Justify

“Mac, that is officially the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

I turn to my friend, Jonathan, and clench my jaw. My hand tightens around my red plastic cup, and Jonathan stops trying to pour a beer into the cup. His posture stiffens, and I know it’s because he’s afraid I’ll punch him again. “You are the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You see, Jonathan had asked why I hated the Blackhawk’s newest addition, Viktor Stalberg, and I’d told him. Except, he apparently doesn’t think I’m justified.

When he realizes that’s about as nasty as I’m going to get in a room full of people, he begins to pour my drink again. “Mature.”

“No, you already take that title.”

Jonathan sighs, and tosses the empty can he’s emptied into my cup at a bin sitting by the edge of the kitchen counter. For himself, he steals a bottle of beer from the fridge. I follow deafly behind him through throngs of people towards the living room. A lot of people clap him on the back and greet him, and an equal amount of people cast me wayward glances. They want to know who I am.

When the amount of people crammed into the tiny apartment became too much for me, and by too much, I mean I was elbowed and my drink nearly jumped out of the cup and onto my outfit; I grasp the fabric of Jonathan’s t-shirt. The feeling of me yanking on his t-shirt as I’m nearly blind-sighted by another flailing limb causes him to look briefly back at me. When he turns back around, his empty hand reaches back and blindly untangles me from his shirt. His grasp is secure as I hug myself to his back so I don’t get separated. He releases my hand when we cross the threshold of the living room and there aren’t as many people.

“Maybe you should just talk to him. He’s a nice guy.”

I jut my lower lip out. “But he –” Jonathan looks at me, his brown eyes burning holes into my soul. “Don’t be condescending!” I snap, sitting down on the couch we’d stopped in front of. He had a way of being judgmental without showing any kind of emotion.

“I’m not being condescending,” he sighs, taking the cushion on my left.

“You are! You want me to go talk to him – I can tell. And you think my reasons for not liking him are stupid.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes. “You know I want you to go talk to him because I told you to, and you are being stupid. He doesn’t even know why you’re mad at him.”

Before I can answer, a shadow blocks my light from the pot lights above me. A body sits down on my other side, and I immediately stiffen. I’d know that smell anywhere.

The bane of my existence fills my entire field of vision as I glare at him. His solid frame fills the entire cushion – a feat I couldn’t manage even if I slouched down, pushed my shoulders back, and spread my knees apart – and he just stares calmly at me. His light blue eyes are blank and unassuming, a big difference from Jonathan’s blank stare that’s guarded; and his mouth parted slightly. The button down black on white pinstripe dress shirt he wears rolled up to the elbows, but the material still strains over his bicep as he takes a swig of the beer he’s holding. He doesn’t break eye contact with me.

He only breaks eye contact with me when someone claps him on the shoulder and he looks up at him or her. “Vik, man, sitting with the Cobra. Brave. Protect the assets.”

I’d recognize that young voice anywhere. Patrick Kane winks at me as he moves passed Viktor to take a seat nearest to the couch Jonathan, Viktor, and I are on, but I find it far from funny. I have no idea why he calls me The Cobra, but I’ve always had a feeling it’s slightly insulting. Plus, the fact that he feels the need to tell Viktor to protect his assets makes my skin bristle. Like I would ever want to touch his assets.

I huff in annoyance and slide down in my seat. He’s going to ruin my night. Jonathan engages in a conversation with Patrick, which quickly becomes some kind of inadvertent challenge, as both Patrick and Jonathan metaphorically puff their chests out. I run my hands through the ends of my brown hair, my cup nestled between my bare knees. Viktor shifts beside me, and my gaze slices through the air to his face. He’s still looking at me.

I set my jaw. God he smells good – intoxicating and manly. And he sits there, so… calmly. His grip on his beer is loose around the body of the bottle as he brings it up to his lips. Condensation runs down the neck of the bottle, between his fingers, and drops from the bottom and onto his right knee. He wears jeans, which seem to hug him without being too tight. Just like his shirt. My eyes drift up the denim material, ghosting quickly over the aforementioned spot between his legs, up his stomach, his broad shoulders, the rough facial hair along his jaw, and to his soft blue eyes. He has long dark lashes that make him pretty, but in a masculine way.

And God he hadn’t even spoken yet.

“Don’t you ever fucking talk?” I snap loudly, causing Jonathan to stop talking and turn to me as I stand abruptly from my seat. I leave towards the kitchen – I’m going to need more alcohol.

I knew Viktor Stalberg would ruin my night.
…
I don’t remember the room being this fuzzy. I don’t think I wear glasses – at least, I didn’t wear them tonight. Maybe I was wearing contacts though, and one fell out. But the vision in both my eyes is fuzzy. So maybe I’d lost two contacts. Huh – this is disconcerting.

I turn around to the person behind me. “Do I wear glasses?”

The guy I grip by the arm looks at me, shocked, and then his gaze is reproachful. “I’ve never seen you wear them.”

The voice is low and soft. It’s recognizable to a certain extent, but I don’t remember where I’ve heard it before. I squint, and my vision clears enough that I recognize whose arm I’m holding.

I remove my hand like its on fire, and maybe it is. His body heat is tangible, or maybe that’s just because there are so many people in here that I’m forced to stand so close to him. And maybe it isn’t even his heat. How is heat even tangible? Heat caused by friction is tangible, like if we were rubbing up against each other, like if we were having –

No. I’m going to kill Patrick, because now all I can think about is Viktor’s dick. I look squarely up at Viktor, and jut my lower jaw out defiantly. “If you didn’t have a dick, this wouldn’t be a problem!” I inform him, and then shove him aside so I can get around him.

The room spins like I’m on the teacup ride at a carnival, and an intense feeling of vertigo washes over me before I bump into something in the corner of the room. I bend over. “Sorry,” I say, squinting my eyes. I then realize it’s a potted plant, and recant my apology, “you’re a fake plant... you don’t care.” But I didn’t know if it was fake or not – and boy would I look stupid if it is in fact a real plant – so I feel the leaves to be sure. It is in fact a fake potted plant.

I excuse myself from the plant as I bump into a girl who spills her drink. I apologize, not meaning it, and wobble towards the front door. I am going to find Patrick and kill him.

It takes me forever to get down the front steps of the apartment complex. “I’m so old now!” I say aloud.

The thought by itself makes me whimper. I don’t want to be old.

Chicago isn’t called the windy city for nothing, as the wind whips around me and tangles my hair violently. I feel like I don’t have bones in my legs as I bounce down the street. The world tilts to the left and I have to catch myself on a building. I giggle to myself – I almost fell over. But the smile disappears off my face when I realize that I could have fallen on the ground. “I could have died!” I cry out, looking up at the dark sky.

A woman walking a tiny dog looks at me strangely and starts walking quicker down the sidewalk.

I keep walking haphazardly down the street, stopping occasionally to tell various inanimate objects that I am on a mission to kill Patrick Kane, and then continuing on my way. I hear heavy footsteps behind me, but I don’t look. I keep walking because I’m going to win at our game of whoever gets to wherever I’m going to first.

I’m at the beach before I realize it, and it feels weird to be here when it’s absolutely deserted. The wind is stronger and colder as it comes off the water, but the water is silent, nearly still along the wet sand. I can feel the dry sand between my toes, and I realize I’d forgotten my shoes in the apartment. I take a few more steps forward and collapse in the sand just out of the water’s reach. I push my hair from my face when my competitor approaches me. I won the race.

“I hate you,” I tell him immediately, but the venom in my voice is gone. I just have to tell him.

“I can tell,” he tells me after a second, “but I don’t know why.”

If I were to lean forward, I could probably bite his leg…

“I don’t really hate you,” I admit quietly, looking down at the sand between my fingers. Warm tears line my bottom lid and threaten to spill. I look up to him, tears sliding down to my chin. Anger sweeps through me because what I’m about to tell him is honest. “I hate that you replaced him and I don’t resent you as much as I should.”

“Kris Versteeg,” he nods quietly.

But what I really hated most of all was that Kris got traded and he didn’t know how I felt. He left before I could tell him.

I struggle to my feet, and roughly brush him off when he tries to help me. I may be drunk but that does not mean he gets to touch me. I stumble towards the water.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To slowly drown,” I say.

His large hand curls around my wrist, and keeps me in my place. The cold water laps at my bare toes. I feel warmth shoot up my arm. “I’m going swimming, you moron,” I snap, yanking my arm away from him.

He lets go without a struggle, so I keep walking. The water is on its way to icy temperatures – the fall weather has done nothing for the temperatures. I dive into the water, the cold feeling burning through my chest and hurting my lungs. When I emerge from the water, Viktor’s wading out – shirtless – towards me.

His hair is sexy and disheveled – like he’s always just off the ice and running his hands through it – and being further messed up by the wind.

I tread water, waiting for him to get to me. When he gets to me, the water is almost up to his chest; so on me the lapping water would be nearly over my head. I reach up, around his neck, and pull myself up. I hear the water pouring out of my clothes as I wrap my legs around his waist.

The wind is cold and unforgiving as it bites my skin, and in hindsight I kind of wish Viktor had actually tried to stop me. But then, we wouldn’t be here.

My hair is slicked back from the water, so I can’t hide behind my bangs. I push water from my face as Viktor supports my weight. Despite me being freezing, his skin still seems warm. “You aren’t wearing a shirt,” I say through chattering teeth.

“You’re going to need something to wear once you get out of the water,” he tells me. The fact that he did it for me makes my heart thump painfully in my chest.

My right arm loops loosely around his neck, my left hand dancing over the light facial hair along his jaw. I wonder if it’s like kissing sandpaper…

The water laps at my back, rocking us back and forth slowly. My short shorts allow his hand to climb high up my bare leg, and I don’t know if it’s the water or alcohol that numbs me into not caring.

I press my lips to his, trying to keep my lips from trembling. As soon as I break away from him – by the way, that was the nicest sandpaper I’ve ever kissed – my lips tremble uncontrollably. “You always smell good.”

I tried to kiss him again, but my trembling lips make it impossible. “I’m c-cold,” I tell him, and shiver for good measure.

He presses a warm kiss to my exposed collarbone. In retrospect, maybe swimming in a bohemian-style tunic tank top and distressed short shorts wasn’t a good choice. And I’m not wearing a bra. I wonder if he wants to look at my nipples or not. I can see his nipples. I should bite one. Instead, I shiver.

“We’ll go in then.”

“Have you ever had sex in the water?” I wonder out loud.

He doesn’t answer right away. He looks into my eyes, deciding if I’m asking if he wants to fuck me or not. I’m not. “No,” he answers after a while, “I haven’t.”

“Oh,” I reply, softly, hugging myself to his chest and tucking my head under his chin. I sigh. I’m so drunk…

We hadn’t had sex in the water, in case you’re wondering.

No, we’d had sex instead in the shower back at the party – when he’d stuck me under the warm spray in attempt to warm me up.

Oh, and again back at his apartment when I’d demanded he take me home with him.
…
What do you think it means if every night since an incident you dream about it?

Every night since I’d woken up in Viktor’s bed, I’d been dreaming about him. Recreating dreams, actually. Down to the way he made me shiver in pleasure; the way he made my hair stand on end.

In the shower, it had been cramped and awkward. Vik’s a big guy – in height too – and I’d had to brace myself against his chest and the side of the bathtub. But the second he’d slid into me, my toes had cramped and my hand had slipped off the shower wall and I’d nearly hit my head off the wall. A few adjustments later, and he’d had me sliding comfortably up the wall with each thrust, and swallowing each of my moans with the spray of the shower and his mouth.

And back at his place, he’d imprinted my skin with his hands as he’d attempted to better hold me in place. Not that I’d minded, though, apparently.

The way I figure it, though, he should have an answer for me. He clearly wasn’t as drunk as I was that night, so maybe he’ll be able to tell me exactly what is going on.

Which is why, after making an attempt to make myself look nice, I made my way over to the arena where the team was practicing for the preseason.

I waited where I normally waited for Jonathan, but since I hadn’t told him I was coming, he’s surprised to see me. “Hey,” he says with a confused look on his face, “is something wrong?”

I bite my lip. I must be transparent, but I can’t tell him why. “I’m not here for you.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Mac –”

“Jon,” I interrupt with a forced smile so he doesn’t look as concerned, “it’s okay. I’m okay. I’ll call you later, okay?”

He nods. “I’ll see you later.”

I nod my goodbye, and watch over my shoulder as he leaves the arena. He doesn’t look back once.

Ever since the trade deadline, the Hawks have gone through some major changes. One change has affected me greatly, but at the same time I don’t know how much, exactly.

When he walks around the corner, I inhale sharply. It’s loud in the narrow hall, because he looks up and stops. I bite my lip and look down at the floor, and then back up at him in a plead.

He keeps walking.

When he stops, it’s right in front of me. I have to bend my neck to look at him. He’s wearing a black knit hat over his head, so I can’t see his hair. But I know it’s messy underneath. It always is. I have a strong urge to run my fingers through it, but I know it would be inappropriate, so I don’t.

I also don’t move away from him, which is why – probably – he determines it’s okay to kiss me again. My hands stay still at my sides, but his one hand cups my jaw. I move my mouth against his, getting as close as possible without sticking my tongue in his mouth.

When he pulls away, his hand immediately goes into the inside breast pocket of his overcoat. He won’t look me in the eye as he’s digging around, and part of me believes that whatever he’s looking for is for me. A second later, he extracts a ticket and hands it to me. “It’s for you,” he says.

I look at it, and realize it’s an airline ticket. “Wh–”

“It’s to Toronto,” he says, stopping before he says to see Kris, but he doesn’t have to. Why would he want to buy me a ticket to Toronto? I met him way back in June when he’d come for a visit, and three months later, I finally talk to him. We aren’t that close.

I look up from the ticket to him, and bite my lip. “I don’t want to go,” I tell him. I can see the question hanging off his lips, so I smile shyly. “I’m sorry you bought this,” I murmur, holding the ticket up for him. I stand on my toes once he takes the ticket, my eyes locking with his. As always, he smells great as I kiss him. I guess I can’t really justify hating him.

He pulls back, and smiles. I mentally swoon when I catch sight of those dimples. They really could kill a girl.