Page 33 of Return To You

“Hey, Coach!” I say, hoping to feel detached. “How’s it going?”

He frowns at me, looking puzzled.

Look. I don’t know. I just said hi. Why is he being weird like that? I’m trying to be normal! Can’t he just say hi back or am I always, always misunderstanding this man?

“Grace…” he says.

Oh—I get it. He’s wondering why I’m here. He might think I’m ambushing him like some puck bunny. I laugh. It is kinda funny. On the other hand, he wanted to have coffee together. Like old friends. Those two words still sting, but I have to shove my feelings aside. “Oh—I’m just here for Tracy.” I lift my duffel bag, like that’s gonna help him understand. “Massage?”

Several things seem to pass across his face, like a whole storm. Rain. Sunshine. Thunder. Why is this man so complicated? Tracy is behind him, and as I descend the bleachers as fast as my cottony legs allow, I motion her to follow me to a private room. “Let’s go,” I say in a whisper, my vocal cords going on strike the moment I reach the bottom and Ethan is there.

He’s occupying the whole space, his scent of clean sweat, leather and rubber slapping me like the best and the worst memory, a surge of happiness and despair so intrinsically linked together, this might signal the end of my existence on Earth, and if it does, it won’t matter because I will have lived all the emotions I care to ever experience.

How I perform the massage, and how I get home—I do not know.

I do know that I wake up the next day with the dread of what awaits me that evening.

Another massage at the Arena, another few minutes in the inevitable presence of Ethan King, who makes me feel both alive and dead in the same breath.

But this time I’m mentally prepared. I know what’s coming. I will handle the situation like a grown-up. And so, in the car, I rehearse.

“Coach! How did the teams do today?”

I should call him Ethan, right? Not Coach. Oh god, I don’t know if I can even say his name. “Guys! Aren’t you lucky to have Coach Ethan this week?” Okay, maybe if I talk about him, it’ll go smoother. Still, I need to try the direct address.

Okay. Here we go. What could I tell him? Oh, I know. “Ethan! Do you know if Coach Randall will be back before you leave? I bet he’d love to see you.” Okay, that went well. Voice working and everything. I just need to practice.

“Ethan! Ethan! Ethan!”

By the time I pull into the parking lot, I’ve said his name a hundred times. It might seem crazy. But I’m just being prepared.

Also, today, I get to the Arena right on time. None of this being early and watching my childhood crush possess the ice like a god nonsense.

By the time I’m out of my car, I’m two minutes late. Good.

Even better, Millie is coming out of the Arena. I walk up to her, hoping to kill a few more minutes with a little chat, but she inexplicably waves at me from afar and dashes to her car.

I wave back at her, smiling, counting to ten.

Perfect.

He’ll be in the men’s locker room.

He’s not.

He’s in the middle of a wide circle of teenagers drinking sports drinks and munching on snacks that are way too healthy for kids their age (What will they be eating when they start having health issues? You gotta live, guys, you gotta live), and he says—no—he exclaims, “There she is!” like they’ve all been waiting for me to make my grand entrance.

I freeze at the door, a deer caught in the headlights of the man who always shone too bright for me. He walks toward me. Gives me his killer smile, the one that tips his mouth up on one side only, the one that creates that dimple that I very distinctly remember licking. And he hands me a to-go cup from Easy Monday with my name on it in his handwriting, not Millie’s. I know Millie’s handwriting, and this is not hers. And I used to know Ethan’s, and this is exactly like his. “Extra spicy chai with almond milk and maple syrup.”

“Oh…”

“It’s called a… I dunno. Something fancy.”

A Harvest Hug. My favorite. Harvest Hug.

“I got it delivered and hot… because it’s cold in here.”

“Oh…”

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