Page 16 of Top Scorer
Tristan puts his hand over mine to stop the motion.
“Don’t open it for me. I, um, I don’t need a drink,” he says, fingers lingering over mine.
Before I can stop myself, I ask, mesmerized by his darkened eyes, “Whatdoyou need, Tristan?”
CHAPTER 8
TRISTAN
What do I need?
I need to breathe.
A deep, oxygen-rich inhale.
Unfortunately, my lungs forgot how to do their one job. It’s not a physical sensation, exactly. It’s more an overall ailment that I haven’t felt in a long time.
It’s a toxic mix of panic and grief.
Tonight, a woman collapsed in my arms, slumping to dead weight. For a split second, I was fifteen again. Helplessly watching my sister’s life slip away, unable to do a damn thing about it.
The way the woman in the restaurant slackened in my arms, the way people shouted, the chaos of it . . .
“I thought she was gonna die,” I whisper. “Right there, in my arms.”
Ligaya blinks rapidly, gently laying a hand on my forearm. “Tristan, that’s horrifying.”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” I state remorsefully.
“You saved her. It was brave of you to step in,” she offers. “It’s OK to be upset.”
In the restaurant, the past reared its horrid head, reminding me of the hold it will always have. Showing me that life can end ina blink, with no mercy or warning. Although a tragedy was averted, there are no guarantees. I might have saved someone tonight, but I failed to save the one who mattered most.
My futility in the face of my sister’s death will always haunt me. Illogical as it sounds, I always feel like I didn’t do enough. I’m haunted by the memory of her courage while I simplywatchedcancer cut her life short. That pathetic sense of uselessness stayed with me, long after Olive died.
Only hockey gave me purpose. I’d probably still be wallowing in misery if it wasn’t for the demands and distractions of the sport.
But grief is a sneaky asshole that ambushes you when you least expect it.
Right now, while I’m being ambushed by the past, it is Ligaya who grounds me to the present.
Ironically, her comforting presence at the moment has a similar effect as her constant aggravation in the past. During senior year, she became my nemesis as well as my diversion. Ligaya never pitied me. Never pulled her punches. Our silly feud distracted me from my bleak home life once Olive died. At a time in my life when I couldn’t see the future, Ligaya wouldn’t let me wallow.
“What’s wrong, Tristan?”
She tilts her head, eyes searching mine, and swipes delicate fingers over her smooth forehead twice. Warm lamplight illuminates her golden-brown skin. Her eyes are framed by thick lashes that curl like a doll’s. Her full lips press together, making her round cheeks lift. She’s quietly, naturally, devastatingly beautiful.
“Nothing’s wrong.” I sound like I swallowed glass.
She studies me intently. My hand moves before my brain catches up. I reach over and gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, brushing my knuckles along the curve of her cheekbone.
God help me, but she leans into the touch, her cheek supple against my rough palm. My fingers stutter for a second, caught between pulling away and pulling her in.
If I don’t leave now, I’m not sure I’ll want to go at all. I clear my throat, step back enough to feel the loss of her.
“It’s getting late. Thanks for letting me hang out for a while.”
“Of course. It’s the least I can do for the local hockey hero.”
