make you miss me • q. hughes

20

I'm starting to think I was never the lion. I'm starting to think I was always the one entering the lion's den. 'Cause how the fuck am I going from being anti-Quinn to letting him in my home after seeing him once for like two minutes. That's not a lion move. That's a... Okay, I'm out of that. I can't think of anything that would possibly work.

All that needs to be said is that I am an idiot. Mainly since sitting here with Quinn makes me feel the same exact way it did two months ago. For some reason, I thought it would go away. We could go back to that weird state of not getting along but being around each other without anything more. Those peaceful, not-so-peaceful two and a half weeks.

"I'm never gonna wear it," I say, the jersey folded with the back perfectly face up in my lap. Part of me prays he doesn't see the way my fingers trace over the letters of his name and number.

Unlucky me, he does. "You're straight up admiring it." Right after he's done talking his tongue darts out to mess with a split on his lip from last night's game.

I may have watched it. May not have.

"Sweaters are always gorgeous," I admit. "Honestly, ask anyone and they'll tell you how much I love hockey jerseys."

We're sitting close. Not side by side. But my couch is u-shaped so when you each sit right beside that curve to it, your knees will probably touch, and... Our knees are touching and I'm trying to ignore it. I feel like a Victorian man catching sight of some ankle or some shit.

"Anyone? Even a random person on the street?" He's trying to mess with me. Except he goes right back to messing with his lip and I'm too distracted.

I reach over and his tongue retreats into his mouth to let me put my hand under his chin, thumb swiping near the split. "You have a real habit of taking hits to the face, you know?"

"Uh." Quinn takes a shaky breath. "I guess, yeah."

"Cut it out." My hand's back to my lap as fast as it left it.

He's a bit lost for a moment before laughing so softly. "I'll get right on that for you."

"Not for me." I take the sweater off my lap, putting it beside me. Every little move I make feels under watch. "At least for your family to get some sleep at night knowing you aren't out getting pucks and sticks to the face."

"Speaking of family, I was talking to Moose who was talking to Birdy—"

"Naturally," I cut in.

"—who sent some videos from your hockey days."

"Oh, no."

He leans back while he laughs and the way he rests his hands on his thighs does something to me. "Oh, yeah."

There are so many videos Finch loves showing people. Could be when I tried playing goalie at eight and got accidentally knocked down in the changing room and couldn't get up without help. Or from getting ejected in my last game ever. Then the fight video after the game which was never meant to make it back to Finch but Atticus had to show it off. I won, to be clear.

"What video?"

"You didn't tell me you were defense," he says. I shrug and he goes on. "It's this great video compilation of one game of you chirping the same player over and over again until she gets a major."

That one isn't too bad. They were good chirps. We were fourteen and this girl was known for her cringe relationship with this absolute looker of a guy. I played that hand over and over in newer and better ways each time. We had a spare whiteboard on the bench hidden from our coach to brainstorm.