11 | humping the ice
BRIE
It's September, but I feel like I've walked straight into a New England winter with how much I'm shivering and with how hard my teeth are chattering.
I don't understand how Rhett likes being here. I love fall as much as the next girl—I've lived in Vermont my whole life, as cliché as that sounds—but my poor body doesn't like abysmally low temperatures, even when I have time to prepare myself for it in advance, both physically and mentally. At least I have Rhett's letterman jacket, which gives me an extra layer of protection from the biting cold air, but it's still not ideal.
I'm suddenly hyper aware of how intimate this is, even when I'm sitting on the bleachers and he's skating laps around the rink with the rest of his team. Wearing his varsity jacket brands me in a way that attracts curious glances from the moment people catch a glimpse of his name and jersey number stamped on my back, but it's been manageable so far.
There's some discomfort attached, especially when I notice the murderous glares some girls shoot my way once they realize I'm wearing his jacket, but I don't partake in those dynamics. They can hate me all they want if it makes them feel better, as I know neither I nor Rhett owe them any explanations or apologies about what we're doing—not that it concerns them in any way—but it saddens me to know they're choosing to antagonize me and turn me into a villain purely based on my choice of outerwear.
There are things that matter so much more than varsity jackets and hockey players, but I can't force them to agree with me. I'd rather pretend they're not plotting my murder and how to make it look like an accident, even though it would be a pretty targeted attack, in my opinion. I'm not going to war over a guy, not even for Rhett Price.
Even if most romantic comedies from the early 2000s—my personal favorites—help promote the concept of female rivalries over men and only valuing friendships with the women who aren't also interested in the male love interest, that's not the kind of girl I am, and I don't want to indulge in girl hate.
To distract myself while the guys are just skating laps and not doing something I need to pay close attention to, I pull my phone out of my pocket, which is considerably harder than it needs to be, courtesy of my freezing fingers.
Professor Ramos never got back to me regarding the senior project update I sent her the morning after the charity gala, and thinking about her sudden silence makes me want to sprint across campus and barge into her office, so I decide to stop refreshing my inbox for a response that I likely won't receive.
Though it's something that doesn't necessarily require a response, I'm still hoping for the slightest bit of acknowledgment that she got it and read it, or maybe a small pat on the back for not giving up over the slightest inconvenience. She was the one to tell me to be my own muse and, now that I found a way of solving my problems, she has suddenly gone silent.
It pains me to admit that this is the kind of validation I crave. Academic success and subsequent validation is everything to me, as it's the one thing I've been consistently praised for my whole life. There's my looks, too, but I had to grow into those (honestly, puberty was a godsend, along with my growth spurt and eye for fashion), while I've always been good at being smart.
I'm not gifted, but I've always been dedicated to school and studying, sacrificing quintessential high school and college experiences for the sake of my GPA, and I'm on good terms with every single professor that has crossed my path. This isn't as annoying to other people as it used to be in high school, now that everyone is older and more mature, but it also scares me to think about the possibility of being seen by my professors as a drag, or worse—as an attention seeking, neurotic mess. It's not a false assessment, but still.
So, instead of allowing an empty inbox and mean girls to bring me down (great joke) when I'm already stressed out over my date with Rhett and our conversation from earlier, I text Nancy instead.
BRIE
So, suppose I have a date later today.
What do I wear that doesn't make it look like I'm trying too hard to impress someone? But that at the same time doesn't make it look like I couldn't care less?
NANCY
A date??? With Rhett???
An actual date? Or is he just showing you off like a championship trophy to whoever happens to be lurking around the corner?
She means well, I know that, but I can't help but wish she'd be more supportive instead of immediately launching herself into skeptical land. It's her M.O., sure, but it's not mine.
It's not something that hasn't crossed my mind and I suspect it will be a recurrent thought regarding every single thing that Rhett and I do, wondering whether it's real or not, if it means something or not, if it's all for show or if it's part of our reconciliation process. I don't want to be stuck in that mentality, as I want to be able to trust Rhett again, particularly with my crystal heart, but letting go of fossilized thought patterns isn't easy. It doesn't even sound easy.
BRIE
I'm actually not sure, but he's different, Nance
There's something about him that's different from the version of him that broke my heart years ago, and I want to trust him this time
I just don't know how wise it is or how to tell when it's the real deal or when it's just for appearances' sake. We already had a super awkward conversation about expectations and treating me like a puck bunny so I don't know if I should bring it up and risk making it worse
NANCY
I'm personally in favor of not trusting womanizing fuckboys like, ever ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
You know him better than I do, so if you think he's changed . . .
I'll go take a look at your clothes and come up with some outfit options
Try to figure out where he's taking you. Don't wear heels to McDonald's lol
Or do, fuck it. I don't trust short men
She doesn't trust men, period, but Rhett is tall. Sure, he's not the tallest on the team—Andy de Haan, the goalie, is one of the biggest guys—but he's taller than me, and I can wear heels without having to think about him feeling emasculated over it. Not that he'd ever have to feel that way; he's a freaking beast on the ice, demanding respect and getting exactly what he wants.
I set my phone aside as the commotion on the rink begins, a seismic change in pace, and even the atmosphere around me feels more intense. The guys are warming up properly now, albeit without their sticks and pucks, and I'm embarrassed to admit I'm staring at them with googly eyes as they stretch. It feels invasive and my cheeks are so hot they could probably melt the entire rink, something I'm certain Rhett can tell even with the distance between us.
I'm certain he can see it because he briefly looks back over his shoulder, finding me again, and, even with the helmet, I can still see the devilish glint in his bright eyes, complete with the goddamn smirk.
I'm being completely normal about it in my head, as it's literally just stretching, and I'd be going up in flames if there were guys ogling female players like this, so I stay put. I brush my hair away from my face and try to remain impassive, like the kind of girl that isn't impressed by the athletic prowess of looking like they're humping the ice.
They're just stretching. It's normal. They're not doing it to impress the crowd (Andy de Haan is a father, for Christ's sake), but Rhett is putting on a show because he can, which is quite obnoxious. I can't stop staring, though, and thank the heavens when the whistle blows and they all rise to standing positions with their sticks.
Rhett skates right past me, and the enthusiasm in his eyes right before they launch themselves into a puck protection exercise is dangerous. I am not being completely normal about this, and this is just the first practice out of many, not to mention the actual matches I'll have to attend—where my face and presence will be on full display.
Oh, Lord. What have I gotten myself into?
ᓚᘏᗢ
Being attracted to Rhett Price is officially one of the worst things that has ever happened to me, bar none. Almost none, thanks to semantics.
Romantic feelings and obnoxiously longing for him are things I can deal with. With time, it becomes easier to squish them until they're no longer a bother, and I can go on with my life acting as though they've never existed. It gets easier, then it becomes a survivable thing, and I can rebuild my life around it. I don't learn much from my mistakes, true, but Rhett is also the only person in my life who has ever hurt me enough to the point of becoming predictable, and that is something I can work with.
Physical attraction, however, is handled by an entirely different side of my brain that doesn't require much cognitive work—or any cognitive work, for that matter—which means I'll constantly be at the mercy of my hormones and biological urges to jump his bones. Even if I don't act on it, the exact thing I'm planning on doing unless it's strictly necessary, it will always be lurking in the depths of my mind, waiting for the right opportunity to break free whenever I'm less inhibited.
I don't want to be the type of girl who finds him absolutely irresistible purely out of a biological standpoint and I have enough self-control to keep my hands and my thoughts to myself, but I fear for what will happen if I get the slightest taste of satisfaction. They call it a little taste of heaven, but, to me, it feels like a surefire way of landing myself a permanent stay in hell.
I'm feeling about to collapse when my phone lights up with a notification. It's still not Professor Ramos, which leads me to wonder—complete with my stomach sinking like there's an iceberg inside me—if she's purposefully ignoring me and, if so, then why. I hate the anxiety that comes with the not knowing, the sleepless nights spent coming up with progressively more chaotic and catastrophic scenarios to justify that behavior, where I'm always the one at fault. I'm always the one who must have done something wrong.
With my heart in my throat, I crane my neck to check the notification and, for the first time in years, I almost let out a sigh of relief when I realize it's just Rhett.
Just Rhett. Brie from last month would have never thought that.
RHETT
I know I'm early, but I ran out of stuff to do in the meantime and decided to head straight to your building, if that's okay
Are you ready to head out?
Physically, yes.
He's taking me to a family-run pub, which doesn't require fancy clothes and expensive heels, something I'm strangely grateful for, so I'm dressed appropriately—jeans, a cashmere sweater I thrifted last year, and low rise sneakers—instead of looking like an overdressed fool.
Tonight's look got the Nancy seal of approval, as there was some personal input coming from me regarding parts of it, such as my discreet rings and the tight ponytail I've pulled my hair up into, and it's all that matters. Nancy's wardrobe has me salivating with envy and I'm lucky that we're around the same height and build, as she has gracefully let me borrow some of her clothes throughout the years. It's not the same as owning those clothes and shoes myself, which has been a lifelong dream of mine ever since I realized people around me looked far more elegant and expensive than I could ever aspire to.
It sounds shallow as hell, but it's true. It's one of those things that comes with a deep desire to feel like you belong among your peers.
BRIE
I need to grab my jacket and my purse, but otherwise I'm all good to go
RHETT
Can I stop by your room? We can leave together then
BRIE
Is this because you can't wait to see me? Or is there some ulterior motive?
Is this one of those situations where we need to be seen together?
RHETT
It's because I can't stop thinking about you and need to see you before my heart explodes 🙂
"Oh, fuck off," I mutter. Nancy, sitting on her bed with her laptop while she finishes an article, doesn't even look up.
It's our new normal now—instead of complaining about Cole barely treating me like his girlfriend (which was a dangerous omen about how things would end, looking back at it now), I'm complaining about Rhett for various motives.
When you've known someone for as long as Rhett and I have been in each other's lives, you end up knowing everything about them down to the smallest details, down to what they think you're not paying attention to. I know what makes him laugh and what makes him tick, what upsets him and what softens him up.
Just like that, he knows the same things about me and, in a way, it's comforting to know that I'm doing all of this with someone who knows me this well. It's as terrifying as it is comforting, as contradictory as it sounds like, because he has every piece of knowledge and every window of opportunity he needs to shatter me all over again.
It's where trust comes in and, so far, he has shown me a side of him that has been hidden for years, or maybe I was the one who didn't want to accept the change and maturity he's been through because I've been blinded by heartache for years. It's not just time that has aged him; being on the hockey team has placed extra responsibilities on his shoulders, even if his family can't see it, but there's something else there, something he hasn't mentioned but that is haunting him in some way.
There's something different about him and, for a moment in time, I suspend my disbelief and choose to let him convince me this time will be different.
"Have fun," Nancy says, as I slip my arms into the sleeves of my leather jacket.
It's a fairly chilly late afternoon and the temperature is bound to get lower as the evening progresses, but I'm hoping it won't be anything nearly as chilling as the ice rink, so this will have to do. I'm not feeling confident enough in my ability to ignore the background noise if I choose to wear heavier clothes—like anyone other than me cares about what I'm wearing, realistically speaking—and this measly leather jacket is the most I can manage.
"I won't be out late," I tell her, applying an extra layer of lip gloss so I'll have an excuse to keep my lips away from his—or any other part of his body, for that matter. "Text me if you decide to go to bed early."
"I'll probably still be awake by the time you get back; this article is kicking my ass." She massages her shoulder. She's been sitting in the same position for so long it amazes me how she can still move a muscle. "Just don't do anything you'll regret in the morning."
I sigh. "I'll try."
"Don't fall for it, Brie. I know he can be very charming, but focus on your objectives. Focus on your senior project."
I want to, really. It's been my main priority all along, but I'd be lying if I said I don't care about potentially fixing things with him, even if it's just platonically, and there's no harm in having more than one extremely important goal.
Right?
"I'm focused," I insist. Nancy raises a skeptical eyebrow at me. "I'm super focused. I'm Marie Kondo-ing my way out of this. If it doesn't spark joy, it's being tossed out of the window."
"We'll see."
‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.
next time: the first date. the pub they're going to is actually inspired by a real pub in bennington, but you didn't ask, so i don't know why i'm telling you this. i've never even been to vermont. blame noah kahan
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