Heal the Heart

10.

An odd kind of anger filled the spaces where desire had been inside me. It was formless, pointless, hopeless, and it oozed through me like tar. I didn't know you were a hockey player, I wanted to yell. He sat in his usual spot on the barstool. His laptop, bag and notes were spread in a semi-circle around him on the bar table. How I couldn't have known who he was still blew my mind. He was practically hockey royalty. His mother, Marissa "SaSa" Beckett, led Canada to victory four times in the Olympics and numerous world championships. His uncle was the current coach of the Calgary Rangers and former captain of Boston Bears, lifting the Stanley Cup for them three times.

You didn't tell me you were a cricket player, either, I imagined him yelling in return. Neither of us had brought up our personal lives. Where we lived, what we did, our families, nothing.

I hated myself for it, but I continued staring at him. My sketchpad was still empty. It was there in my bag, flattened between textbooks I had borrowed from the library earlier this morning. Maybe I could whip it out and capture him in the flesh. He was right there. So close. I couldn't help it. I stared, drinking in Christopher Beckett's body where it peeked out from those loose layers, a faded green hoodie and worn sweats. He'd looked far hotter in that fitted sweater and sinful skinny jeans, but nothing he wore could ever make him look ugly. I'd felt what lay under. It was easy to remember the slim waist, taut stomach, broad shoulders, and muscular thighs.

That formless anger was back. Hot. Burning. Vicious. I had been visiting this cafe for weeks now, after my shift. Get a coffee, maybe a bagel or croissant, work on some assignments, do some reading, fill up on energy, and then head out. There were no distractions, no redhead sitting at the big table nibbling at the end of his pen, looking so perfectly sketchable.

Weeks had passed. He didn't show up. I thought I'd never see him again, and I was fine with that. Relieved.

Then out of the blue, he had the audacity to walk through that door, shooting his beautiful smile to ten different individuals, going to three separate tables to chat up people, and bro-hug the server who delivered his coffee before finally setting up his station to get some work done. Even then, someone new would enter, see him, come up to him, talk for a good fifteen minutes before remembering they had shit to get done as well.

Dammit, do you even get work done, or you just come here to fill your social tank?

Meanwhile, I hid behind my laptop screen, making myself as small as I possibly could. Every tiny glance he threw my way, I swerved. Stuffing my face into my forearms, pretending to concentrate on my screen, taking a big slurp from the huge coffee cup. Any viable option to hide, I took it.

And then anger simmered inside me for a different reason. Why was I hiding? I didn't have to hide. I did nothing wrong. Nothing that I should be ashamed about. Sure, I projected too much of my fantasies onto him, and yes, I expected him to show some sort of indication the next morning that he felt something, too. Was I disappointed? Fuck yes! Did I have to go on every day mourning about this particular meaningless connection? No, I had better things to mourn about. The pen I was holding finally snapped in two. The ink cartridge and a spring went flying in two opposite directions, tink-tinking across the tiled floor.

Fuck this. Fuck Christopher Beckett. Fuck his closet. Fuck hockey players.

I'm done.

I stuffed my notes and textbook into my bag, yanked off my ear buds and threw those in as well, not bothering with the case. Eyes burnt holes into me when the chair screeched back as I stood up, stuffing my laptop inside. For so long, I convinced myself that the attraction I had felt for him was just a cover for Arya. It had to be. I loved Arya. Me moving to Canada was just temporary. Finish university and go back—that was the plan. I had come all this way for a breath of air. For a moment to stay away from all the action. Then, I would return, and I would find a way to talk to Arya and we would be okay again.

Christopher Beckett was nothing. Nothing.

In my haste to get out of there, and the momentary struggle with my bag's zipper, I didn't have the time or leeway to escape when someone bumped into me. The coffee cup he had balanced on a saucer upended and its scalding contents spilt all over my arm, jacket, t-shirt and jeans.

I stared at the mess for a good two seconds, then at the man scrambling to get tissues for another five seconds. I prided myself on not startling easily, not being angered easily—other than on the field. But right then, it felt like the heat had launched every single nerve-ending into hyper-drive. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

My arm, torso and thigh burned like the skin was melting right off my body. Tears pricked at the corner of my eyes as the man dabbed at the stain on my t-shirt. He was saying something. "I'm so, so sorry, man. Shit, are you hurt? Oh, your bag—"

I whipped down, and yes, my bag too was drenched in hot, sticky coffee, along with my watch. My laptop, my notes, fuck, the textbooks I had borrowed, everything would've been marinating in coffee inside. Rather than checking and taking note of the damage, I dropped my bag and shoved the man off me.

"Is it that hard to get your fucking eyes in front of you and watch where you're going?"

"Dude, I said I'm sorry."

"You fucking burned me! What the fuck am I supposed to do with your sorry?"

Walk away, Neil. Walk the fuck away.

"Jeez, bro, do you want me to take you to the hospital or something? Take it like a man and chill the fuck out." He flung the balled-up tissues at my chest and moved to go past me.

I shifted and blocked his way. Fire blazed inside me, burning any and all common sense I might've had. My timidness was the main reason I was here, stuck with a degree I had no interest in completing, in a city I hated by the second, and not there on the field, playing for my country. I had nothing to lose. Nothing to hold on to and call mine.

Pain flared from my fingertips, up my forearm, to my shoulder, and spread to the entirety of my chest.

I didn't think when I shoved him back. "Or how about you start paying attention to where you're going next time?"

He was taller than me. Bigger. Getting him angry was not something he would let me forget. But what was left for him to damage?

The man quickly overcame his surprise. His eyes blazed with fury when he stepped forward and towered over me. "You shouldn't have done that?"

Soon, our fists flew, grabbing the other's jacket, t-shirt, neck, whatever we could find, punches were thrown. I felt something drip down my cheek. Maybe there was pain. I couldn't feel anything other than the pure, unbridled rage that had consumed me for those few seconds. The world had always been unfair to me. Always taking me down five steps when I managed to climb one rung up. Not anymore.

I wasn't fucking weak!

Hands held us back. Arms wrapped around my biceps and chest, dragging me away. I screamed expletives at him, my legs kicking at ghosts as he shouted a final fuck you before leaving the cafe.

I pushed whoever was holding me back and grabbed my bag from the corner it had slid to. My watch beeped and beeped and beeped and no matter what button I pressed, it wouldn't stop that brain-splitting beep. I yanked it off my wrist and stuffed it deep inside my bag. On my seething march towards the exit, a force pulled on my elbow and stopped me.

Blue eyes gazed into my soul. One whiff of his cologne and whatever fury I had been swimming in evaporated. He was gripping my unburnt arm, and yet it felt like the arm in his hold burned even more. I'd had a thousand questions I wanted to ask him. Variations of Why didn't you call? Did I do something wrong? Why were you so charming if this was just for one night? How did I scare you away? Now that he was right in front of me, barely an arm's length away, every one of those questions vanished. Sucked out of existence.

"You," he said. "You're—"

"No." I placed my hand over his, ignoring the warmth he exuded, and forced him to let go.

"Wait. Pl—" He tried getting off his stool, but his foot was stuck on the rest underneath and he tripped, letting go of me to take support from the table

As he was steadying himself, I dashed for the exit.

He yelled from behind. "No. Stop. Please."

I didn't. And the moment the cold air from outside hit my face, I ran.