Hate You Still by Lyssa Lemire

CHAPTER TWENTY

KNOX

It’s been a week since Emma and I went on our middle of the night ice cream adventure. I still think about it and laugh every day. Honestly, it’s one of the most fun times I’ve ever had. Eating Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream in the parking lot and sharing funny stories with Emma beats all-night raging frat parties, by a long shot.

And that realization kind of scares the shit out of me.

We haven’t really talked since then. Which is weird. It feels like after a night like that, we should be talking and hanging out all the time.

But, I mean, we’re not really friends. We practically hated each other before that night. Fuck, there’s no practically about it: we did hate each other before that night. So it’s not like we’re in the habit of popping in to say hi, or to schedule lunch together, or whatever.

It’s like we’re in a strange limbo where we’re both left wanting more after that night, but neither of us really knows how to make that happen. Shit, I don’t think either of us knows what more means after that night.

I know I don’t.

Should we be … friends? I don’t know if I could be friends with someone who makes my cock rock-hard whenever I’m in a five-yard radius of her.

But if not friends, what? Could we be … more than friends?

The thought seems ridiculous. That didn’t work out four years ago, after all.

I can try and tell myself things are different now, but, the thing is, they’re not different.

Emma and I didn’t work out back then for two reasons. We were too different, and I had a life where I was going to be uprooted any minute, only a pawn in the plans of others.

And in a twist of fate, that second reason hasn’t changed. I’m about to be a professional football player. Which means, more than ever, I’ll be subject to having to pack up my entire life and ship it to God knows where at a moment’s notice, subject to the whim of coaches and team owners who only see me as a tool, or as a bargaining chip.

These pro teams like to say that their players are like family, but it’s always bullshit. They’ll trade anyone in the blink of an eye if it might increase their chances of winning the championship by even a fraction of a percent.

No matter what angle I look at it from, anything between Emma and me seems doomed. So, I’m not sure what to do with the feelings awakened in me recently.

Shit, it was almost easier back when we hated each other.

But I can’t say I wish I could go back to that. No fucking way. Even though the new, uncertain relationship between Emma and me isn’t exactly conducive to my peace of mind, there’s no denying that the changes between us has boosted my day-to-day mood.

Now, when we happen to cross each other’s paths around campus or around town, even though there’s still some awkwardness due to the uncertainty of our relationship, being able to say hi, or to have her flash me a smile, lifts my heart and always puts me in a good mood for the rest of the day.

Maybe, if this is it, it isn’t so bad. Emma and I becoming like old acquaintances. We’ll say hello to each other, smile and nod to each other, and then, in two years, when our time at Alton is over, part on good terms. Amicably. Without rancor, and without heartbreak.

I sigh at that thought. It just seems so empty. Even though I know there’s no realistic alternative to that relationship, every fiber of my being screams that it wants more.

Even though I know that, for me and Emma Willows, more just isn’t possible.

I’m home from my classes for the day, and I’m getting ready to walk over to Marshall Middle School to coach the practice.

The team has really been making strides. Not only are the kids now focused during practice, but it’s starting to even pay off during Friday night games. We won last week – crushed the competition, actually. 35-10.

That was the best football related night I’d had in the long time. Of course, the best night I’d had in a long time, period, was the previous Tuesday night-Wednesday morning: with Emma at the Big Bag.

I’m still not sure what she was crying about that night. After we got the ice cream and ate it with our plastic utensils in her car, laughing our heads off at funny stories, I didn’t want to bring it back up and spoil the moment after she’d cheered up.

Shit, I wish I knew what the deal was. I wish I knew what caused her to hurt so much.

And I really wish I could do something about it.

I get changed in my room and head downstairs, ready to walk to Marshall. At least the weather has finally become more seasonable. Cooler, lower humidity. No sudden, violent thunderstorms lately, either, which is always a plus.

Before I leave, I stop by the fridge in the kitchen and open the freezer. My eyes settle on the carton of Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream.

Emma insisted that I take it when we didn’t quite finish it last week. She’d eaten about half herself, and said she worried she’d devour the rest and end up with a stomachache if she took it home, so she thrust it in my hands as we parted.

I haven’t eaten a bite of it since. It might sound stupid – I know it sounds stupid – but I can’t bear to part with it. Whenever I open the freezer and look at that carton, memories of that night with Emma come flooding back.

A couple days ago Gavin innocently took it out and was about to eat some; I almost panicked, telling him to put it back, that I was “saving it.” He looked at me like I had three heads.

I shake my head, laugh at my own silliness, and close the freezer door.

Off to coaching.