Page 8 of Taking It To Overtime
“Sometimes you just know.”
The touch is a complete surprise,as is the voice, the press of soft lips and coarse hair, and the shiver that shimmies down my spine. I’m leaning into the touch, eyes slipping closed even as my brains whirrs through every memory of this same greeting.
It has to be instinct that led Robbie Oakes to wrap his arm around the small of my waist, to press a kiss to the thin skin of my temple. The same instinct that has me turning into him, eyes lifting to his like they always used to, feeling my lips curve before I even know I’m smiling.
“It’s good to be back,” I say, and my voice sounds hoarse to my own ears. Breathy and raspy. Like my lungs are caving in as I drown in his proximity.
“Yes,” he says, his dark eyes shifting over mine. Neither of us are talking about the town, the airport, or this tiny square of cement where my feet are growing roots.
The sudden flash of light is nearly blinding in its intensity. I turn away from it, seeking the darkness of the shadow cast by the man standing next to me. His arm tightens around my waist and I can feel the warm press of each of his fingers through the sheer fabric of my top. It’s exhilarating even as I try to talk my heart rate back down to the normal range.
“Sorry,” a voice laughs. “Just preserving this moment for posterity. Say cheese.”
“Usually, that demand comesbeforesomeone blinds you with the flash.” There’s a quiet huff of sound at my words and I lift my chin, sure that I just heard Robbie Oakes laugh, but he has his gaze trained on his teammate.
Jack, for his part, doesn’t seem at all phased by the death glare trained his way,
“Someday you’re going to want to remember this moment and you’ll thank me.”
It’s my turn to frown. Remember this moment? Does the kid mean seeing me? I shake that thought away. Fame can be a funny thing. Even when I’m aching for seconds of quiet, for a minute to slip under the radar, it’s still way too easy to get used to a world that caters to me. A world where everyone is taking pictures because I walked into a room. It wasn’t like that at the start. The tiny apartment I shared with four other girls in the center of Tokyo is a far cry from where I am now.
I promised myself once I’d never lose sight of the girl who didn’t have two coins to rub together for a visit to the 24-hour laundromat and used to hand wash her clothes in the bathroom sink. Never lose sight of the girl who learned how to hem her own clothes in middle school because nothing fit right. That’s hard to do when my current wardrobe is full of bespoke pieces. Things chosen for me by my stylist and personal shopper. Pieces sent to me by designers who imagined me in their clothes when they made their initial sketches.
I think society can forgive my gut reaction. Especially when it was borne from years of everyday experiences. It had nothing to do with this man, or that I haven’t seen him in over a decade. Nothing to do with the catch in my throat when our eyes met again. As far as I can tell, Jack is the annoying baby brother that the whole team adores. Of course him being here is a big deal for Robbie.
I take a tiny step away from the man in question, just enough to get a few air molecules between his skin and mine. His hand flexes against my waist, stopping me dead in my tracks and the air punches out of my lungs.
“I’m just saying,” Jack says, “This is a big moment. You’ve been waiting almost—”
“Take the damn picture, Spags.”
The words ruffle the hair at my temples as Jack raises his phone again, a grin plastered across his face. I should smile. I should do something. I guess this is a big deal, but not because of our past, right? Pro hockey player and international model? A chance meeting at the airport? I should turn towards the flash, find the light and my angles. Use my picture-practiced smile.
I look up at Robbie Oakes.
And he’s looking down at me.
The flash feels brighter than normal, the warm light reflecting off of the dark ring of his irises. I’m overheating, sweltering next to this man—this stranger who was once a boy I knew better than myself. My eyes drift shut and I sway on my feet, gravity pulling me right back toward him in a dangerous trajectory.
“I’ve got your bag V,” Jack—Spags, Robbie called him—says, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. I try to break through the haze.
My bag?
Wait.
What?
“You headed all the way to Kimmelwick?” Robbie asks and I nod my head without thinking.
I’m ready to get out of here, to get away from him, but the thought of waiting an hour for a rideshare and then spending another hour in awkward silence on the drive to my parents sounds like absolute torture.More trouble that sharing a ridewith my ex and a gleeful teen. And now that he knows I’m headed to our hometown, Robbie will offer me a ride. It’s one of life’s inevitabilities. The sun will rise tomorrow, the seasons will change, we will all march inexorably towards death, and Robbie will offeranystranded person a ride home.
I don’t protest—much—as he takes the handle of my suitcase and starts across the crosswalk toward the parking lot. He doesn’t even look both ways, just moves with the confidence of a man used to people giving him space. I’m jealous. People rarely move out of my way. They steer directly into it.
“You okay with this?” Robbie asks as I lengthen my stride to catch up. His friend is out of earshot, humming loudly enough to tell us he’s elaborately unconcerned with our conversation.
Am I? In theory, yes. Who would say no to a ride? Even if I paid for gas—Robbie would never let me—it would still be a negligible amount compared to hiring a ride. And any discomfort I feel about getting in a car with my ex is not because I’m worried about my safety. Robbie has and always will put my comfort first. Even when it broke my heart, he put me first. It just took me several years to figure it out. I’m not worried that he or Jack will do or say anything. The problem is my own stupid heart and my hopeless romantic brain.
Can I handle being this close to him? Just for an hour?
