Plié and Clout

Chapter 58: Stadium Series Jersey

THIS ONE HAS BEEN EDITED TO FIX BUT NOT THE NEXT ONE Early comments are going to be in weird spots. Whoops.

hehe, sorry, also if this doesn't post, here's a good explanation:

my dad 🤝 turning off the wifi

-rabid

***

AUGUST

"Jilly gave you my stadium series jersey." He breaks the screaming silence. I drop my hands from my head, sagging in relief. Then I look down at it.

"I didn't believe her when she said that you guys played in a stadium." I mumble in response.

He just nods, slipping off his shoes and stepping a little further into the apartment. "We spent a couple of days hanging out with the football guys for help with their season kickoff. It was at Mile High, the Broncos stadium in Denver. They set up the rink in the center and moved a chunk of seating inward onto the turf."

"But," I pause, watching his arm flex and raise, pushing his hair back. The jacket folds gently over each harsh line of definition on his arm. "Isn't a hockey rink a lot smaller than a football field? How do people see anything?"

One of his shoulders raises. "That's what I've assumed, I haven't ever watched one but I figure you'd have to watch it on your phone to see what's actually happening on the ice."

I clear my throat. He's standing about five feet away from me in the living room now.

I clear my throat again, hoping it isn't weird to do twice. "Well, I really like the jersey, if that's..." I fade out when the atmospheric pressure increases tenfold.

His eyes unmistakably darken, his expression shifting only slightly. "Good." Is what he responds with, but somehow, that one deep 'good' rolling off his tongue like that made me want to open every single window to the snowstorm to try to get any amount of fresh air. It was something about his characteristically boyish voice, plagued by the occasional crack and hoarse moment like he's still going through puberty, suddenly dropping an octave, smooth and silky like he's undressing me in his head.

Oh, god, someone hit me over the head with a baseball bat. Wait. Oh, god, someone hit me over the head with a hockey stick. Better, contextually, but baseball bat has a better image.

It feels like I stuffed cotton in my head. I'm not thinking right, if at all, and my brain has shut out everything in the world but him standing in front of me. It's hot in here. Something about what he's thinking about the jersey has raised my body temperature.

"So, this..." I take a deep breath, trying to ignore how the room feels, then yell at myself in my head. "Funny how, for the last few months, you were the easiest person to talk to in my life. Now, when it actually matters, I can't make a single sentence."

He just nods, sending a chunk of hair cascading into his eyes. He doesn't respond, just nods. I scan his features, deciding that even if he did do this, I forgive him, I can't control it. I'm totally and completely in love with him so forgiving him comes easily. It also helps that his shirt is sticking to his stomach due to static electricity and that his hair is a mess and that it doesn't look like he's been keeping up with shaving.

Although he has almost no facial hair in the first place, when he loses track of it and doesn't keep it down, the light brush of brown down the side of his face and scattered across his jawline does wonders for him. It's scrappy, yes, unkempt, yes, unprofessional, yes, probably enough to make my mom question him, yes, but for some reason it's beyond attractive right now. It's just barely on his chin and dropping down from his hair in front of his ears. It shadows just perfectly on him and it makes me want to know what it would feel like if I was kissing him.