Chapter 2: Five More Minutes

Lucas

I got out of bed and turned on the light. My shirt was dry all the way down. I took it off anyway, shook it out, and put it on the back of my desk chair.

The heat was still there. If I held still, I could follow it from the back of my head down between my shoulder blades. It was exactly what I'd have felt standing under our shower, right down to the cold patch where the water missed one shoulder.

I went into the hall. The bathroom door was shut. I put my hand up to knock and remembered that the last time I'd looked Oliver in the face I'd said, Your underwear's on the floor.

What was I going to say now? Turn around, I think you missed a spot?

I stood there until the pipes went quiet. The heat disappeared so abruptly I rubbed the back of my neck again. Then the lock clicked, and I made it into our room with maybe half a second to spare.

Oliver came in wearing sweatpants and rubbing a towel over his hair. He stopped by the light switch.

"You still up?"

"I live here."

"I know. Your laundry's on my side of the room."

One of my socks had escaped the basket. I got out of bed to pick it up. Oliver moved to let me past, and we both chose the same direction. Then we both chose the other one. Finally he stepped back far enough that I could've walked through with a grocery cart.

"Night," I said.

"Night, Lucas."

I spent the next five minutes thinking about how well I'd handled that.

By morning the whole thing sounded stupid. I'd been tired. My mouth still hurt where I'd caught it with my tooth. I had a quiz to study for and a clean practice jersey somewhere in the basket. I could get worked up about any of those things if I really needed something to do.

At the rink I was sitting on the bench outside the locker room, trying to eat an apple before we had to be on the ice, when a door slammed behind me. Pain cracked across the back of my right hand. I dropped the apple and tucked my hand under my arm.

"Watch the door," Oliver said.

He'd been coming out as somebody else pushed in. He stood with his gear bag hanging off his left shoulder, flexing the fingers of his right hand. A red strip was coming up across his knuckles.

I looked down at mine. Nothing. I hadn't been anywhere near the door.

"You good?" I asked.

Oliver glanced over. "Yeah. Did you drop that?"

I followed his gaze to the apple rolling under the bench. "I'm saving it for later."

He set his bag down, fished it out, and dropped it into the trash. Then he opened and closed his hand once more before he went back inside.

I'd seen people get hurt and winced along with them. Everybody did that. But I'd been looking at an apple when the pain hit. I could still tell exactly which two knuckles had taken the worst of it.

I kept checking his hand at practice. On our second drill he caught me doing it.

"You waiting for me to pass it or write you an invitation?"

I got my stick down just in time. The puck came right onto the blade. I sent it back harder than I needed to, and he took it without giving me the satisfaction of a look.

After practice Noah texted to ask if I wanted to come by Julian's that night. I said yes before he finished typing the part about who else might be there. A drink and a conversation with somebody who hadn't seen me in my underwear seemed like a reasonable plan.

I should've asked who else.

Brianna Shaw was waiting by the end of the bar when I went up for water. She'd pushed her hair behind one ear and kept doing it even though nothing had fallen loose. I knew her well enough to recognize that she was nervous. I also knew her well enough to turn around.

"Lucas. Two minutes."

"You can text me."

"You don't answer."

That was true. I set my glass down. "Two minutes."

She asked me to come to the quiet end of the hall by the coat hooks. I kept the bar in sight. The last time somebody had insisted I hear him out in private, I'd been seventeen and stupid enough to think a compliment was all he wanted to give me. I'd hit him when he wouldn't back off. My dad had seen the bruise on the other guy and made up his mind about the whole thing before I got a sentence out.

Brianna looked at my hand on my phone. "You expecting a call?"

"No. I'm going to record this." I turned the screen so she could see the timer start. I'd learned what happened when somebody got to tell my side first. "You can walk away."

"I'm pregnant," she said.

I waited. She looked down the hall toward the bar. Somebody laughed loudly enough to carry through the doorway.

"Okay," I said. "Why are you telling me?"

Her head snapped back toward me. "Because I need you to help me."

"What kind of help?"

"I need you to say it's yours."

For a second I thought I'd misunderstood her. She watched me the whole time it took to work out that I hadn't.

"We never slept together," I said.

"People already think we dated."

"You told them we dated. I told you I didn't want to."

"You could do this one thing for me."

I picked up my water and immediately put it back down. My hand had gone tight around it. I remembered the last time she'd come looking for Oliver with a drink she'd opened herself, and how fast she'd changed the story afterward. I wanted her to hear me clearly enough that there'd be no room for another version.

"I'm not telling anybody I'm the father. Don't put my name on anything. Do you understand me?"

"You don't have to talk to me like that."

"Then stop asking."

I stopped the recording. She stepped aside when I reached for my glass. I went back to Noah, who took one look at me and pulled his jacket off the stool beside him.

"Want to go?"

I sat down. "I want to finish my drink."

He slid my glass closer. My right hand had stopped hurting hours ago. I still checked the knuckles before I picked it up.