, side by side. “Maybe even love.”
Gavin stares at me, throat working roughly. “I think that’s easy for the bystanders to say. That there’s a redeeming significance to be found in others’ suffering.”
Tearing my gaze from the stars, I search his eyes. “But we all take turns, don’t we? Being the bystanders and the ones who suffer. What if we’re meant to be counterpoints to each other—not to diminish each other’s pain, not to overstate the silver linings of hardship, but instead to stand in witness to it, to help each other see that little bit of light and hope that keeps us going, that reminds us life is some hard shit, but the people who love us through it…they make it bearable?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Bearable?”
I grin. “Pun intended.”
Our gazes hold as his sardonic expression softens, as my grin begins to slip. Gavin swallows and stares down at his plate, pushing his food around. “Well, when you get too old for footie, be sure to call American Greetings. They can put you to work.”
I throw a piece of bacon at him. “Shut up.”
He grins down at his plate, but hides it quickly. After a heavy exhale, he says, “Oliver…”
My heartbeat slows with dread. I feel my hands clasp beneath the table until my knuckles ache.
“I…” He lets out another slow breath, scoots his food across it. “I know I said it already, but…thank you.”
I don’t know what he’s thanking me for. The shower. This meal. Being here with him. Understanding his need to step back. Again.
I don’t know. And I’m so tired of not knowing. But I’ve been the one so many times, showing up at his door, barging my way in, and look where it’s got me. This time, I can’t chase him down. I can’t shoulder my way in. Much as I hate it, it’s my turn to wait. To see if he thinks I’m someone worth chasing down, too.
“You’re welcome,” I finally manage.
Gavin meets my eyes, but only briefly, like he won’t allow his gaze to linger. Glancing up at the stars, he’s quiet for a while before he says, “Dammit. Now every time I look up at night, all I’m going to be able to think about are bears with stretched-out tails and…” His voice dies off. He peers down, spears his food, then fills his mouth as if to shut himself up.
He doesn’t finish that sentence, doesn’t say what else he’ll think about, looking up into a sparkling nighttime sky. But foolishly, I let myself finish that sentence, let hope glitter, like a star in my heart.
Me.
26
GAVIN
Playlist: “Cold Cold Man,” Saint Motel
It’s only been three weeks, but it feels like three years. I’ve spent them watching Oliver step fully into his role as sole captain now that I’m out of commission, though the team doesn’t know it’s for good. Three weeks I’ve watched him take command, lead by word and example. Three weeks I’ve warred with how deeply I want him, how badly I want to let him want me, fearing my baggage will overshadow us, worrying I have no business asking Oliver Bergman for anything except that recipe for the soup he brought and maybe, perhaps, any other musicals worth adding to my playlist because I have all of Sondheim stuck in my head and all it does is make me think of him.
Which is torture. I already think about him, see him, ache for him, enough, as it is.
Standing at the sidelines, I watch him, observing the tiniest things I never used to allow myself to before, when all I wanted was to avoid noticing him, being drawn toward him, actually liking him.
Now, I soak up everything. The way he listens with his whole body, eyes on whoever’s come to him, fully turned toward their way, brow furrowed in concentration, a comforting hand on their shoulder. His joy in the tiniest moments—when he tips his face toward the sun as it guts the clouds and pours across the field, the way he breathes deep and fills his lungs when a breeze picks up, his slow satisfied smile when he savors a bite of food.
Like pressing a bruise, leaning into a stiff joint, I force myself to see him. All of him. Young. Healthy. Happy. Team captain. Easily ten years left in his career. And to tell myself who I am now. Injured. Weary. Retired. Finished.
I stand and watch him, no longer his sneering, resentful enemy. I watch him with my heart in my throat, unfairly proud of every step he takes on his path toward greatness.
Though, he’d be a step further already if he stopped being so damn generous with the ball.
I scowl as he dumps it off to Santi, even though, with a simple step over, he’d have Stefan’s ass on the grass, the ball in the back of the net. It’s the pregame warm-up, so nothing’s exactly on the line, but it’s the principle that’s the problem.
“Bergman!” I bellow.
He glances my way, pale eyes narrowed against the glaring spring sun. My misbehaving heart drums against my ribs.
“What?” he yells back.
I jerk my head, signaling I want him to come my way.
He arches an eyebrow, then on a sigh, turns and jogs toward me.
“Hayes?” Assistant Coach Jas turns their head my way. “What happened to convene with the coaching staff first?”
“He needs to be more selfish.”
Jas nods. “Agreed. But Coach Lexi said protocol is you run it by Rico and me first.”
I roll my shoulders, chafing at the restriction. “Apologies, Coach Jas.”
Rico glances our way from where he stands at the edge of the box, talking with our goalie coach and Amobi. Knowing something’s up.
“Coaching comes naturally to you,” Jas says diplomatically, their eyes hidden behind the usual polarized lenses. “Lexi said it would.”
And of course she was right. She knew, when she visited me in the hospital after my injury, exactly what to say, how to nudge me toward this role. Because she knows me. Better than I’d like.
She knew I’d use this opportunity to fill in the gap left in her absence while on maternity leave, to exposure-shock myself to the full disparity between Oliver’s and my lives. To see if I can prove to myself and him that I can do this. Because, I have a sneaking suspicion, Coach Lexi Carrington is a giant, matchmaking meddler, and she’s rooting for us. She has been since the first moment she dragged us into her office after naming us co-captains and told us to play nice or else.
I’ve waited for the moment she’d be proven wrong, that my hopes would be proven false, too—for some revelation to come that the hurt will be too great, the juxtaposition of our situations, too painful.
Well, I’ve hurt. And I’ve ached. And I’ve wanted. And yes, some of it’s been for soccer, but more than anything, it’s been for him. Oliver.
I watch him jog my way, draw closer, eyes on his cleats, brow furrowed in thought. The sun glints off his golden hair, kisses his jaw the way I have.
My heart pounds in tempo with his feet as they strike the grass.
Love. Love. Love.
God, it’s horrible. It’s like an infection. A sickness. A fist around my guts. It’s so much more than wanting to sleep with him, to cook with him and watch musicals together and grumble about how my cat pisses in my shoes but does nothing but twine around Oliver’s legs and purr in his lap.
Just as my spiraling thoughts reach a fever pitch, Oliver arrives, scooping up a water bottle and squirting a long stream into his mouth. He smacks it shut and sets it down.
“Cap’n Coach,” he says with a salute.
I roll my eyes.
Jas’s mouth quirks. They stroll off toward the field, giving us privacy.
“You gotta admit, it’s got a ring to it,” Oliver says. “Cap’n Crunch. Cap’n Coach.”
“I’m neither a captain right now nor your coach.”
The music Oliver’s got everyone in the habit of playing to keep up morale switches to upbeat electric funk with rib-rattling bass. He spins and two-steps past me to the beat of the music. “And yet, here you are, gearing up to boss me around.”
“You need to take those shots,” I tell him. “And don’t give me that ‘it’s only practice’ bullshit. You’re warming up for a fucking game. What you do now, you’ll do then.”
He stops dancing, as if I’ve taken the wind out of his sails. Frowning, he glances over his shoulder toward the net. “My side scored, did we not?”
“Yes, but you didn’t. And you could have.”
He shrugs. “That’s not what matters most.”