Page 8 of Depths of Desire
He was already unzipping his coat. He peeled it off like it offended him, then pulled his sweatshirt over his head in one motion, revealing a white T-shirt underneath that clung to his torso like it was painted on. In the movement, the T-shirt lifted up his back, and I let go of the gas pedal while my gaze wandered over his bare skin.
He fixed it and tossed the layers into the back seat without looking at me.
The tension between us buzzed like static.
I cleared my throat, trying for light. “So, uh…you packed light.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Only need a few days’ worth.”
Right. Of course. Because he was efficient and focused and apparently incapable of making small talk without sounding like he was doing math in his head.
I merged onto a feeder road and headed toward the interstate. The city thinned around us. Streetlights gave way to open stretches of dark road and blank fields dusted with snow. The world was still half-asleep. Everything moved slowly.
Except for my heart.
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He stared straight ahead, arms crossed, jaw tight. His profile was all sharp angles and impossible control.
“So,” I said. “How’s training going?”
He paused. “Good.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s going fine,” he said, not unkindly, just tight in a way.
“Coach happy with you?”
“Apparently.”
I waited, but that was it.
Polite. Distant. The conversational equivalent of a locked door with a do not disturb sign taped to it.
I adjusted my grip on the wheel and blew out a quiet breath.
Okay then. This was going to be a long drive.
I turned up the music slightly, lo-fi, chill, something wordless to keep the silence from pressing too hard. The heater hummed. The road curved gently, leaving Chicago behind and heading into the open stretch beyond, headlights casting long glows on either side of us.
It wasn’t awkward.
Not really.
Oliver placed his hands on his legs, palms flat and fingers spread, and looked ahead. His face was unreadable. Thick locks of hair flopped over one another, and as the night slowly paled into morning, they had a chestnut sheen I remembered from years ago. His eyes were the same shade of brown, corners sharp and lines defined.
We’d been on the road for about two hours, and I still couldn’t get a full sentence out of him.
Every time I tried, Oliver gave me short responses like he was checking boxes in a social etiquette handbook.
I didn’t want to take it personally. He was always like this, quiet and hyperfocused, made of tension and drive and something a little sharper than the rest of us were built for. But knowing that didn’t stop me from overthinking everything I said.
I adjusted the heat again, just for something to do. My coat was still in the back seat. Oliver’s was, too, tangled up with his sweatshirt, and now he sat in his white T-shirt like he didn’t feel cold at all. Like cold couldn’t touch him. I didn’t want to think of anything touching him. His bare arms and taut skin stretching over hard muscles made my face heat up.
The world outside the windshield was all white hills and flat stretches of pale-blue snow under a thin winter sun. It looked peaceful. It didn’t feel that way.
I spotted the blue and white sign for a rest stop half a mile away and decided we needed it. If not for gas, then for my nerves.
“We’re stopping,” I said, signaling.
