“you will not be so nice when we beat you,” you say, and it sounds lightly teasing enough. it comes from a place of certainty, though, you know what happens when people are unhappy with you, you know how they react to you, what they say to you. it’s happened often enough. it happens daily at home.
“that’s not happening,” the boy with the breathtaking freckles on his cheeks says, and he’s smiling like he’s in on the joke, but you know he’s risen to the bait, taken the challenge. of course you have heard of him, have seen him, you know that on the ice, he’s a natural force.
“see you in finals,” you call after him—he’s already turned away and walking, and you’re calling after him. and he waves without taking his hand out of his jacket pocket and something kindles in you, something deep down inside that you have no name for, yet. you know it’s terrifying, or a part of you does, something instinctual, animalistic, or maybe just that part of you that knows better.
and you pour everything you have, every twist and trick and an ounce of skill, into beating him. you need to beat him. you need him to lose. you need him to not be so nice.
you can’t start wanting something when you don’t know what it is. you know what it is. you can’t want it.
and he’s not nice, after. he’s angry, you can see it. but not at you. you see that, too. and the win feels good but when he’s not angry at you, it feels—it feels. unnameable.
you see if you can push him, into being angry, into a reaction you’re familiar with, but he just looks at you with something else, that you’re familiar with too.
that you can navigate because it’s physical. an itch. all you need to do is scratch. if he even really wants it too.
and he wants. his want feels equal to yours in the same way you’re equals on the ice. that you don’t know. that is new.
and you remember, you wanted to make him not be so nice. he’s not nice. he’s something worse. underneath all both your talk and tease and cursing, he’s kind. earnest. and he keeps wanting.
you beat him as often as he beats you. and yet he never tells you any of the things you’ve come to expect to hear. not when you win. especially not when you lose.
you realize, too late, that you got in the deep end. and you have to do as you’ve had to do for a long time: find out on your own how to get through it.
until you realize you’re not alone. he’s right there with you.
