Page 33 of Phantom Faceoff
Something happens to me in that moment. A chasm of want deeper than I’ve ever felt.
Oh.
I shouldn’t want to kiss him right now. That isn’t a thought I should even entertain, but there’s that word again.
Should. Shouldn’t.
The way Malachi’s gaze tears me apart, like he’s searching for the deepest parts of me to dig his claws into—it makes me want to sprawl across this bench seat and drag his body on top of mine.
It’s a treacherous desire.
Being with Julian these last few weeks has been fun. Comfortable. But the itch for adrenaline under my skin is finally bubbling to the surface.
It’s like my blood is made of gasoline and Malachi Blanchard is the match that ignites me. I’ve done my time licking mywounds, now my body aches for the burns of spontaneous danger.
This is bad.
I’ve never ran from a bad idea before, but as Julian swings the passenger door open and shoos Malachi into the middle—as Malachi’s arm brushes mine and his body stiffens like a board—I shove the desire burning through me as far down as I can reach.
Now isn’t the time to go burning everything to the ground.
But I know me.
Eventually, I’ll torch it all.
Chapter Ten
Malachi
Why doI let my best friend talk me into these things?
Crowded rooms are in my top five least favorite places. Doesn’t matter how big the room is. Actually, I’d say the bigger it is, the worse it is.
The most awful part of all?
It’s filled to the brim with sports maniacs.
The last place I want to spend my afternoon is an ice hockey rink. But Julian: sweet, sensible, wide-eyed Julian insists we need to be here for Zander’s first game.
A game he gets to play—mind you—because he’s spent the last several weeks bugging me at work and arguing about his truly awful media literacy.
Julian’s arm is healed up well, and he looks genuinely happy, bouncing in his seat as the players circle each other below. I couldn’t tell you a single thing about what’s happening other than lots of shouting and a surprising amount of fist throwing for a school sanctioned event.
“Which one is Hale?” They all just look like multi-colored blurs. Helmets. Pads. If I didn’t already know this wasn’t a co-ed sport, I couldn’t even tell if they were boys or girls.
“Number sixteen,” Jules answers without hesitation, way too into a game I don’t think he’s ever seen played a day in his life before now.
Sixteen. Right. Okay …
Even if I don’t understand the plays or calls or any of the words out of the announcers mouth, I keep my eyes zeroed in on number sixteen.
Sometimes he’s on the ice. Sometimes he’s pulled to the bench.
Every time he takes his helmet off and wipes at the gallon of sweat pouring off of him with one of those rinky dink towels, I get a strange sensation in my chest. Not just the unfortunate attraction, but something akin to … concern. Which is absurd, because he has the most ridiculous smile on his face eighty percent of the time.
For the amount of time elapsed, the scoreboard is abysmally low for both teams, and when half of the crowd stands and shouts, I have no idea who scored.
By the grin on Julian’s face, I’m guessing us.
