Page 48 of Between the Blue
Right now, as I seeBennett James– the jerk from the gym, my involuntary archnemesis, the bane of my current existence– storming– no,skating– directly at me at full speed, entirely decked out in Texas Storm gear.
Bennett James is…a hockey player?
He’s…onthe Texas Storm?
No.
He’s not just on the team.
He’s theircaptain.
That’s what the announcer said. And I’m assuming that’s what the large white C on his chest must stand for.
How could I have possibly not known this?
How can this be happening?
I don’t get a chance to work through any of those screaming questions in my mind, because I’m too focused on the fact that Ben is skating towards me so fast that I’m sure he’s about to burst straight through the glass and strangle me to death.
But then, just feet before he does just that, he shifts to the side, throwing up an entire cloud of ice shavings that coats the glass before me.
I want to look away. I want to be anywhere else but here right now. But I can’t move. I can’t tear my eyes away from his searing amber gaze. The one that stays locked on mine and pairs all too well with the loathing grimace covering the rest of his face. The one that seems to telepathically communicate to me:I told you not to come here.
Time seems to slow down, and it’s like I can physically feel the pieces being put together in my mind.
He told me I wouldn’t be cut out for this. He was trying to keep me from taking the internship with the Storm. Because, by working for the Storm, I would, in one way or another, be working forhim.
I’ve already been weary about my ability to market a sport I know nothing about, but now I know that I would be expected to promote a man that I can’t stand. Maybe the only person in the world that I’ve truly felt resentment towards. The only person that has ever made me question myself and tampered with my carefully constructed confidence. The only man that’s truly made me see red.
And now, here he is, right in front of me, the glass around the ice rink being the only thing acting as a shield between the two of us. And I’m trying to regain the breath that is caught inmy throat out of a mixture of shock, anger, and a little fear as everyone around me goes nuts over who is evidently the captain of their favorite hockey team being so close to them.
And I have to question how these two drastically different versions of a man could be the same human.
I don’t realize that I’m doing it, but, apparently, I’ve been squeezing the soda cup in my hand. So hard that I hear it crack now. And then, a thought occurs to me. That there were images of players on this ridiculously overpriced souvenir cup that I bought. I hadn’t even thought to look at them at the time I bought it because I knew they wouldn’t mean anything to me. But now, as I finally break his burning gaze, I look down at the cup in my hand.
On the left is the goalie, whose last name I only know is Buckner because he was just in the net right in front of me for the last few minutes of the game. On the right, I manage to recognize Rhett Sutton. And then, front and center, displayed the most grandly of all, is none other than the Texas Storm’s dear captain.
Bennett James.
I had been holding his face in my hands for the last twenty minutes and didn’t even realize it.
I grit my teeth together, shifting my gaze from the image on the cup to the real man before me. And something in the way his face changes– the slightest squint of his eyes, the most subtle lifting of the corner of his mouth– tells me he knows exactly what I’m seeing. That he is taking some sort of sick joy in seeing me have this epiphany. In me realizing that this was why he was so adamant about me not taking this internship. In knowing that there’s no way I will ever be willing to work with him. That this now means I am completely and royally screwed.
I open my mouth, not sure why, especially considering that there are three rows of screaming fans and a layer of glassseparating us. I don’t know what I’m planning to say. Not that it would matter. He wouldn’t be able to hear me. But I think I just want him to know I havesomethingto say. That I won’t go quietly. That I won’t just walk away with my tail between my legs, even if that may be exactly what I secretly want to do at this moment.
But it doesn’t matter. Because I don’t even get a chance to pretend to say anything. Because right as I open my mouth, Ben tosses the puck I didn’t realize he was holding in his hand up and over the glass. Right over top of my head.
I throw my hands up in the air, covering my face and ducking to the side with a strangled gasp. And by the time I hear the harsh thunk of the rubber puck against cement flooring and drop my arms, Ben is already coming to a stop on the other end of the ice and stepping out of the rink with a single wave at the crowd as he enters the tunnel to the locker room.
My jaw hangs open as I stare after him, my eyes blinking. I think for a moment that I might stay frozen here forever, until the little boy next to me completely breaks my trance. He apparently managed to recover the puck that was aimed for my head from the ground, jumping up and down and shrieking. “Oh my God! Bennett James touched this! Do you realize that?” he asks me, holding the puck to his chest like he just found buried treasure.
“Um…yes?” I mutter in reply once I realize the kid is just going to keep staring up at me expectantly and jumping around until I do.
“He’s my hero! This is the best day of my life!” he squeals.
I only wish I could agree.
And can’t help but wonder if I should have listened to Ben.
