Wicked Restless

He wants to destroy Graham Wheaton. I can see it in his eyes. What scares me is I want him to destroy him too. I want Graham to pay, to repent, to disappear—I want him to vanish from all of my memories. But Andrew can’t make that happen. Nobody can. And the risk that he might lose something bigger than the gamble he’s making in that ring consumes my every thought.

Andrew was slow to return in the third period. He was missing from the bench, and I went absolutely insane as I sat here alone wondering where he could be. This is the trouble with having zero friends—no wing-woman of rationality, and all logic is lost.

He returned a few minutes into the third with the trainer, probably needing to be taped or iced for one of the blows he took on the ice. And as much relief that it gave me to see him there, where he should be, it wasn’t enough to quell what was really worrying me. I’m afraid Graham Wheaton is going to play dirty and take out my rejection on him. I’m also afraid Graham is powerful enough to get away with it.

I’m in a haze for most of the final minutes, my mind on rapid-fire in search of a way to get Andrew out of this, something I could dangle as an incentive to deter him, a trick to keep him out of that ring and away from that gym Sunday night. But he wouldn’t fall for it, and I don’t want to trick him.

I wait as the crowd clears out, moving over to the small exit near the bench where Andrew told me to wait for him before the game. He and Trent are two of the first to leave. I notice a group of girls hovering above the bench waiting for the players to exit; they begin to maneuver their way closer. Andrew brushes by them, scooping me up against his side, his body warm from the shower he just took.

I kiss him hard, my hands grabbing at his face, and as I pull away, I stare down a pair of twins eyeing him. Andrew follows my gaze, then looks back to me, pressing his forehead against mine as he chuckles.

“They’re not here for me,” he says. “The chicks always swarm for Trent. They know which one of us is going to make NHL bank one day.”

“I don’t know, those twins were making googley eyes at you. I think you’re selling yourself short,” I say.

“Twins? Where?” he jokes, jerking away from me to look, but coming back quickly, leaning me back in his arms with a possessive kiss, the roughness of his stubble scratching sweetly against my cold cheeks and chin.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” he says, taking my hand in his, weaving his fingers through mine, his eyes watching our connection before dropping his hand between us. “That will never get old,” he grins.

We walk to his car, dropping his gear in the trunk and waiting for Trent to take his compliments from his fan girls and catch up. Trent insists I take the front seat, and we make the short trip home, the conversation centered on their three-to-one win over Ohio State.

There’s an actual skip to Andrew’s step as he walks up to his apartment, and it makes me smile seeing it. He’s happy, and his body can’t help but reflect it. He keeps rehashing plays on the ice with Trent, and his friend gives Andrew credit where it’s wholly deserved.

Their celebrating carries over as we get inside, and Trent walks into their kitchen, opening the fridge wide as he talks with his back to us, giving Andrew enough time to tug me to him, then lean me over and kiss me hard.

“Well shit! That’s the problem with always going to Majerle’s to celebrate our wins, we’re never prepared with beer to celebrate at home. There’s only one left,” Trent says, twisting the cap and turning around just in time to catch us in a full-on make-out session. “Or maybe you don’t need beer to celebrate,” he chuckles, pressing the bottle to his mouth and drinking.

“Shut up,” Andrew says, taking his keys back out of his pocket. “I’ll run to the store. I’ll be back in five minutes. You want anything…I don’t know…girly?”

“I like beer,” I blush.

His eyebrows lift in a teasing way, but he pulls my chin close and dusts my lips with a kiss, smiling and winking before he leaves. I watch the door close, then I shiver once at the realization he’s gone. Even here in the safety of his home—with his roommate who I know won’t hurt me—I immediately feel vulnerable. I never thought Graham would hurt me. But he did. And I hate that I feel so dependent on Andrew for safety.

I turn to Trent and hug my body, my lips in a tight smile. He sits on the back of the sofa, and I relax a little with the distance between us. I think Trent senses my edginess, and I know he at least has an idea of what happened with Graham. I’m sure Andrew’s talked to him, and my bruises are still very much on display. I’ve quit looking in mirrors. I don’t like what I’m reminded of when I do.