Page 152 of Fake As Puck
“I wish you were here,” I whisper.
“I wish I was there too.”
“This is torture,” he exhales, and I agree. I miss his face.
“I should let you sleep,” I say finally, though I don’t want to hang up.
“Yeah. You too.”
“I love you and miss you.” I grin at him.
“I love and miss you too, babe. Talk tomorrow?”
I nod.
After I hang up, I lie in the dark wearing his shirt, staring at the ceiling.
This was never fake, was it?
I shake my head, feeling my heart being pulled towards Seattle.
For me, it’s always been him.
43
I’m back on the ice where everything should make sense.
The familiar burn in my lungs from skating hard, the sound of pucks hitting boards, the rhythm of drills I’ve been doing since I was twelve years old.
But my head’s not in it.
Coach blows the whistle after a particularly sloppy power play drill, and I can feel his eyes on me as I skate to the bench.
“Carmack! How much sleep did you get last night?”
“Sorry, Coach. I’m here.”
“Are you? Because that was the laziest cross-ice pass I’ve seen since rookie camp.”
“Won’t happen again.”
“It better not.”
He’s right. I’m tired, sloppy, playing like someone who’s thinking about something else instead of focusing on the task at hand.
Which I am.
I’m thinking about Liv. About last night’s phone call. About the way I wanted to have phone sex but felt like I wasn’t ready for that. About how much I can’t wait for her to move up here.
“Dude,” Hurley says as we’re doing bag skates, “you miss your girl or what?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re skating like you’ve got cement blocks for feet.”
“Yeah, just not getting sleep.”
“I’m just saying, long distance is a bitch. Been there.”
