Oliver’s eyes flash, his smile slips, but for just a moment, before that coy charm is back, sparkling in his eyes. “Fair game, eh? Pun intended?”
“Fuck off, Bergman. Tell me.”
Slowly, he pushes off the wall, then strolls my way. He stops with a foot between us, stance natural, feet shoulder width apart as he slips his hands into his grass-green joggers’ pockets. Like a fool, I let my gaze drift up from those heinously bright yellow sneakers, green joggers, to his gold-and-blue Galaxy hoodie, which drapes frustratingly loose around his torso.
Oliver clears his throat. “How about I tell you when you’re done undressing me with your eyes.”
My gaze snaps up and meets his, fear and heat flooding me in equal measure. His eyes twinkle. His grin widens. He’s teasing me.
“I am not undressing you. I’m struggling to understand how a grown man can dress so terribly.”
His mouth drops open, stunned at my insult. “I wear color like a pro.”
“You look like a disorganized crayon box.”
He tips his head, giving me a slow, appraising once-over that sends a fresh wave of heat searing through me.
“No offense,” he says. “But coming from a guy who wears three colors—black, charcoal, and heather gray—your fashion critique doesn’t hold much weight.”
“Horse shit.” I pluck at my zip-up jacket with the team’s embossed logo. “I wear other colors. Blue. Yellow. That’s five.”
He rolls his eyes. “Hayes, you’re obligated to wear those colors. You don’t voluntarily wear them.”
“Awfully aware of my wardrobe, aren’t you?”
“Hard to miss it when you walk around dressed like a storm cloud.”
We are wildly off topic. I grit my teeth. “You’re distracting me.”
He grins. “You’re catching on.”
I close the distance between us, and his smile evaporates; his breath catches in his throat. I stare at his mouth, then meet his eyes. And then, sweet God, a faint pink blush creeps up his cheeks. It’s as satisfying as it is torturous. “You’re playing with fire, Bergman. Mind you don’t get burned.”
All humor vanishes from his face. He swallows roughly, and I watch his Adam’s apple roll. I barely suppress a groan. I can see it so easily, his head thrown back, his throat working as his eyes scrunch shut, his face tight with agonizing pleasure.
“Tell me,” I say quietly, holding his eyes. “Tell me what happened.” I bite my tongue so I won’t reveal any more than I have already. How worried I am. How much I care.
He searches my eyes for a long, silent moment. “I had a panic attack.”
As I thought. But it’s not enough. “What triggered it?”
Something flickers in his gaze, but he steels himself, stands tall. “A combination of things,” he says slowly, carefully.
“These happen regularly?” I’ve never noticed. I’d remember if this happened to him before.
He nods.
“You hide it.”
He hesitates, then says, “They don’t happen often, and generally when they do, yes, I’m able to isolate myself and deal with them privately. I see a therapist. I know what to do.”
“But they still happen.”
His nostrils flare. “Yes, Hayes. They still happen.”
“And what caused this one?”
He shrugs, agitated. “Like I said, a combination of things. I didn’t sleep great and it wasn’t our normal way of flying and I hate flying to begin with. It’s our first game of the season, my first time being co-captain, let alone with someone who hates my guts—”
“I don’t hate you. I told you that.”
“Your actions, however, indicate otherwise.”
My teeth are clenched so tight, my jaw should have cracked by now. “What have I done for two years that’s so egregious, hmm? So I don’t kiss your ass and indulge your playful antics. I haven’t asked you over for a Sunday barbecue on the back porch simply because we’re neighbors. After two years of biting my tongue, I gave you hell for the first time on the field at practice. And frankly, that was long overdue. You know why? Because you hide who you really are behind that sunshiny shit, and I’m tired of it. You’re suffocating someone inside you who is capable of so much more than you give yourself credit for, and I demand that greatness, for your sake and the team’s.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Oliver says, anger hardening his features. “You don’t know me, Hayes. You don’t get to hold me at arm’s length for years, then try to speak into my life—”
I lean in until our noses nearly touch, and it’s the locker room and my kitchen all over again, except, God help me, I’m so much closer to giving in, to taking what I want and damn the consequences, but I can’t. I won’t.
“I know you better than you think,” I tell him. “And I see straight through the illusion you’ve so deftly crafted. I’ve told you I don’t hate you, and I mean it. If I hate anything, it’s the lie you make yourself live and force everyone around you to maintain.”
Silence rings between us. Oliver stares at me, eyes wide, mouth parted like I’ve stunned him. I should stop. God, I should stop. But I can’t.
I close the distance between us, my mouth nearly brushing the shell of his ear. I breathe him in because I can’t help myself, and the ache inside me knots so tight, I have no choice but to bathe in the scent of him, trapped in my lungs. Until air finally leaves me on a slow, pained exhale. “Actions speak louder than words, isn’t that the saying? I held your hand across a fucking continent, Oliver Bergman. Do with that what you will.”
Before I give in and crush my mouth to his, I step back, grab my room key, and storm right out the way that I came.
10
OLIVER
Playlist: “Young & Sad,” Noah Cyrus
The door snicks closed at the same moment I realize my jaw is hanging open.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to the room.
I plop onto the mattress like I’ve been knocked there. I think I have been. By shock.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I fumble in my bag for my phone and call Viggo.
“You rang?”
Standing, I pace the room and tug at my hair. “What did you do?”
“I mean, I’ve done lots of things since I last saw you. Which one—”
“Viggo.” I make a fist with my empty hand, wishing it was the front of his shirt and I could give him a good shake. “Something is…something’s going on with Gavin and…” I exhale heavily, scrubbing my face.
“Gavin and…？” he prompts.
I sigh miserably. “And me.”
“Hmm.” He sniffs. I can see him leaning against the kitchen counter at Mom and Dad’s house, which is where he’s living right now. Next comes the crunch of an apple between his teeth. Around his bite, he says, “Why would you think I’ve done something?”
It sounds ridiculous, but that doesn’t make my suspicion that he and my brothers have wreaked some kind of covert havoc on my psyche any less unprecedented. “Because ever since we sat out in Freya and Aiden’s backyard and you dipshits forced a Bergman Brothers Summit on me, things have completely changed between us.”