Page 46 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
I roll over and throw my arm over her, pulling her against the pillows. Then I tuck the shared comforter around her. It’s an oven.
“Better?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I roll back over and allow myself a satisfied grin in the dark.
A moment passes and she settles down, nestling in. I can smell vanilla—her shampoo, or lotion, or some other girly product. She rests a hand on her pillow, next to her face. I can sense it, like her fingertips are just millimeters away from mine.
Minutes pass, the darkness enveloping us like a blanket before Everly speaks. “I’m gonna miss Sutton Arena.”
“Me too.” I let out a breath. “This rink meant a lot to my dad. The idea of losing the arena feels like losing another part of him.”
She goes still.
“He was an enforcer, you know,” I say. “For the Blue Ox. Before they were the Blue Ox—back when they were a minor league affiliate. Michael Benson. He was the guy you sent out when you needed someone to fight.”
“I didn’t know that.” Her voice is velvet against the black. “What happened to him…if you don’t mind me asking?”
I glance toward her on instinct, forgetting the darkness that hides us. “He got in a fight. Late in the third of a nothing game—end of season, didn’t matter for standings. But fighting was his job.” The words come out flat. “He went down. Helmet came off—chin strap failure. His head hit the ice, and he just…didn’t get up. He died two days later. I was eight.”
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t gasp or reach for me. Just sits with it. Lets the words exist without trying to fix them. Shoot, I like her even more for that.
“Just once,” I say, “I wish he could have seen me skate—really skate. I wish he could have sat in the stands and known it was worth it. That the ice, the love of it, the sound of his skates I hear every time I step on a rink—that it turned into something.”
I feel her fingertips enter the atmosphere of mine. Not quite touching, just there.
“I know what you mean,” she says. “It’s not the same thing—not even close—but I know the feeling of wanting to show someone what you became.”
“Oh?”
“I had this writing teacher. Mr. Decker. I was fifteen, writing constantly—notebooks full of stories, up until two a.m. I’d written a piece of Buffy fan fiction. Earnest, overwrought, terrible dialogue, but I’d worked on it for weeks, and it was the first thing I’d written that felt like me.”
“What happened?”
“I turned it in as a creative writing sample. He read it and laughed. Then he read it to the class. He did the voices and everything. And then he dropped it on my desk and said, ‘Miss Hart, if you’re going to waste paper, at least waste it on something original.’”
Anger moves through me, swift and hot, aimed at a man I’ve never met.
“And every time I hit a bestseller list, there’s this part of me that wants to walk into his classroom and put the book on his desk and say, ‘Does this seem silly to you?’” She laughs—short. A self-deprecating breath. “Wow, I’m sorry. Totally not the same thing. Your dad would be proud of you, Beckett. My story was stupid.”
“A teacher took the thing you loved and humiliated you for it in front of everyone. That’s not stupid. That’s the kind of thing that shapes you.” I roll to my side, facing her. “Don’t rank your pain against mine. There’s no scoreboard for this.”
I can’t see her, but I know we’re looking at each other—seeing each other.
“I’ll go with you,” I say.
“What?”
“To his classroom. I’ll drive. You bring the book. I’ll stand in the doorway, looking large and disapproving.” I gesture at myself—pointlessly, I know. “I’m excellent at looming.”
She laughs, and it sounds like the kind of laugh that escapes before you can catch it.
“Thank you. You’re very sweet.”
“Yeah…well, don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”
Another beat passes, and I feel her shift closer.
