28. OLIVIA

CHAPTER 28

OLIVIA

I am confusion. Confusion's definition in the dictionary is me.

I recall an occasion or two when Brooke openly checked out a hot girl. So I know how the damn-I'd-tap-that expression looks like on his face. The subtle narrowing of his eyes. The little lip bite. The head tilt to get a better look. That's not at all how he looked like at O'Malley's when he saw my outfit. Instead, he acted all brotherly and shit trying to protect my modesty.

Yet here we are six days later at the library, and he won't stop touching me.

We commandeered a quiet corner behind the history shelves, against the window. The heating's actually nicer here than it is over at the long, open area with the tables, which is why we'd rather sit on the prehistoric carpet than on chairs. Brooke took off his winter coat and set it on the floor for me to sit on, and ever since, he's been parked flush against me. Our shoulders and arms brush every time we move, and he even dumped his ginormous, rock solid leg over mine when I tried to move away. A bit later, when I stretched out my arms and shoulders, he sneaked his arm around me and hasn't let me get away since.

Brooklyn has always been like a puppy, constantly seeking touch and affection. And even then, this is weird. It's like… boyfriend-y stuff. Which doesn't track with how he didn't openly salivate over me.

Worse, even though I've been trying to act mature about it, it hurt me that he didn't.

This is messing me up even more. Especially because I'm drowning in the masculine scent that clings to him, and the curve of the back of my neck fits against his shoulder like a lock and key.

"How's that?" His side rumbles against mine with the deep timbre of his voice. I'm super glad to be wearing thermal leggings and a tent-like St. Cloud hoodie, so he can't see the goosebumps it raises all over my skin.

I swallow hard and have to squeeze my eyes hard to focus them on the screen of his laptop. He has it half rested on his thigh, half on mine. Obviously, this tilts it heavily against me because his thigh is so much bigger. I desperately wish I could chuck the device away and just map the muscles of his powerful hockey thighs with my hands.

"It's a good start, but I think we should make the dialogue more personal." My voice comes out weird but I refuse to clear my throat out of principle.

"Hmm." Brooke scrolls down, his two middle fingers brushing the trackpad softly. "Okay, I see your point. It almost sounds like a TV ad."

"I really think the lecturer is going to evaluate us on this. I mean, he did say he wanted the pairs to go deeper."

"Deeper, huh?" he muses aloud, casually making me want to scream.

His phone goes off right then, the screeching almost acting as my proxy. Finally, Brooklyn unwraps himself from around me and stretches away to pull his phone out of his backpack.

"Aww, man."

"What?" I ask, my eyes fixed on the short true-blond hairs at the back of his head.

"I have to get going. Can't be late for the game prep."

I press my lips into a tight line, right in time to keep a groan inside. When I can trust myself again, I say, "That's okay, we can finish the rest by text."

Brooke pauses from packing his things up to turn to me. His lips are twisted in a thoughtful expression. "Hey, Liv. What are you doing after the game?"

"Not working on the Spanish assignment, if that's what you mean." I roll out of the way so I don't step on his coat and get to my feet, before bending down to pick it up. I shake the garment and pat the contact areas to clean it up a bit.

"Cool, I don't wanna do that either but there's something I want to ask you." I freeze, watching as he gets up, strap of his backpack on one hand, and a blue bundle on the other. When he faces me, he says even more bizarre things. "So, I'll find you after the game and then we can go get some dinner. But in the meantime, take this."

"What?" I stare at the thing. It's fabric, and at first I don't make sense of the mix of colors. Some blue, grey, white, a dash of yellow. Then Brooke splays it open and I get it. It's a Thunder Bolts jersey, complete with the C at front. I lift my eyes to his. "Why are you giving me a hockey jersey?"

"Not just any good ol' jersey. It's mine." He turns it around, showing the TATUM 3 at the back. "It's game worn, but I promise I washed it."

It's interesting how a person can choke with their mouth firmly closed, yet here I am. I have to cough a couple of times and swallow hard before I can speak again. "Why are you giving me your jersey? "

"Because I know you don't have one, and it'd be cool if you could support the team?" His lips widen into a cheeky grin. "And by team I mean me. There is totally an I in Captain."

"Um, are you sure? It's like…" I wave my hand, not knowing how to explain what could potentially backfire. This is a hockey girlfriend thing, which I'm not. Yet, I want to be. Except he didn't jump my bones last week. I'm not strong enough to open this can of worms right now.

"Look," he says, dropping his backpack on the floor and working the jersey in his hand. I don't move a muscle as he puts the neck opening over my head. Brooke takes his coat from my hands and with one of his, lowers the jersey down my body until I'm trapped. And even more confused. It must be showing in my expression, because if anything he's even more amused now. "Liv, you're my favorite member in the audience and literally the only person who's there because she genuinely cares about me. That's why I want you to wear it."

"Okay," I say automatically. It's not a declaration of love. He's obviously not asking me to be his girlfriend. But I'll take it. I'll take whatever crumb he gives me right now until I can eat the whole pie. And I will, no matter how long it takes me to make him look at me the way I want. I slide my arms into the sleeves of the jersey, and then spread them wide. "How do I look?"

He rubs his chin while he inspects me, head to toe. "Shorter, somehow."

"Go." I point toward the exit.

Chuckling, he grabs his stuff. "See you after the game."

"Yeah, whatever."

I watch him go, my heart racing faster even as he disappears down the stairs.

Then I look down at myself. It's not a mighty big deal. Plenty of girls on campus wear his jersey, and it's not like people would know at a glance that this one is an actual player' s jersey. There's no stake being claimed here. But is it bad if I feel like it is anyway?

I wish I could ask Siri what this means. Boy doesn't go awooga at the sight of me wearing something racy, but he gives me his jersey. And now he wants to ask me something after the game.

"Fool," I whisper to myself. If I hadn't gotten so distracted by the jersey, I could've asked him what his question was, instead of now having to agonize over it during an entire game.

I try to do a bit more work for a different class, but I can't focus. The library feels drastically colder now that I don't have the human torch right beside me. What if he was all over me just because he knew I was cold, not because he can't get enough of me?

Ugh. I need to do something definitive. I can't keep living like this.

Maybe tonight, after the game, he's going to ask me if I have a thing for him or what. Heaven knows I've been acting unlike me around him for weeks. And if so, screw it, I'll confess. I can be chill about this. I'm a grown ass twenty year old woman.

*

Two hours later, I am absolutely not chill while I sit alone in the stands. Mina wanted to come since this one's a home game and the Strikes have the away one tonight. But she has a library shift that prevents her from cheering for her potential man. Unlike Brooke and I, Mina and Dane seem to have hit it off pretty well after last weekend and already went on a date. Why can't I be that bold? Why do I have to overthink every damn thing?

My eyes latch onto Brooke the second he jumps the bench to start a shift. I jam my hand into the popcorn carton, all the way down until I reach the empty bottom.

Dinner. That's what he said. We're gonna have dinner after the game, which means he's going to be in one piece after the buzzer—and he better, or else. But it also means I should stop stress-eating. I can always stress drink, but my soda is also out.

My knee bounces as Brooke zooms down the ice like there's no one there. If his opponents were any smart, they'd stop him no matter what even when he doesn't carry the puck like right now. But they're too busy trying to score a goal on us and they give Brooke too much leeway.

He checks an opposing forward so hard, the sound echoes all around the arena before the audience breaks into cheers. Brooke doesn't stop. He's a blue whirlwind as he steals the puck and passes it over to Dane with such accuracy, you wouldn't think this is a live game.

Too late an opposing player tries to come at Brooke. I jump to my feet. But he doesn't take the hit. He bends down low even as he glides down the ice, and the other guy goes flying over him. It's a party trick that makes the whole place roar. In contrast, I melt back on my chair.

Good, he's still safe. No new scars. Whew.

The buzzer goes off to end the second period. Nervous energy courses through my veins, making my limbs springy. I let them carry me back to the concessions area, which suddenly strikes me as a great idea. Not my fault if I miss a portion of the third period if the line is too long, right?

My chest pangs. What if Brooklyn tries to find me in the crowd and can't see me, though? That'd disappoint him. Worse case, it would unfocus him and that could be dangerous.

Swiveling around, I head back the way I came when something in the corner of my eye catches my attention. Two tall men stand between the moving crowd, and I'm at an angle to recognize one face. It's Coach Green. I keep going, because it's none of my business.

Except, I'm close enough that I can now see the second guy. And while I have no idea who he is, I sure recognize the pin on the lapel of his suit jacket.

It's the logo of the team that drafted Brooklyn.

"Sorry," I mumble to some girls as I change path and get in their way. "Sorry, sorry." I twist and turn to navigate through the crowd until I reach them. I position myself just off Coach Green's back, where he won't see me and where it doesn't matter if the other guy does.

Lucky for me, I catch the conversation still at its inception because Coach Green's saying, "—Owe this visit today?"

"I wanted to check in on Tatum," the second guy says.

My stomach drops.

Of course. I mean, I know for a fact that no other Bolts have been drafted by this professional team. This is why I had to eavesdrop. But why am I still surprised?

"I see you made him captain."

"Yes. It was an easy choice." Coach Green's shoulders lift. "He's the best player in the team by far, and the rest of them look up to him."

"That's good, leadership skills are important. But his on-ice skills are what I'm here for."

I wish I could ask him, well? What does that mean? Is there a but at the end of his sentence? Because if so I will fight him. Brooklyn is the most hardworking guy I know, and that's even excluding his abundant talent.

I find myself pushing my sleeves up before Coach speaks again. "The kid is wasted on this team."

Oh.

I mean, yeah. He is. He wasn't the highest drafted defenseman by accident. The only reason he wasn't number one is because he's not a forward, and those are always the ones with the highest demand.

"I agree," the pro guy says with a nod. "That's why I'm here to take him."

I freeze.

"I—sorry, what?" Coach asks.

"We've had a lot of injuries this season and we need horsepower. I know it's going to screw up your season, but this is a great opportunity for the kid."

"Of course." Coach Green rubs the top of his head. "When do you need him?"

"As soon as you can spare him."

"Okay." No! Not okay! But the Bolt's coach obviously can't hear my mental screaming. "He should finish off the semester first."

"And when's that?"

"There are two weeks left."

I smack my hands against my mouth, otherwise I'll start screaming. My eyes fix on the spotted granite floors until it blurs. I blink hard, but there's no stopping the torrent of tears.

"That works," the other man says. "It gives us plenty of time to do the paperwork."

"Very well. I'll talk with him and get it started," Coach says with a sigh. I hear the smacking of hands shaking. "I'm angry that you're taking my best guy, but thank you for putting our program in the map."

"My pleasure. I'll make sure the organization compensates you for your loss."

Coach mumbles something I can't hear but makes the stranger laugh. A second later, their voices disappear and I'm alone in the crowd.

My heart shatters into a million pieces and that's how it's going to remain, because there's no way I'll ask Brooklyn to stay for me. To give us a chance. Not when he's about to achieve everything he's been busting his ass for.