Only ever you, p.14
Only Ever You, page 14
I certainly don’t need to remember what it felt like for those arms to cage me in alongside his legs: one on either side of my waist, him impossibly hard inside me, sweat-slicked ridges of abdominal muscle pressing against my chest, a wave of hair curling over his head, voice rough and every second word in Czech because he could never keep his head straight when we were together like that.
“I think you should fuck.”
Whirling towards Tia, my palms find my cheeks, like I can cover up the flush. “Who?”
“You and my brother.” She rolls her eyes, hand motioning back and forth between me and Bohdan. “You two, obviously.”
“And why would we do that?” I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin, like I think the whole thing is improper, and I wasn’t just fantasizing about him inside me.
Tia tips her head back with a bark of laughter. “Because you used to do it all the time. When was the last time you got laid?”
“None of your business.”
“Since Bohdan?” She flips her hand over, studying her nails under the sun, like she wants to make sure her manicure stayed intact.
I narrow my eyes. “Of course not.”
Tia nods, all sympathetic like she expected as much. “Him either, I bet.”
“What?” I blink.
She gestures towards him again. I think Talon has them all doing tricep dips now. “Bohdan. I bet it’s just been him and his hand for the last year and a half. With the memories of you to keep him company, of course.”
“Don’t.” I widen my eyes, shifting on my feet.
I know what that looks like, too.
I’ve watched him. He’s watched me. We’ve watched each other.
His palm gripping against the wet tile of the shower, hair plastered to his face, curling around his ears and at the nape of his neck, droplets of water running across his shoulders, down the planes of his chest while all his muscles contract—
“You’re thinking about it right now, aren’t you?” Tia’s mouth curls into a catlike grin.
I feel a bit like shoving her, but I cross my arms instead. “No. I’m thinking about wine fortification. I hope they tell us about the process today.”
She laughs again, linking our arms and tugging me down the path towards the winery. “Liar.”
I try to concentrate on my sandals hitting the uneven cobblestones so I don’t trip, fall, and have to explain to a French paramedic that I was too busy thinking about my ex touching himself while he watched me in the shower to notice where I was going.
But Tia’s words, quiet and careful, interrupt all my other thoughts because they remind me of the thing I can’t forget.
“You’re sure?” she asks again, and I can feel her eyes on me.
“Yes. I need the Polaroid back. He can have his ring. And I’m finally going to know why.”
I keep my eyes on the cobblestones now, one at a time, and I try to ignore the sounds I hear with each step.
“What kind of rock is that?”
Bohdan looks over his shoulder, fingers stilling where they trail across the carved walls of the cellar.
“Provence is mostly limestone. The accumulation of marine sediments.” He knocks a fist against an outcropping of rock, edges worn down by time.
I nod, folding my arms across my chest, covering my exposed shoulder with one hand so he can’t see the tattoo, on display in this wine cellar we’re supposed to be touring, because he looks so much like the boy I fell in love with, eyes rapt with fascination while he looks at the different lines, colours, and mineral deposits of rocks.
We’re the only ones here. I went to the washroom when Tia, Talon, and Jay walked ahead to see the different types of barrels—mostly to tell myself I needed to stop thinking about Bohdan without clothes on—and when I came back, it was just him standing here: one hand in the pocket of his shorts, the other trailing across the walls, features lit by the swinging bulbs above him.
“Do you—” I start, a laugh catching in my throat. Tia was right. I don’t know how to pretend not to know him. “Do you . . . study rocks for a living?”
His hand, wide with veins traipsing over the back, lies flat against the rock, and he gives me a sideways look. “No.”
“What do you do?” The words sound so stupid, even to me, that I clap my hand over my mouth.
That makes him smile, and he pushes off the wall, shoving his hand in the pocket of his linen shorts. “I used to chase a rubber puck. Now I watch people chase that same rubber puck and talk about it on TV.”
I blink. It’s not really funny anymore.
“Maybe you could integrate your love of rocks,” I say quietly, trying again.
“Yeah, well, rock facts don’t play well on television.” He gives me a wry shrug. “People are more interested in who’s making plays, not the fact that the studio in Secaucus sits on sedimentary rocks. Shale, sandstone, siltstone. All part of the Newark Basin.”
“I wouldn’t know.” I shrug.
A grin stretches across his face. “About the bedrock formation, or the kinds of things people like to hear during televised hockey broadcasts?”
“Either-or.”
“You don’t watch me on TV?” He angles his head.
“Sorry, no.” I snort. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do less than watch a pixelated version of a Bohdan I’d never get to have on my TV screen.
He cocks his head back, like he’s affronted.
“You’d watch me?” I ask flatly.
Bohdan stops, the bulbs hanging from the wires mounted across the stone ceiling swaying above him, shadows dancing across his face. He nods. “Probably until my eyes bled.”
I swallow, whispering, “That doesn’t seem safe.”
He shrugs, lips tugging to the side. “Can’t imagine it would be. Not for the faint of heart, having you and losing you.”
You didn’t lose me, I think. You gave me up.
You had me and you let me go.
I close my eyes—I can’t look at him anymore. Not when I still love him, even though I wish with my whole heart I didn’t, not when he looks like that: impossibly stunning, impossibly out of reach, and more lovely than anything in the world, even here in a dank, centuries-old wine cellar.
He might’ve read my mind because his voice drops, a low, rough whisper just for me and him here in the dark. “Would be a fitting punishment, to have to watch you every day.”
“Is that what it’s supposed to be for me?” I blink, and he’s just a silhouette while my eyes adjust. “Punishment?”
A fitting one, my brain whispers. It’s what we deserved, at the end of the day.
To be left alone with our love. Not enough, never enough.
Bohdan surveys me, a muscle in his neck lengthens before tightening, and he lifts his brows before jerking his head. “No, Sloan. It was a last resort.”
They’re right on the tip of my tongue, so many questions I’d die to ask him, weighing it down enough that I can’t really speak, and I wonder if they’re the same things that sit heavy on his shoulders.
Why was it a last resort? Can he still not skate? Does his head still hurt him that much? Is it the noise? The lights? The glare from the ice?
Maybe it’s my ghost chasing him the way his chases me.
He looks the way he did when he was still playing—all taut ridges of muscle. He’s not old yet, and pre-concussion, he’d been planning to play until he was at least thirty-five, if his body let him.
I don’t ask, and I wouldn’t even if I could, because I’m not sure I can stomach the answer. I think, even after all these years, even after what he did, the idea of Bohdan carrying around baggage in the shape of that scar might be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
Instead, I murmur, “This is violating the rules.”
“You’re right,” he says simply.
“Strike one.”
He smiles, soft and sad. “You want to implement a strike system?”
“It only seems fair. We each have something to gain, so . . . whoever has the least amount of strikes at the end of the week wins.” My arms tighten across my chest, and I don’t tell him that I can’t pretend not to know him—I’ll fail and lose, and I need the Polaroid.
I need to know why.
“Amended rules then?” He steps forward, one hand coming out of his pocket, extending towards me in the low light. “Just . . . whoever fucks up the least gets to win? Think I’ve already lost, but sure, I’ll play.”
I start to shake my head because I can hear it there—he didn’t lose, I was the loser. He left me and I can only think of one reason why.
But Talon shouts for us, hands cupped around his mouth like we aren’t in a contained cellar and the noise won’t reverberate anyway. “Wine tasting time!”
Bohdan tips his chin towards the end of the cellar, and I don’t need to look to know Tia smiles at me, vindicated, like she’s won something. But I think Bohdan and I both might be losers no matter what, and he grips his jaw before holding up a finger. “Strike one for me, then.”
Bohdan
Then - College
Talon and Jay love to party after a game—win or lose. Talon says it’s good for morale. Jay’s only serious about one thing—hockey—and he wants to spend the night either being lauded for his performance and celebrating his own superiority, or drinking his feelings away before he goes to the rink at six a.m. to start watching game tape and dissecting everything he did wrong.
I don’t particularly care either way. I play well because I’m better than almost anyone, and when I don’t, I usually take my frustration out on the ice. But I’m the captain, and Talon and Jay are the alternates, and our line is just generally the best in the entire country, so it’s sort of expected.
The size and severity of the parties typically depends on how we played. And tonight, we played really, really well.
You can barely move through the throngs of people gathering in our hallways, standing littered on all levels of the staircase, blocking access to our rooms and all the quieter parts of our house.
Some of our teammates dragged a keg into the kitchen, and I think our goalie is upside down on it doing a keg stand right now.
Talon and Jay hold court where they usually do—in the centre of our living room, at either end of a beer pong table, already covered with cracked red plastic cups, puddles of foam dripping over the edges onto the scratched hardwood flooring, surrounded by their many admirers.
I play sometimes. Usually with Sloan. She makes an excellent teammate, and even though she doesn’t have a competitive bone in her body, she likes winning games with me.
Tonight, though, she’s on my lap, legs slung lazily over the arm of the chair, a red cup between her teeth, eyes glued to a Sudoku puzzle on her phone.
Nights like this work for us, when we’re in our own little bubble. I don’t always feel like talking, and Sloan doesn’t always want to participate, but this way, she feels like she’s still a part of things.
Talon says he can always tell if it’s going to be a “bubble night” or a normal night if I sit down and play video games before the party starts.
“That’s a six.” I tip the bottom of my beer bottle towards her phone screen.
She frowns, taking the cup away from her mouth. Her lower lip sits in a pout and she cuts me a sideways look. “I wasn’t working on sixes right now.”
I knock my head against hers. “Well, I was.”
“Alright, oh-so-wise Sudoku master. Let’s see.” She straightens her shoulders, making a big show of moving her finger in a circle to touch the right box before she taps the six at the bottom of the screen.
The number flashes green.
“Told you.” I grin, biting down on her neck.
Sloan rolls her eyes, pushing my jaw away. Her hair shifts when she does, and for the first time I notice a small green loop sitting just inside her ear.
“What are these?” I tap at the pale green rubber.
Sloan’s brow furrows, and her hand comes up like she forgot there was anything there, fingers tracing the circle before she smiles brightly at me. “Oh! They’re new. Tia got them for me. They’re for noise sensitivity.”
“Do they work?”
“Yeah. I wore them to the game tonight.” She nods, the seventeen still painted on her cheek creasing, her freckles visible just below the fading white paint. “They don’t block any of the sounds, but they reduce them and I can still hear.”
“Cool.” I smile, pressing my mouth to her temple.
She swings her legs over the arm of the chair, setting her phone down. “I’m going to go get another drink. Do you want another beer?”
“Sure.” I nod, watching her stand, tugging at the hem of her shirt before weaving through the crowd towards the kitchen. Talon pauses his throw to ruffle her hair, and when he sinks it, he immediately starts shouting for her to come back.
“Sloany!” He cranes his neck backward towards the kitchen. “Get back here! You’re my good luck charm.”
I don’t hear it at first because Talon’s voice carries, but when he realizes Sloan isn’t going to do more than flick up her middle finger over her shoulder and he quiets down, it sounds a bit like someone just stabbed my brain.
Two girls sit on the couch beside me—probably Sloan’s age, I think I’ve seen them around before, they might be friends with one of the rookies—huddled together, giggling and whispering, not all that quietly.
“She’s so fucking weird. Why is she wearing earplugs?”
“Who knows. I’ve seen her cry at these parties like, seven times. He’s so hot, he could do so much better.”
“Maybe she’s as weird in bed as she is everywhere else.”
I bite down so hard I think I crack a tooth, my grip tightens on the bottle, and I don’t know what I’m about to do but I turn with a jerk of my head. “What did you just fucking say?”
“You about done with your drink?” Jay interrupts, calling from across the table, arm suspended in midair, gripping the Ping-Pong ball so tightly the cords across his arms pop, drawing more attention to the array of tattoos spread across his bicep.
“Oh.” One of the girls glances sideways at me before looking at Jay like he’s just saved her, sitting straighter with this smile that’s probably supposed to be flirty but just looks fucking demonic to me. “Almost.”
Jay nods, a tight smile stretching across his face. “Great. Now you can get the fuck out.”
“Pardon me?” She pulls her head back, blinking, a bit stunned.
“Couldn’t hear me? I’ll repeat myself before Bohdan beats the shit out of whatever loser boyfriend you came here with.” Jay hikes a thumb over his shoulder before pointing back and forth between them. “Both of you can get the fuck out.”
Her face pales, eyes cutting to me. I clench my jaw, jerking it towards the door. She swings her gaze to Talon, like she might find an ally there. But he claps his hands together and points towards the door, too, grinning when he says, “Don’t bother coming back, either.”
“Because we said she was weird for wearing earplugs?” the other one finally sputters.
“Because I just don’t fucking like you.” Jay flashes her a smile that’s mostly teeth before he narrows his eyes. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Talon clicks his tongue, clapping again. “Chop-chop.”
I bite down on a fist, breath ragged, eyes narrowed on them as they gather their ugly coats, tugging down on the hems of their dresses, and practically sprint out the door.
“Breathe, Novo.” Talon shoves a cup of foamy beer in front of me, clapping me on the shoulder.
I drain the rest of my bottle, dropping it unceremoniously to the ground beside my chair, and grab the cup from Talon when I stand.
Rolling my shoulders back, I drain the mostly foam beer and drop that to the ground, too. I crane my neck, hoping for the only time since I’ve met her that Sloan is far, far away. Hearing something like that would fucking destroy her, and she spends enough time destroying herself.
I catch sight of her in the kitchen talking to Tia, propped up on the counter, head tipped back in laughter.
“Who did they come with?” I jerk my head towards the door.
“Forget them. They sucked.” Talon’s lips pull back and he waves a hand like it’s of no consequence.
“Fucking losers.” Jay nods, bringing his arm back to ready another throw.
“If Sloan had heard—”
“She didn’t.” Talon shakes my shoulders. “We’ve got her back, too, you know.”
Talon and Jay ended up on the same team as me by chance, really. We all had plenty of interest from other schools. And we ended up playing on the same line because there was something there, innate chemistry, during training camp.
I’m not a big believer in fate or the universe or anything like that. But something, somewhere brought them to me, and dropped Sloan off in the same first-year dorm as Talon’s sister.
Feels a bit like fate, maybe, if there’s such a thing. That we’re all supposed to be together.
I grin at them. “Thank you. She can stand up for herself, you know. It’s just—”
“Yeah, we know.” Jay cuts me off with wide eyes. “Quite frankly, I find her almost as terrifying as the other one.”
“Are you talking about me?” Tia tips her chin up, arms crossing over her chest when she shoves her way towards the table.
Sloan follows behind her, clutching her cup, almost full to the brim with a new vodka soda, holding out a new beer for me.
“Not really.” Jay rolls his eyes, tossing the Ping-Pong ball into an open cup. “I was talking about Sloan. But you are ‘the other one,’ so I guess I was, so to speak.”
Sloan arches a brow. “The other one has a name, you know. Unless you’ve taken one too many hits to the boards and forgotten?”
“Don’t pretend to forget my sister’s name.” Talon hits Jay in the back of the head with his palm before slinging an arm around Sloan’s shoulders, gesturing with his cup towards me and Jay. “You want to play them, Sloany? We need to bring them down a few pegs—each scored two goals tonight, and now they think they’re better than the rest of us.”
