Page 56 of Depths of Desire
“You like him,” she said again, this time with awe. “You really like him.”
And suddenly, it was too much. I started pushing that part of me back down—tightening the walls, straightening the lines. I hadn’t earned the right to feel this. Not yet. Not when I hadn’t finished what I came here to do. Not after what happened last season. Not after how hard I’d fought to prove I could win.
I wasn’t ready for something that felt like falling.
But later that night, I saw him again.
We met at this bar near campus, low-lit, tables worn soft from years of elbows and drinks and laughter. The air always smelled faintly of fryer oil and someone’s cheap cologne, but it was warm and familiar and comfortable.
He was already there when I walked in, curled into the corner booth like he’d been poured into it, one arm slung lazily along the back, a soda in front of him, and that flannel shirt I liked bestwrinkled just enough to drive me crazy. His jeans were tight in that way that made me forget what words were.
His hair curled at the ends, a little too long, like he hadn’t gotten around to cutting it, and I didn’t want him to. His laugh was the first sound I heard before I even reached him. Loud, bright, unfiltered. He was trying to tell Rhett some ridiculous story and cracking himself up halfway through it, shaking his head and swatting at the air like it was someone else’s fault.
“Okay, wait,” he gasped, waving his hands, “I’m gonna finish it this time—no, stop looking at me like that!”
He caught sight of me and lit up like the moon just winked on. Wide smile, eyes crinkling, joy without hesitation. He waved me over like I’d been missing for days instead of hours.
I sat down across from him, caught in the gravity of his grin. He tried to keep going with the story but gave up halfway through, laughing too hard, half apologizing. His hands kept moving. His face flushed. His shoulders shook.
And I just stared at him.
I wasn’t thinking about Nationals. Or times. Or records. Or the weight of expectation on my back like a wet towel.
I was thinking about him.
About how soft he made me feel. How quiet.
And then something warm and sharp bloomed behind my ribs. Something I didn’t know how to name yet. Something bigger than want. Bigger than fear.
And for one terrifying second, I realized: I was already in it.
Not falling.
Not wondering.
Already there.
And he had no idea.
The rest of spring came in soft glances and slow build.
Finals loomed like thunderheads, but somehow everything felt lighter. Maybe it was the way sunlight lingered longeron the pavement. Maybe it was Lennox, stretching out across my weekends, curling himself around the quiet hours between practices, around the gaps I didn’t realize were waiting to be filled.
We didn’t need much. A couch. Takeout containers. The backs of our hands brushing as we reached for the same fry. We never saidwhat are weagain. It didn’t feel like a question anymore. It just was.
Sometimes I watched him sleep. Sometimes he caught me watching, and instead of teasing, he’d reach for my hand and pull it under the covers like it belonged there.
He always ran hot. He was a furnace under every blanket, a sun-warmed stone on chilly mornings. I liked being near it. I liked being near him.
And then, one night, he texted.
Lennox:You home? I’ve got something for you.
I openedthe door to find him standing there with that familiar bounce in his knee, a folded envelope in his hand and an impossible sparkle in his eyes like he couldn’t believe he’d kept it a secret this long.
He stepped in without waiting for an invitation—he never needed one—and handed it over.
The envelope was unsealed. Inside was a printed reservation. A lodge. Ten days, early June. Same mountain resort. Same place we’d gotten snowed in during winter break.
