Plié and Clout

Chapter 56: Granola Bar

Neither the jacket or the shirt look warm enough to stand the weather outside.

His hair is wet, which is probably a good sign, considering I suggested he should shower. It's not soaking, but rather on the damp side. It's a lot shorter than what it was in the pictures I've seen of him when he was playing in juniors. Back then it was long enough to curl out the sides of a baseball hat and it did, often. In fact, that seemed to be the most common style with him. I still find it funny that his hair gets curly when it gets long. Now it's a more professional-looking cut. Short but not buzzed on the sides and long enough to put in a little ponytail on the top. It's not a sharp line between short and long either, more of a gentle gradient from one to the other. It fits his character a little better than the long hair he had when he was 17. 

It's also a lot darker when it's damp, drifting from a very light brunette or dark blond, I have yet to decide, to solidly in the brunette department. He didn't bother drying it and styling it after getting out of the shower, so the only form it has is from his hands going through it, clear marks in his hair from his fingers. Some chunks stick up, some are too flat, there's even a piece hanging by his eyes. Again, he didn't bother putting any shape into it after the shower.

God, we're just staring at each other, he's still chewing but I can tell he's going slow because having food in his mouth gives him an excuse to talk. 

***

STEPH

There's a... very small... chunk... of oat... stuck between... my broken teeth... on the bottom.

The longer I can wiggle at it with my tongue, the longer I can put off the last bite of this bar.

... ah, fuck. I got it out.

So I put the last little chunk in my mouth and then stand there, watching her, watching me. She's got her hands on top of her head, a very characteristic August distress stance. I'd noticed it a while back, watching her deal with the ballet kids, hands on her head means she's trying desperately to think of a solution to a tricky situation.

For me, my hands on my head move is pushing my tongue back and forth across the sharp part of one of my broken teeth. Or picking at the skin on my thumbs, either or. Most of the time it's the teeth.

It's a good thing I'm chewing right now or else I'd be wearing my broken teeth down to the gums with the sheer movement of my tongue.

She looks tired, and I definitely don't miss that she's still in my jersey over a hoodie. My jersey. Jilly was deliberate with that one. She has her own and a spare Stojanovič one, hell, she's got most of the roster. Stojanovič, Rex, Paxton, Von Albrecht, our whole group; but she purposefully dug through my closet to find the single edition game-worn Stadium Series one that I've yet to do what I've wanted to do with. Jilly could've easily worn the Stojanovič one and had August wear my standard edition jersey, but no, she had to make sure August stuck out. To me. Especially to me. Jilly's a goddamn mastermind and she's infuriatingly good at it.

I didn't miss it when I saw her at the game. I did a double-take, really. First because she was there at my game, at the glass, looking genuinely interested. Second because she was in that jersey. Hell, I know exactly why I kept that jersey around. It's embarrassing; and it's got to do with her and only her. I love it. Hell, it's the best looking jersey I've ever worn, the colors really work for once and the logo is switched up and redone for the series, going with the Stadium Series tradition, it's a little retro. It's cool, it's classy, it's got a real simple theme and it's designed perfectly. Jilly knows I kept it around for something. That it's important to me because of something. She just doesn't know why; and at this point, her luck with guessing what will break me to bits is getting scary.

The reason I kept it, because most of the guys let the program take them back. I didn't. I flat out refused because of one single image.

August and that jersey. August and only that jersey. I'm roughly a foot taller than her, the jerseys run big due to the gear and flexibility. It would hit her just above the knees, maybe a little further. Mid-thigh if she was bending over or sitting.

August and that jersey plague my mind every single time I see a glimpse of it in my closet.

August and having to roll up those sleeves to do anything with her hands. August and that mess of dark hair falling down her back over my number. August and a messy bun so I can see my full name on her back. August and her legs coming out of that fucking jersey, long and toned from ballet. August and the v-neck on it, showing off her collarbones.

I kept it because after all this is over, I want that jersey at every single game of mine. And hell do I want it to be the only thing between our chests after a good game, hell do I want to watch her come undone in my jersey. Call me crazy, I don't care.

And now that she's standing there in that jersey, despite having a hoodie and jeans on, my body is having a goddamn hay day. I can practically feel my adrenaline rising slowly, flooding my body with a newfound sense of purpose despite being exhausted already.

I watch her across the room, chewing as slowly as I possibly can, making sure everything in my mouth is as far from solid as possible.

She's got her hair down, it falls in easy waves to the middle of her upper back. Her hands are dug into it, rustling it up at the top. I'm stressing her out, but I have a bad feeling about anything I might say if I open my mouth.

Her socks are pink and her hoodie is blue, a royal blue, so it's contrasting my jersey in a funny way that's making me want to drop everything and shove her back against the bookshelf she seemed incredibly focused on when I came inside.

She's chewing on the inside of her cheek, working her jaw very carefully. I'm watching every tiny motion, every scrunch of her nose and nip of her top teeth on her bottom lip. I watch the line of her jaw move a fraction of a centimeter to nip just a little differently on her cheek.

August Heffler, it's official, you're killing me.

I swallow half of the contents in my mouth, still horrifyingly unsure of what I need to say to make this better. I have one shot.

She moves her hands on top of her head a little tiny bit and a piece of hair that was tucked behind her ear falls out, begging for me to put it back. Her hair finds its way into every crook and crevice of my life, more apparent in the last month where every single thing I saw that reminded me of her made me want to curl up and cry under a bench.

I found a piece in my cereal, another on my hoodie, another in my hockey helmet, how it got there, I'm not sure. A couple in my bed over time, reminding me of waking up to her hair spilled all over my chest like some sort of soft, sweet-smelling, cloud draped across me.

There was one tucked into my shoulder pads the other day, one of my days where everything hurt and I was barely able to drag my sorry ass out of bed. I swear seeing it made me tear up in the locker room.

Hell, I've even come to miss waking up with her hair in my mouth. Although unpleasant and almost impossible to get all the way out, it would still mean she was there, with me, for me to hold and cuddle with. I'd missed that. Who knew someone's body snuggled into yours could be the most addictive thing out there.

I swallow the other half of the last bite.

Time to man up.