Page 2 of Absolutely Not in Love
“Positive. You possibly triggered a little post-hockey-childhood traumatic stress, but I’ll get over it.”
“You played hockey?” he says, his eyebrows lifting.
“Ha! No. Definitely not. But my brother played. And trust me—he spent enough time on the ice for both of us.” I lean my cello against the wall and lift a bag, shifting it closer to Felix’s door.
“Sohe’sthe reason you hate hockey players so much.”
An image of Gavin, my first real boyfriend and the only one who ever played hockey, flits through my brain. If any one person is to blame for turning me off to hockey players, it’s him. But my opposition runs much deeper than just one poorly behaved idiot high schooler. “I don’thatehockey players. I just hate hockey. There’s a difference.”
Felix moves the last bit of gear away from my door, clearing the way for me to carry my cello down the hall. “Want me to get that for you?” he asks as he steps out of the way.
I shake my head as I swing my cello onto my back. “It’s fine. I’ve had a lot of practice.” I unlock my door but pause and turn back around before sliding it open and going inside. This close to Felix’s door, I can hear whatever music he’s playing inside. “Is that Tchaikovsky?”
He nods and runs a hand through his hair. “Variations on a Rococo Theme.”
I nod. “Yeah. I know it.” I performed it as a soloist with my college orchestra senior year.
This isn’t the first time Felix has mentioned classical music, but it’s always been in a general way. A passing compliment on something he’s heard me practicing through the wall or a question about what the symphony is playing next. But I thought he was just being nice.
This feels different. He’s actuallylisteningto classical music?For fun?
He folds his arms over his chest and leans his shoulder against the wall beside his door, his feet crossed at the ankles. “So, hating hockey. Is that why you haven’t agreed to go out with Eli?”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t want to go out with Eli because he’s too cocky for his own good, though the hockey doesn’t help. It’s a pretty firm policy for me.”
“You don’t date hockey players?” There’s a hint of something in his voice that almost sounds like disappointment, and I half-wonder if I’m imagining it. Maybe he’s just disappointed for Eli’s sake?
“Nope,” I say, pushing the thought aside. Either way, it doesn’t matter. “I spent enough time in a hockey rink the first eighteen years of my life to last a lifetime.”
“Watching your brother,” Felix says, and I nod.
More likeresentingmy brother while I pretended to watch. But that’s more family drama than I care to discuss with my neighbor.
“I’m glad to learn this about you,” Felix says. “Everything makes so much more sense now.”
I slide my door open and put my cello inside, then mirror his posture, leaning my shoulder against the wall. “What does that mean? What makes more sense?”
He shrugs. “How hard you work to avoid me. Or how much you frown and roll your eyes whenever my teammates come over.”
“Your teammates areloud,” I say. “Loud and cocky and…big.”
He smirks. “I’ll give you loud and cocky, but big?”
“Humongous,” I say. “And…” I struggle to find the right word, but then it pops into my head and makes so much sense, I can’t believe I’ve never used it before. “Wild.”
Felix smiles, revealing a dimple I’ve never seen before. “Wild?”
I purse my lips, not liking that he finds this so amusing. “I know hockey players, Felix. I grew up surrounded by them, and they’re definitelywild.What else would make someone strap knives to their feet and skate around on rock-hard ice knowing full well they’re going to get pummeled over and over again? It’s insane.”
In my experience, that same wildness crosses over into every aspect of hockey players’ lives—something Cheater McCheaterpants Gavin proved loud and clear—and it’s not a wildness I want inmylife.
Felix holds my gaze for a long moment, then he ducks his head the slightest bit. “I guess you’ve got us all figured out,” he says.
The fervor evident in my words only moments before evaporates in a second. The tone of Felix’s words—he sounds hurt. And I’m definitely not imagining it this time.
Before I can truly process or apologize, he steps back into his apartment. “Sorry again about earlier,” he says. He slides his door halfway closed. “Good night, Gracie.” Then his door closes and locks, and I’m alone in the hallway.
Huh.Alone and feeling like that conversation didnotend how it should have.
