Page 20 of Left-Hand Larceny
I want to help him, even if I’m not sure I know how.
I’m hoping he’ll read between the lines. Hear what I’m trying to say without me having to say it. Even if I know, it’s not fair. The man learned English as a second language. The least I can do is pull up my big girl panties and say what I actually mean.
“It i-is b-b-because of my c-crush.”
If I could blush, I’d be as neon red as he is. Like the bucket of lobsters my father got for us last time we summered in Maine. My parents still tell everyone about that meal. How delicious it was—fresh lobster caught that morning—how we tossed the leftovers down onto the rocks by the house’s private beach.
I remember the seagulls descending on their orange feast, squawking with pent-up rage as they fought for the best pieces. That was the summer I told my parents I wasn’t cut out for medical school. A few shifts to my next semester’s schedule and voila. I was majoring in sports medicine instead. With a fancy upcoming job as an assistant trainer for our local NHL team.
I want to deny, to say it has nothing to do with that. A crush? Him? On me? Never crossed my mind. Except every syllable would be a lie. That’s exactly what I’m worried about.
“I-I-I am n-not intending to t-trap you into a r-relationship. Y-you are one of m-my… f-f-friends.”
Shame floods me like an oil spill. I blink up at him from under my lashes, trying to get a read on his thoughts without giving mine away.
“That’s not—” what I meant. Truly. I wasn’t worried he’d try to trick me, I don’t think. I’m worried I will hurt him. And okay, I appreciate the steady paycheck, but I’m worried about losing my job because of optics. Not because I don’t trust this man to respect my boundaries.
I glance at the phone in my hand. He can text me. We don’t have to do it like this. In person. Full of misunderstandings and cringe-worthy gaffs.He really just needs to ask someone—anyone—else because I am not cut out for this kind of coaching. I can’t even have a conversation about—
“M-my f-feelings are a n-n-non-issue.”
Is he stuttering more than normal? My stomach might tumble out of my ass and land on the sticky linoleum floor.If he is, it’s one-hundred and eleven percent my fault.
“It’s okay.” I try to smooth over the situation. Make this marginally less cringe-worthy. It’s not working.
His cheeks are still pink, mouth open, chest moving like he’s just gone through a tense shoot out. One that went more than the standard three skaters.I remember seeing something online—back when hockey romances were sweeping the book world and the sport was literally hiding around every corner planning a jump scare—about adding extra pucks in multiple play-off overtime periods. I remember laughing at the number of people who seemed to fall for it. Ragnar looks like he just played an eighth-round overtime period. With an extra puck on the ice.
“I didn’t mean—”
His phone is in his hand before I finish my sentence. And I watch my own screen, willing the message to come through faster than is physically possible. How long does it take a message to ping off a cell-tower or satellite, anyway?
Ólaffson:
We will not be dating. Not pretending to date. Not acting sly and secretive.If someone sees a romantic relationship there, that’s on them.
I have no problem explaining the situation to anyone who asks. We are coworkers. Friends.
That is all.
I set my phone down and scrub my hands down the front of my face, digging my palms into my eye sockets. Yes, I know it’s bad for me. I don’t particularly care. Not with the mother of all headaches squeezing my temples in a vise. The phone buzzes again and I snatch it up like a lifeline. Sending mixed messages? Maybe. My brain feels like it’s leaking out of my ears.
Ólaffson:
It wouldn’t even have to be in person. May I text you when I have questions?
Idon’t know how to ask what I want to without sounding conceited. Self-absorbed. He told me not to worry about it. I should just take him at his word. The problem is that I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I don’t want to upset him.
Not because he’s one of those men who lose the plot when they don’t like what they’re told, but because he’s a good guy. Genuinely. To the core. As far as I can tell. He’s the one who shuts down the commentary if the guys—and let’s be real, some of them are young, aka stupid—say anything inappropriate. Vic and Robbie do too, but the level of respect the young ones have for Ragnar? When he quietly says, “I do not understand the joke,” daring them to repeat it? It’s like getting caught sneaking into an R-rated movie and having your parents hit you with the “I’m disappointed” speech.Yeah, we might talk a big game about how that’s better than actual punishment, but it’s not. The disappointment cuts deep.
But he’s looking at me, honest, earnest, still blushing… I bite into my lower lip, I go for it.
“I’m not worried about what other people think.” And okay, that’s not exactly truthful. I care very much what people think, but this time is different. “I’m worried that I—that I won’t—that you—”
His hand covers mine, the touch so fleeting that I barely register the callouses or the heat of his skin.
“Th-that I’ll f-f-fall d-desperately in l-love w-with you?”
The denial is already flooding my mouth. Even as ‘yes, that’s exactly what I’m worried about’slams through my frontal cortex. That extra time together, extra intimacy, will strengthenthe threads of his crush and when I can’t reciprocate them, it will break his darling heart. Or something like that. And I don’t know if it makes it better or worse that it’s not that I’m incapable of reciprocating feelings for this man, it’s that I refuse to let myself have feelings for any man ever. Again.
