Page 28 of The Lies We Play

“That is a very careful answer.”

“I’m a careful man.”

I look down at myself in his sweatshirt.

It smells like him. It feels like him. It is too much fabric and not enough distance.

“This is a dangerous garment,” I say.

His eyes come back to mine.

For a second, the air changes.

Not sweet.

Not simple.

Just honest enough to scare me.

“Yeah?” he asks.

I swallow. “It has persuasive qualities.”

His gaze drops to the sleeves covering my hands, then returns to my face. Slow enough that I notice. Fast enough that he can deny it.

“Keep it for tonight,” he says.

“For tonight?”

He shrugs. “Or until I’m back.”

The words sit between us, harmless if someone else heard them.

They are not harmless here.

The bridge light blinks again.

I wrap my arms around myself inside his sweatshirt and look back toward the river because looking at him has become a decision, and I'm not ready to know what I would choose.

Beside me, Creed stays close.

He tells me about the away games. Toronto, Montreal, Chicago. Five days.

Then, I ask if Chicago is cold this time of the year.

He glances over. “You’ve never been?”

“Not in October,” I responded. “We’ve visited twice during St. Patrick’s Day, because my father likes to pretend he’s Irish for exactly one weekend a year.”

Creed’s mouth moves. “Is he Irish?”

“Not even emotionally.”

That gets me the almost-smile again.

We stay on the roof for hours.

The city cools around us. The tar paper gives off the last of the day’s stored warmth, and the sweatshirt keeps what it took from Creed. I ask him about Toronto. He tells me the ice there is good, the press is nicer than most cities, and one of the locker room showers makes a sound like it is reconsidering its life choices. I ask about Montreal, and his face changes in a way I file away before I can stop myself. Softer. Familiar. Family-adjacent. Then, Chicago, where he says the wind comes at you like it has a personal vendetta.