Page 41 of Cherry Picking
“I miss you.”
“You’ll be home in a few days.” The team has two out of state games in a row, and even if I feel a pang in my chest to say the words, I know in the scheme of things this isn’t the worst it’ll be. If we make it to the playoffs this year, the distance is going to suck.
“I don’t want to be home. I want to go to the bar and drink all this shit away, but I want you to be there. I want you to sit in the booth with your arm around me and let me pass out on your shoulder. I want to go back to the hotel room with you, and I want you to fucking hold me so I can start my morning off knowing that I have you. That you’re mine. That it doesn’t matter how good or bad I play; if I fuck up or cost us the win. You’re with me anyway.”
My mind goes painstakingly blank. How do you respond to that? How do you tell the man you’ve practically handed your heart to on a platter that it’s your own stupidity keeping you apart?
Not just because I didn’t take care of my leg like I should have after the initial injury, but because it’s my own fucked up anxiety keeping us from going public.
There’s nothing I can say to make up for any of that, but I wet my lips and do my best with the quaking breath that comes out.
“I’m with you, Griff. Always with you.”
He sighs, and neither of us speaks as he steps into his clothes, as he sits down on the bench and sighs again.
“I love you, Riley.” Tiredness pours from those four little words.
Four words that punch me in the gut and knock the breath out of my lungs.
Before I can muster up the courage to say it back—before I can say anything at all—the line clicks, and the call drops.
Pacing the floor with crutches is a lot slower and a lot less satisfying than if I could do it on my own. Locke doesn’t seem to think so, because he’s sitting on the couch drumming his fingers over his knee with a pinched expression.
“This is driving you insane,” he says, and I snort.
“You think?”
I want to be with my team. Playing or not, it doesn’t feel right sitting around here while they work their asses off.
I want to be with Griff.
“You’re giving me a migraine. C’mon.”
Locke stands, pats his pockets, and motions to the door.
For the first time in twenty minutes, I stop. My arms hurt like hell from the damn crutches.
“What?”
“You’re a hockey player. I’m going to bet that duffle bag sitting next to the TV has clothes and essentials in it? Either because you’re as anal as Griff about being prepared or because he made you pack one. Grab it and get in the damn car.”
Griff did pack me a bag actually. Right before he left because it’s his pregame tradition. He always packs our stuff the night before a game and has it sitting by the door.
“It’s a nine hour drive.”
“So we’ll have plenty of chances to bond. Griff will love that.”
“Coach and Nash will be pissed.”
Locke rolls his eyes. “Griff is going to drink himself silly tonight. He hates alcohol, but if he’s that tore up… he’s going to need you in the morning.”
I need him, too.
God, do I need him.
I need to hold him and kiss him and laugh with him. I need to feel his rough hand in mine and remind myself this is real.
We’re real.
