“Need help?”
I freeze with my back arched and my face strained, sure I’m hearing things. But when I relax and glance over at Cauler, he’s looking at me. I blink. “Huh?”
“I spent enough time at the chiropractor to pick up some tricks,” he says.
I just kinda … stare at him for a second. What, is he planning to break my back or something? Put me out of the draft running?
He raises an eyebrow.
“Okay?” I say.
Cauler pushes aside his laptop and untangles himself from the blankets, motioning to the floor between our beds. “Lie down.”
I get out of bed slowly, my heart rate picking up like something a lot more monumental than having my back cracked is about to happen. I wipe my hands on my shorts and swallow hard before lying on my stomach on the rough carpet, folding my arms under my head and burying my face in them so he can’t see the flush in my cheeks.
“Put your arms down.”
Shit. Okay. I straighten my arms by my sides and lay the side of my face on the floor. I keep my eyes open. Is that weird? Would it be weirder to close them? God, I hope I don’t have any bacne going on.
I hold my breath at the first touch of his hands on my skin. He rubs circles between my shoulder blades with the heels of his hands, then pushes down. The entire upper half of my spine pops like bubble wrap. I close my eyes and straight-up groan.
My eyes shoot open.
Cauler hesitates.
Kill me now.
But then he moves his hands and does the same to my lower back. I manage to hold it in this time. It feels like his fingertips linger on my skin for a moment before he stands up, but that’s definitely my imagination.
“Better?” he asks as I push myself to my knees.
I stretch, the pins and needles feeling in my spine gone for the moment. “Yeah.” My voice is strained. “Thanks.”
I stand up, but he doesn’t go back to bed. We face each other, crammed into a space the width of a bedside table for what feels like minutes but is really probably only a second and a half before Cauler clears his throat.
“I, uh…” He scratches his jaw. “I’m leeching off my brother’s Netflix. I was gonna fall asleep to Spider-Man if you wanna…” He trails off and avoids looking at me.
I swallow again. What is happening right now? “Tom Holland version?”
He rolls his eyes, smirking. “Are there any others?”
I ease onto the edge of his mattress and keep my arms crossed, legs hanging off so I’m not fully in bed with him. He unplugs his headphones so the sound plays from his laptop and sets it up between us. He actually gets into the bed, under the blankets and everything.
“You need the screen tilted?” he asks.
“No,” I say, even though the movie is shadowed when he hits PLAY. I really should go to my own bed. This isn’t comfortable, it’s probably undoing all the work he just did on my back, and it’s just plain weird.
“You can get in the bed,” he says after a few minutes. “It’s big enough.”
I hesitate for a second before slowly pulling my legs up, keeping them angled away from him. Arms still crossed and my back straight against the headboard. I’m not even paying attention to the movie, really. I’ve seen it so many times, I could probably act the whole thing out on my own. I’m paying much more attention to Cauler, with one of his arms behind his head and the other hand resting on his chest.
That’s why I see it when Zero sends him a mirror selfie in a white hotel bathrobe and slippers, a towel around his head and his foot propped on the edge of the bathtub, throwing up a backwards peace sign.
Cauler’s grinning as he types something back.
“Didn’t realize you and Zero were so close,” I blurt out.
He doesn’t stop typing, unfazed by my nosiness. “That’s ’cause you don’t pay attention to anything other than yourself,” he says, but there’s no heat in his voice.
“Why, though? He’s a senior.”
He locks his phone and sets it on his chest. “His dad coached my squirt team. Taught me how to skate.”
Of course. They’re both from Boston. Both have a slight New England accent after years playing hockey away from their hometowns.
I hate being reminded that he didn’t even lace up a pair of skates until he was nine years old. That he’s been playing hockey for less than nine years and is just as good as me. Maybe even better.
I don’t know if it’s hatred or jealousy or a little of both clawing into my chest, but I do my best to bury it.