Page 26 of Pucking Grey
Ryan, my brother, calls me after I finish my one-mile run. I texted him to call me when he gets a chance, and of course, it’s while I’m in the middle of running off my stress.
“Hey, Maddie,” my brother says as I answer. I cut the treadmill off, stepping onto the sides. “Watch the game?”
“Yeah,” I say, catching my breath. “You did so good.”
“Is that – are you on a treadmill?” he asks.
“Yeah, sorry. It’s loud. I’m turning it off.” The belt is slowing down under me. “So, how are you, big brother?”
“Just the same stuff, Mads. Practice, practice, games, practice.” He laughs, and I laugh too because this is his dream. “Dad’s coaching tip of the day: ‘Skate faster.’ Thanks, Coach. I’ll get right on it.”
I chuckle, imagining our father being extra hard on Ryan. I mock, “Thanks for the inspiration, Coach Wilder.Son, the goalie’s glove is the size of a car. Oh, what I would do with your skill and your age.”
Ryan laughs.
“How’s the knee?” I ask. He broke his knee in high school, and it’s been giving him issues here and there.
“Knee’s in top shape. No problems there. So, I’ll let you get back to running, but I called to tell you that I’m coming to Matt’s game on Wednesday. So, I’ll see you there.”
“Oh,” I say, startled by the machine that fires up next to me. Grey ignores me as he starts jogging. “The… game… on Wednesday?”
Grey raises his brow at me.
Ryan says, “Yeah, I’ll see you there. Gotta run. Love you. Bye.”
I stare at Greyson’s curious face. “Love you. Bye.”
Grey cocks his head at me as a smile slowly plays on his lips. By the look on his face, he must be fantasizing that I’m telling him that I love him. I roll my eyes, breaking the awkward eye contact to start my treadmill. I’m going to run another mile.
I can’t think straight now that Greyson is next to me. My heart starts racing. I’m hyper-aware of my posture and the way my arms are moving, how quickly I’m breathing, and the jeans tugging at my knees with every step. Grey sprints the entire time I run. When I’m a little over a mile, I slow down the machine. He turns off his treadmill and says, “Nice jeans.”
Sweat drips down his temples as he wipes it with his shoulder. His lips are parted as he catches his breath. I’ve kissed those lips. And I enjoyed it. I haven’t stopped thinking about those lips and those hands on me. There’s so much I want to say to him, but right now nothing comes out. He keeps rejecting me, so I guess I’ll take the hint.
He asks for my hand, and I’m confused over his hand gesture for a moment. He pulls a pen out of his pocket and removes the cap, asking for my hand again. I stick my hand over to his quiet treadmill as he writes something on my palm. It’s ticklish, creating an uncomfortable sensation. His gray eyes look ridiculously satisfied as he caps his pen. I’m still walking on the treadmill as I glance at my palm. His phone number. His jaw clenches as he looks down at the number and then he walks away without saying a word.
Before he’s out of earshot, I say, “What do you want me to do with this?”
He stops briefly, looking over his shoulder at me. “Whatever you want with it.”
I keep my pace on the treadmill, wondering what is going on with him. He is almost as confusing as my chemistry lab project that’s due next week. And yet, I don’t think he’s a case that I’ll ever find a formula for.
An hour later, I hop off the treadmill. I needed more time to think because I thought I was worried before. Now I’m worried about what happens if he does agree to continue this charade, especially with Ryan coming to the game on Wednesday. Crap, Ryan. I need to text him about Matt. I can’t give him exact details, but I won’t leave out the Michelle Swift part.
Sydney is sitting at the dining room table with her cute blue-light-blocking glasses and her books sprawled out amongst the papers as I enter the house. Everything she does is very aesthetic.
“Hey,” I say, walking into the room. My legs are jelly. I really wish to not walk right now, so I yank a chair out next to her and exhale dramatically. My legs are exhausted.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
I hold my hand up so she can see my palm.
“What is that?” she asks.
I glance at it and then stick it closer to her face. “Grey.”
“He gave you his number?” she gawks. “The old-fashioned way?” Now she closes her mouth in amusement. She’s blushing for me. “Well, what’re you going to do with it?”
“That’s what I asked him. He said I could do whatever I want with it.” I look at the numbers bleeding ink. My sweat makes it hard to read. “I haven’t put his number in my phone yet, but I’m trying hard not to use this hand, so it doesn’t rub off.” I crack my knuckles. “Do you know how often we use our palms? I didn’t realize how many things I need it for. I haven’t washed my hands since the gym.”
