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Ollie leans in and mutters under his breath. “If you think you’re getting away with that boy band knowledge scot-free, you’re mistaken.” So close.
My gaze lands on Jet, and I notice he’s as overjoyed about it as I am. Maybe the answer to my burning question for him lies in his downcast eyes and the small pout of his lips. He might’ve fallen in love with someone else, but I know that look. I’ve worn that look before. Jet’s not here because of nodes. He’s here because he’s heartbroken.
All the love in the air is making me choke. I can deep throat like a champ, but love and romance? That I gag on.
Not being able to be with the person you love is not romantic. It’s painful.
Caleb Sorensen caring about me is the last thing I need right now because the stupid kid with love hearts in his eyes is fighting to make an appearance again.
Under your spell, Living in hell, You say I’m perfect, Too good to be someone’s reject, But that’s what you did when you walked away, You left me to find myself Something niggles at me. Whether it’s the way he’s singing it or that we both relate to it, I don’t know. It’s like he’s singing it to me. About me. Then he finally raises his head and holds my gaze just as he sings a telling line. You said I was perfect … Perfect for someone else.
“What are you supposed to do?” That’s easy. “Walk away.” “What do you want to do?” Less easy. I swallow hard as I say the words I know I shouldn’t. “Never stop touching you.” “What are you gonna do?” Jet whispers. “I don’t know.” “Soren?” “Yeah?” “The correct answer to that was kiss me again.”
“Age has nothing to do with maturity. Look at those two.” I point to Talon and Miller who are skating around competently, Miller behind Talon and holding his waist while Talon holds his arms out screaming, “I’m king of the world!”
“I’ve always dreamed of someone who’s mine waiting for me offstage. He’d give me a kiss as soon as I’d finish my set even if I’m sweaty and gross. He’d be there for me. Not for the fame. Not for the public exposure of being with Jay from Radioactive … He’d be there just for me.”
In a selfish world, voices get drowned out by everyone trying to out-woe each other.
Harley whines. “Damn it. Why’d your boyfriend have to be nice?” “He’s Canadian. He can’t help it.” “Sorry.” Soren shrugs.
As soon as the lock turns and shuts us in, a light on the desk flashes. “Hey, question,” I say. “Wasn’t there a horror movie about this? If we don’t figure out the clues, we die?” Jet looks horrified. “And you thought to bring that up now after getting locked in here?” “A hockey player and a rock star using their brains to save their lives.” “We’re fucked,” Jet says, and I laugh.
“Yeah, well, anyone with eyes would be able to tell that I’m in love with you now, you … you … I’ll use language your Canadian ass will understand, you big, dumb hoser!”
“Jet, you’re everything. You’re my Stanley Cup.”
The door to Matt and Noah’s apartment swings open, and Matt stands there holding the baby, who’s got a flowery headband on while wearing a New York hockey jersey. Soren gasps. “Ollie beat us.” I snicker. “He’s been good at that lately.” Soren’s hand flies to his chest. “Wounded! Help! Do you have to rub my professional failures in my face?”
He wrote me a love song. Not one about heartbreak, or pain, or the new one on their latest album about missing me. It’s love. Epic flove.
