Page 51 of The Lies We Play

A kitchen at night. The man I always remember, but now—now the face is Creed’s.

Creed’s head bowed. My fingers in his hair. His breath against my mouth. A woman nearby, breathing too fast and pretending she is not. Creed turns enough to kiss her fingertips. My own voice, low, saying⁠—

Never.

The glass of water trembles under my other hand.

The bartender snorts. “Lafontaine’s a machine. Guy’s got no pulse. He’s cooler than ice.”

That is not true.

The thought is immediate.

Violent. Also, mine.

I turn my head slowly toward the bartender. He is wiping down the counter. He doesn't know he has said something impossible. He doesn't know my world has just tilted around a stranger’s name.

Except he is not a stranger.

He can’t be.

Because I know, with no memory to justify it, that Creed Lafontaine has a pulse. I know he pretends he doesn't, because stillness is safer than wanting. I know he tastes like rain and anger. I know his laugh is rare enough to feel stolen. I know there is a place at the back of his neck where pride becomes surrender if touched with enough patience.

The knowledge is intimate.

Indefensible.

Mine.

The screen changes to another highlight. Creed skating. Creed checks another player into the boards. Creed on the bench, jaw set, eyes forward. Creed wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his glove as if blood is an administrative inconvenience.

Her voice surfaces in me, bright and edged with tears.

My beautiful, impossible Creed.

Mine.

Ours.

The bar sways.

I stand too fast.

The bartender says something. I leave a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. The street air hits cold, damp, merciful. I walk half a block before stopping beneath the awning of a closed pharmacy.

My phone is in my hand.

I don't remember taking it out.

I search the name.

Creed Lafontaine.

Thousands of results.

Hockey profile. Interviews. Career stats. Injury history. Retirement speculation. Photos. So many pictures. Creed on ice. Creed in a suit. Creed, younger, smiling with a woman whose face is partly turned away from the camera at a charity event years ago.

My heart stops.