Page 48 of Patrick

Her expression goes from apologetic to unhappy as she backs away from me until she hits the cement wall. I get the vibe that she’s unhappy with me. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, looking away from me. “I messed up. I guess I should forget about spending the night tonight.” Her tone is more upset than disappointed. There may even be a hint of anger there.

“Fifi, no. I’m sorry. I overreacted.” I lower onto my haunches and pull her down next to me. Noticing the freshman—Harry—turning to check on me, I give him a nod. He’s been standing guard, deflecting his friend when he turns our way. I owe the guy after this.

I turn back to Fifi and tell her straight. “I don’t like all the lies we’re telling.”

She stares at me, telling me everything I need to know without a word, her face losing its color, literally turning whiter than the ice.

“Talk to me,” I say after a beat of scary quiet because I don’t like the message I think she’s sending. She remains silent. Speechless isn’t something I’ve seen from her. She’s always been more than open, sharing what she feels and thinks—whether I’ve wanted to hear it or not.

Thinking of something to say to change her expression, I go with the first thing that comes to mind. “I have something for you.” I’m not expecting my impromptu gift to help matters, but I bought it for her, and I still want to give it to her, damn it.

“A gift?” she says as if in disbelief. “Another book of poetry isn’t going to help un-fuck this up.”

“No.” Shit. “I got you a team jersey—with my name and number on it. It was supposed to be for you to wear to the B.C. game.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?” She shrugs, looking confused. “Would have been cool.”

“I get you can’t wear it now with your parents there. Maybe you can wear it to another game.” I smile as her face softens. And for some perverse reason, my need to see her in my jersey gets stronger.

“I’m sorry, Trick. I don’t like lying either. I thought you…”

“What?”

“I thought you were giving up on us.”

“Hell no.” I put an arm around her and pull her to a stand with me, as she murmurs another apology.

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. This is what we signed up for. You can’t control your parents' surprise visit. I’m a douche for getting frustrated about needing to keep things secret. Not that I’d go blasting it around about seeing you.”

“Right. We’re not exactly serious, are we?” Her short laugh seems forced.

I take her chin between my fingers, forcing her to look straight into my eyes. “We’re serious in our own way, but not telling-our-parents-serious.”

Her mouth curves, and the small movement is enough to open up a universe of possibilities.

“I’ll wear your jersey after the game when I go to bed at night, with nothing else—except maybe you next to me.”

“You want me to spend the night after the game? It could be late.”

“Will you?”

“You have to ask? I was kind of hoping to come over tonight. To give you the jersey.”

“You have to ask?”

I close in, dipping my head to steal a kiss. The velvety feel and sweet taste of her mouth draw me in⁠—

“Jennings, where the hell are you?” Coach’s loud voice booms over the din of multiple animated conversations.

Harry immediately steps aside, probably out of fear, and I immediately step in front of Fifi, blocking her from view.

“Right here, coach.” I move forward, and Harry, without my prompting, takes my place blocking Fifi. I don’t know how much of our quiet conversation he overheard, but he’s earned my respect and a puck-load of gratitude.

“I owe you, man,” I whisper as I move forward to take an interview with a guy holding a microphone and standing in front of a TV camera.

Noticing it’s not the campus TV station, and that all eyes are on me, reporters holding out their phones and recorders, I shift gears faster than a wing on a breakaway and get into hockey business mode.

But in the back of my mind, I’m thinking I’m going to have to suck it up and ask—no, beg—the equipment manager for an extra jersey as soon as this media circus is over.