FREE STORY WITH EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. This is *not* a Paid Story.
Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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LUCY CRASHES INTO ME the moment I walk through the front door. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and squeezes tight, and I bury my face in her hair and inhale her smell.
"Hey, you're tickling me," I say.
"Sorry." Her eyes sparkle under the light of the chandelier more than usual, almost like she was crying, but there are no actual tears. I'm not complaining about Lucy's affection, but where's it coming from?
"That's okay," I say. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. What makes you think something's wrong?"
"Well, it's just that normally when I get back, you pop out and scare me or something."
"Nothing's wrong, El. I'm just happy to see you."
I grin. "Nice."
We order pizza and watch a movie. Lucy is strangely affectionate, her hand never leaving mine as we sit together. Maybe it's because we finally kissed, and now she actually trusts me. Maybe now, she'll tell me more about who she really is. But I don't want to be pushy, so I keep my mouth shut.
It's getting late when Lucy says she wants to go to my room. She sits on the bed, and I tangle my fingers in her silky hair. It's cool and damp from the shower she took earlier.
"Hey." She jerks away. "Who said you could touch my hair?"
"Sorry, but it's so soft."
She narrows her eyes before snatching her hairbrush off the nightstand. "You may brush it, if you'd like."
"How generous of you."
On the edge of the bed, Lucy turns her back on me. I pull her hair over her shoulders so it flows down her back, and she shudders as my fingers graze her neck.
"Your hair's so long," I say, combing it.
"Yeah. It always has been, since I was a little girl."
"It's really pretty."
"Thanks."
I'm probably not supposed to have this much fun brushing a girl's hair, but it's the softest thing I've ever touched. Once the brush breezes through like it's air, I set it down with an accomplished smile. Lucy's cheeks are pink, and she points to my guitar.
"Will you play a song for me?"
"Uh, do I have to? I don't like it when people hear me play."
"Bullshit. All musicians want to be heard."
"I'm not a musician. I just play for myself, to be honest. I don't like an audience. It makes me feel trapped. It's like, hockey is the public thing, guitar is the private thing."
