The Boy Who Checked Me First

Chapter 9: 5 A.M. Practice, Real Kiss

I don't sleep after my dad leaves.

Cole's door stays shut. I can hear him moving around in there. Chair scraping. Laptop closing. Shower running at 1 a.m. Which means he didn't sleep either.

The photo of us is everywhere. @WhitmoreGossip posted at midnight, Antonio's photo, my dad leaving - it has 4K likes now. My mom texted: Your father called. He said you are brave. Come home for winter break, okay? And tell that boy to return his shirt.

His shirt. I'm still wearing his henley.

At 3:58 a.m., I give up. I put on my sweats, my old practice jersey - #10, Chen - tape my ribs myself because Maria won't be here until 5, and walk to the rink.

It's -2 degrees outside and pitch black. Boston in November is cruel. But the rink is always open for captains. And captains have keys. And captains' roommates steal their keys.

I use Cole's spare key from the kitchen drawer.

The rink is empty, dark, freezing, perfect. The ice is fresh. Zamboni lines still on it. No team. No phones. No gossip pages. Just me and the smell I love more than anything.

I skate.

It hurts. Every push, my ribs scream. Maria said don't lift left arm over 90 degrees, but she didn't say don't skate at 4 a.m. like a crazy person. So technically I'm listening.

I skate until my legs burn, until my lungs burn, until I can't hear my dad's voice saying puck bunny anymore.

And then I stop in the middle of the ice and I cry.

Not pretty crying. The ugly kind where snot freezes and your shoulders shake inside your jersey. Because my dad flew six hours to tell me to quit. Because the whole school thinks I'm sleeping with my captain. Because I said we were just roommates and Cole looked like I slapped him. Because I have first game in ten days and I can't even cut my own chicken.

"Chen."

His voice behind me.

I spin so fast my ribs stab. Cole Maddox stands at the entrance of the rink in his practice sweats, hair a mess, eyes red, holding two sticks. He didn't sleep either.

"What are you doing here?" I wipe my face with my sleeve. "Practice is at 5. It's 4:15."

"Couldn't sleep. My roommate stole my key and left my apartment to go cry on my ice," he says, stepping onto the ice in his sneakers, not skates. He slides a little. i***t. "Maria is going to kill you. You taped that yourself, didn't you?"

"How did you know I was here?"

"Your sneakers are gone. Your jersey is gone. My henley is gone - again. You're predictable when you're upset. You go where you can hit something."

He walks to center ice, sneakers slipping, and stops in front of me.

Up close, he looks wrecked. Like I do.

"Why are you crying?" he asks quietly.

"I'm not crying. It's cold."

"Aria."

That's it. My name. Not Chen. Not rookie. Aria. In that soft voice he only uses when we're alone.

And I break.

"I told my dad we were fake. I told him we were just roommates. And you looked - you looked so mad, and then you shut your door, and now I think you hate me and I don't want you to hate me," I blurt out, all in one breath, tears freezing on my cheeks. "And my dad said if I'm benched for first game I have to transfer and I know I'm going to be benched because I can't even lift my stick over my head and everyone will know I'm a fraud -"

He doesn't say anything.

He drops the sticks. On the ice.

And pulls me into him.

Hard. Both arms around me, one hand on the back of my helmetless head, my face buried in his practice shirt that smells like cold and detergent and him.

"Hey. Hey, hey, hey," he whispers into my hair. "Breathe. You have to breathe or your ribs will lock, Chen. Come on. Breathe with me."

I sob into his chest. He just holds me in the middle of his rink at 4:17 a.m., in his sneakers, letting me ruin his shirt.

"I don't hate you," he says finally, when I'm down to hiccups. "God, Aria. I could never hate you. I shut my door because -"

"Because I said we were just roommates."

"Because you said we were fake," he corrects. His voice is rough. "And you said it like you meant it. Like it was easy to say."

"It's supposed to be fake," I whisper.

"Is it?"

He pulls back just enough to look at me. Grey eyes in the dark rink lights, serious, tired, something else I don't have a name for.

"At dinner, when I fed you - did that feel fake?"

I shake my head.

"When I gave you my shirt because you were cold?"

Head shake.

"When I yelled at your dad? When I held your hand in my truck?"

Head shake, head shake, head shake.

"Then stop saying we're just roommates," he whispers. "Because I have not thought of you as just my roommate since you checked me into the boards on day one and called me an asshat."

I laugh wetly. "I did call you an asshat."

"You did. It was hot."

Silence. The rink hums.

He wipes a tear off my cheek with his thumb, and his hand lingers. Cold fingers, warm cheek.

"House Rule Number 13," he says, so quiet I have to lean in. "If you are going to cry on my ice at 4 a.m., I get to kiss you. Real kiss. No press. No Antonio taking photos. Just us."

My heart stops. Actually stops.

"Cole..."

"Tell me no and I won't," he says quickly. "Tell me to go back to being your fake boyfriend and I'll go back. I will. But I don't want to. I haven't wanted to since you fell asleep on my couch in my hoodie and drooled."

"I did NOT drool!"

"You totally drooled. It was cute."

He's leaning down now, slowly, giving me ten chances to pull away. His eyes flick to my mouth, back to my eyes, asking.

I don't pull away.

I grab the front of his shirt - his stupid soft practice shirt - and pull him the rest of the way.

We kiss in the middle of the Whitmore rink at 4:23 a.m.

It's not like the movies. My nose bumps his. My helmet is in the way. His lips are cold from the ice. Mine are salty from crying.

It's messy and cold and perfect and real.

He makes a small sound in the back of his throat and his hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, holding me like I'm going to disappear. My good hand - my right hand - ends up in his hair, which is soft and messy and exactly how I thought it would feel.

He kisses me like he's been waiting to do it since tryouts. Like he's been holding it back through every ice bath and every team dinner and every time he called me Chen.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard, foreheads touching.

"That," I whisper, "did not feel fake."

"Good," he whispers back, smiling against my mouth. "Because I'm really bad at fake dating. Your dad was right."

We kiss again. Shorter this time. Softer. Because we hear the outside door bang.

"WHO THE HELL IS ON MY ICE AT FOUR IN THE MORNING -"

Coach Jensen's voice booms through the rink.

We jump apart like teenagers caught.

Coach stands at the entrance in his parka, Maria next to him with coffee, and behind them - the entire team, in sweats, early for practice, staring at us in the middle of the ice. Cole in sneakers, me in full gear, both red-faced, lips swollen.

Park's mouth is open. Eriksson whispers "HOLY s**t" loud enough for the whole rink.

Coach looks at me crying, at Cole holding my waist to keep me from falling because his sneakers have no grip, at our sticks on the ice.

He looks at Maria.

Maria looks at my terrible tape job and sighs. "Aria, what did I say about self-taping?"

Coach looks back at us.

"Maddox. Chen. My office. After practice. Now both of you get off my ice before you ruin it with your sneakers. And Maddox - if you're going to make out with your girlfriend at 4 a.m., at least wear skates like a professional."

We are so dead.

Cole grabs my hand, his thumb rubbing over my knuckles, and whispers, "Worth it."

And for the first time since my dad knocked, I believe him.