Page 46 of Depths of Desire
Me:I’m still alive. Barely.
The dots appeared almost instantly.
Lennox:Damn. I was aiming for “completely ruined.” Guess I’ll have to try harder next time.
I snortedand leaned against the island, the edge cool beneath my forearms. The sunlight was finally cutting through the gray sky outside, turning the wood grain golden and throwing thin rays of brightness across the kitchen floor.
Me:You do seem like the overachieving type.
Lennox:You’re not wrong. I make a killer breakfast sandwich. Just saying.
I picturedhim there in their shared kitchen, one sock on, pan in one hand, texting with the other. Probably grinning. Probablyunaware that every word he sent loosened something in me I didn’t realize had gotten so tight.
Me:You just trying to lure me over with sandwiches and charm?
Lennox:Would it work?
I letthe silence stretch before I answered.
Me:Maybe.
There it was again.That warmth. Like I’d stepped into a patch of sunlight after weeks of cloud. I still didn’t know what this was.
But for a few minutes, texting back and forth, I forgot about Nationals. I forgot about flip turns and qualifying times and the pressure sitting on my chest like a lead weight.
For now, there was only the soft glow of the morning light, the smile I couldn’t hide, and a string of words from a boy who made me feel a little more human every time he hit send.
TWELVE
LENNOX
The last drillended with a crack of my stick and a satisfying thud against the boards. My thighs burned, sweat soaked through the collar of my undershirt, and my hair clung to my forehead under the helmet. It was a good kind of ache, the kind that told me I’d left everything on the ice.
Coach shouted a few final notes, then dismissed us. I coasted to a stop, tapped gloves with Easton, and headed for the locker room. My body moved like clockwork: pads off, skates unlaced, jersey peeled free. But my brain wasn’t really on the ice anymore. Hadn’t been, not entirely, for weeks now.
Two weeks since Oliver had left my dorm in the dead of night, steam still clinging to his skin, lips swollen, his hoodie wrinkled, and mine still clutched in my hand like a souvenir.
Two weeks of texts. Of almosts.
It should’ve driven me crazy. But weirdly, it didn’t.
Because I knew now. I knew he wanted me, knew he’d felt it, too, this thing that had crept up between us like heat between floorboards. He didn’t say it out loud, not in so many words. But every time his name lit up my phone, I felt it anyway.
It had been a long February. Extra drills, late-night lifts, and rolling deadlines for essays. Oliver was deep in training again.So was I. But March was creeping in. Warmer air, thinner coats, and more sunlight cracking through the clouds.
And today felt like it might change something.
After practice, a bunch of us ended up at Lumière. The beer was cold, the fries were salty, and the booth was loud with the familiar sound of college boys winding down.
Elio and Easton were arguing about something dumb, whether black tape or white tape was “statistically more menacing.” Patrick was trying to catch the attention of the server by flashing his best wounded-jock smile. Rhett was beside me, shoulder to shoulder, quiet and smirking as usual, like he knew things no one else did.
My phone buzzed just as I tipped back the last swallow of my beer.
I glanced down.
Oliver:Remember the address I gave you?
My heart stuttered.I swallowed too fast and set the glass down before I dropped it. My thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then I tapped back.
