Page 20 of Ice Cold, Red Hot
“And when she showed up here, you pretended not to know her. Interesting.” Griff sipped his own beer, looking exceptionally pleased with this new information.
“Quit smiling.”
“Sorry, I’m just processing.” He took another slow swallow and then faced me. “So why don’t you just take her out? Tell her how you feel?”
The frustration that had been eating a hole inside me grew hungrier, meaner. “She’s a TA in my department. I can’t touch her.”
Griff blew out a breath, dismissing this. “Rules are made to be broken.”
“No. They’re not. Not when your grandfather’s name is on the damned rink. Not when your brother’s a fucking NHL legend. Not when everyone’s expecting you to be next.” It rushed out of me like I was mad at Griff, but he didn’t flinch. And I wasn’t mad at him. I was mad at the circumstances. And a little mad at myself for the way I was handling them.
“Sure those aren’t just the expectations you’re putting on yourself, man?”
“You’ve heard my dad on the phone.”
Griff’s eyebrows rose. “True. The guy’s pretty terrifying.” He signaled the bartender and pointed to a bag of chips behind the counter. As he opened them, he looked back up at me. “There’s gotta be a way around it. If it’s worth it.”
I had no doubt it would be worth it. But I didn’t agree that rules didn’t matter. Or that they could be bent. Not for me. Maybe for other people, but if I tried to bend rules, it would reek of privilege. Of me taking advantage of the things I’d been given that others had to work for. My whole life it was like I’d been trying to prove myself worthy of the Renshaw name. Or worthy despite it.
Still… I couldn’t take the constant churn eating me up. I had to do something.
“I gotta go,” I told Griff, throwing forty bucks on the bar. “See you at home.”
He was still asking questions as I walked away, headed up the hill to the apartment building. I did my best not to think. I’d had just enough to drink that I could let the gentle buzz soothe some of the sharp edges of my concerns, and by the time I was in front of Celeste’s door, I felt almost calm.
I knocked.
Nat appeared. “Hey Ren, what’s up?”
This wasn’t the plan, and Nat answering the door—hair mussed and lipstick smeared—threw me off. I’d clearly interrupted something.
“Um. Celeste home? I had a question about the lab.”
Nat laughed. “At ten on a Friday night?” She shook her head. “Anyway, your ‘question’ will have to wait. She’s not here.”
“Oh.” I didn’t have any other words as it registered that Celeste was still out with Ethan. “Thanks.” I backed away from the door, and Nat pushed it shut with a giggle.
I stood in the hallway staring at the oatmeal paint peeling from the top edge of the apartment door.
The minutes ticked by.
I stayed.
I knew I should go inside and go to bed. I didn’t need any of this. I needed to focus.
I turned to my apartment, but I couldn’t make myself go through the door. Instead, I leaned against the wall next to it, my back supported by the cool wall, my arms crossed over my chest.
This was good. It was quiet. I could think.
A half-hour later, I was still there, and when I heard the hum of the elevator and the grind of the doors opening on our floor, every muscle inside me tensed.
Celeste walked toward me, a little smile playing on her lips as she looked down into her bag, removing her keys. When she looked up, caught sight of me, the smile dropped. “Seriously?”
I pushed off the wall, stepped in front of her. It was like my body was following commands from some part of my brain I didn’t fully control. “How was it?” I heard the sneer in my voice, wished I could wipe it away.
“None of your business,” she hissed, pushing past me to unlock her door.
I got in her space again, leaning in close enough to smell the sweet floral scent of her mixed with a hint of wine. “Did he kiss you?”
