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Hugby

The Ghost of History and the Weight of a Name

The morning after the party felt like a hangover, even though I hadn't touched a drop of alcohol. My head was pounding with the rhythmic thud of Justin’s bass guitar and the lingering scent of vanilla that seemed to have permanently latched onto my skin. I stood in the kitchen of the hockey house, staring at a box of dry cereal, when my phone vibrated against the granite countertop.

My stomach did a weird flip. I hoped it was Lilly. I hoped she was texting me to tell me I was an idiot for something I’d said last night, or to remind me that we had a session at four.

It wasn't Lilly.

"The stats from last night’s scrimmage are pathetic, Lucas. You’re playing like you’ve got lead in your skates. Call me."

I shoved the phone into my pocket, the cereal suddenly looking like sawdust. My father. He didn't even say hello. He didn't ask how my classes were going or if I was getting enough sleep. He just tracked my ice time like a hawk and waited for me to stumble.

"Miller! You look like someone pissed in your Gatorade," Beau, my defenseman, shouted as he stumbled into the kitchen, his hair a bird's nest of blonde tangles. "That girl from last night—Rossi, right? Since when do you do the 'sweet and innocent' type? Usually, you’re into the girls who wear more leather than clothes."

"She’s my tutor, Beau. Back off," I snapped, grabbing my gear bag.

"Right. Tutor. Is that what we’re calling it now? Because the way you were looking at her didn't look like you were interested in the French Revolution."

I didn't answer him. I couldn't. Mostly because I didn't know what the hell that look was myself. I headed to the rink, determined to sweat out the confusion. I skated until my lungs burned and my legs felt like jelly. I pushed myself harder than usual, trying to outrun the shadow of the Great Miller and the confusing, soft green eyes of a girl who was supposed to be a means to an end.

By the time four o’clock rolled around, I was sitting in our usual corner of the library. I’d showered, but I still felt raw.

Lilly arrived five minutes late. She looked flustered, her hair escaping her bun in soft, curly wisps. She was wearing a sweater that was three sizes too big for her and carrying two cups of coffee.

"I’m late, I know, don't say it," she panted, sliding into the chair across from me. She pushed one of the cups toward me. "Black. No sugar. Right?"

I blinked, surprised. "You remembered."

"I’m observant, remember? It’s my thing." She opened her notebook, but she didn't look at me. Her cheeks were slightly pink. "So... Justin texted me this morning."

A cold weight settled in my chest. "Did he?"

"He asked if I wanted to go to a rehearsal before the show on Friday. Just me and the band. He said he wanted to show me a new song he’s working on." She finally looked up, her expression guarded. "It worked, Lucas. The plan. He’s... he’s actually interested."

"Great," I said, the word tasting like ash. "Mission accomplished. You get the indie king, and I get a B in History. Everyone wins."

Lilly frowned, her rosebud mouth pulling into that familiar pout. "Why do you sound like you want to punch someone?"

"I always want to punch someone, Rossi. It’s part of the job description." I flipped open the textbook to a random page. "Let’s get to work. We have a lot of ground to cover before the final."

We tried to focus, but the air between us was different today. It wasn't the easy, bickering comfort of the previous sessions. It was tight, like a wire stretched to the breaking point. Every time our hands brushed over a shared map or a set of notes, she would flinch, and I would feel a jolt of electricity that made it impossible to remember a single date or name.

"Lucas, you’re staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes," she whispered, leaning closer. "Are you okay? You look... tired."

"My father called," I blurted out. I didn't know why I told her. I didn't tell anyone about my father, not even the guys on the team.

Lilly softened immediately. She leaned back, her green eyes searching mine. "The famous one? The legend?"

"The ghost," I corrected. "He doesn't see me. He sees a highlight reel. If I’m not the best, I’m nothing. He’s been breathing down my neck since I was five years old. This 'D' in History? If he finds out, he’ll use it as proof that I’m losing my edge. That I’m not 'dedicated' enough."

"That’s horrible," she said softly. "You’re more than just a hockey player, Lucas. You’re smart, and you’re a leader, and you’re... you’re a good person, even if you try really hard to hide it behind that bossy captain act."

I let out a dry laugh. "You're the only one who thinks that, Lilly."

"Then everyone else is blind." She reached across the table, her small hand covering mine. Her skin was warm, and the touch was so gentle it made my throat ache. "Don't let him define you. You aren't your father. You’re you."

I looked down at our hands. My hand was twice the size of hers, scarred and calloused from years of holding a stick and throwing punches. Hers was delicate, the nails painted a soft, pale pink.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I asked, my voice dropping. "I’m using you to pass a class. You’re using me to get a guy."

"Maybe I don't want to use you anymore," she whispered.

The library seemed to shrink until there was nothing left but the two of us and the smell of old books and coffee. I wanted to lean across the table and kiss her. I wanted to forget about Justin, forget about my father, and forget about the fact that we were supposed to be playing a game.

But then, her phone buzzed on the table. A notification popped up. *Justin: Can’t wait for Friday, Lil.*

The spell broke. I pulled my hand away, my jaw tightening.

"You should go," I said, my voice cold. "You have a rehearsal to get to, don't you? Don't want to keep the 'artist' waiting."

Lilly flinched as if I’d slapped her. She pulled her hand back, her eyes clouding over with hurt. "Lucas, I—"

"Go, Lilly. I can study the rest of this chapter on my own. I think I’ve got the hang of the 'diplomatic maneuvers' part."

She stared at me for a long moment, her mouth trembling slightly. Then, she packed her things in silence. She didn't look back as she walked away, her small frame disappearing into the stacks.

I sat there for an hour after she left, staring at a map of Europe until the borders blurred together. I was an idiot. A jealous, possessive idiot.

***

Friday night arrived with the inevitability of a collision on the ice. The team was heading out to a different bar, but I found myself driving toward The Cellar. It was a dive bar, the kind of place that was always damp and smelled like stale beer and cigarettes.

I told myself I was just checking on the 'investment.' I had to make sure the plan was working, right?

The place was packed with the artsy crowd—lots of beanies, thick-rimmed glasses, and people discussing things I didn't understand. I stood in the back, leaning against a sticky pillar, my hood pulled up to stay low-profile.

Justin’s band was on stage. He was leaning into the microphone, eyes closed, looking like he was in deep pain as he sang some slow, acoustic ballad. It was pretentious as hell, but I had to admit, the guy could sing.

Then I saw her.

Lilly was standing in the front row. She wasn't wearing the green dress from the party. She was back in her oversized sweater and jeans, looking small and out of place in the sea of hipsters. She looked up at Justin with an expression I couldn't quite read. Was it adoration? Or was it something else?

When the song ended, Justin pointed to her. "This next one is for a girl who’s been a bit of a muse lately. Lilly, this is for you."

The crowd cheered. Lilly turned bright red, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated rage. It wasn't just jealousy—it was a protective instinct so sharp it made my hands shake. He was performing for her, using her as a prop for his 'tortured artist' persona. He didn't know that she liked her coffee black. He didn't know that she worked forty hours a week to stay in school. He didn't know how her eyes lit up when she explained the Industrial Revolution.

He just saw a pretty girl he could win over to stroke his ego.

I couldn't stay. I pushed through the crowd, heading for the exit. I needed air. I needed to get away from the sight of her looking at him.

But as I reached the door, I heard someone call my name.

"Lucas!"

I stopped and turned. Lilly was running toward me, weaving through the people. She was out of breath when she reached me, her face flushed.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Leaving," I said shortly. "I saw enough. The song was a nice touch. You definitely won, Rossi. He’s obsessed."

"I don't care about the song," she said, her voice shaking.

"What do you mean? That’s what you wanted, isn't it? The 'passionate artist' singing to you in a crowded room? It’s like a movie, Lilly. Congratulations."

"It’s not like a movie!" she shouted, causing a few people to turn and stare. She didn't care. She stepped closer, her green eyes blazing with that sharp-tongued fire I’d grown to love. "It was hollow, Lucas. He was singing at me, not to me. He doesn't even know me. He spent the whole rehearsal talking about his 'process' and his 'vision.' He didn't ask me a single question about myself."

I froze. "He didn't?"

"No. And do you know what I was thinking about the whole time he was singing?" She poked me in the chest with a finger. "I was thinking about how much I missed you complaining about the Congress of Vienna. I was thinking about how you always make sure I’m on the inside of the sidewalk when we walk. I was thinking about how you look when you’re actually trying to learn something, and your forehead gets that little crease in the middle."

My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Lilly..."

"I don't want to be a muse, Lucas. I don't want to be someone’s trophy or someone’s inspiration. I want to be... I want to be with someone who actually sees me."

I didn't think. I didn't analyze the play or look for the opponent's weakness. I just reached out, grabbed the front of her sweater, and pulled her toward me.

The kiss was everything I’d been trying to ignore for weeks. It was desperate and messy and tasted like the cold night air and the sweetness of her. She made a small, surprised sound against my lips before her arms wound around my neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck.

I backed her against the brick wall of the alleyway outside the bar, my body shielding her from the wind. I kissed her until we were both breathless, until the world outside the two of us ceased to exist.

When I finally pulled back, I rested my forehead against hers. My hands were shaking.

"The deal is off," I rasped.

Lilly let out a shaky breath, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. "Does that mean you're going to fail History?"

"No," I said, catching her lower lip with my thumb. "It means I’m done helping you get Justin. And I’m done pretending that I only want you for your notes."

"Good," she whispered. "Because I’m a terrible tutor when I’m distracted."

"Yeah?" I grinned, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders that I hadn't even realized I was carrying. "What distracts you, Rossi?"

She reached up, her small hand cupping my jaw, her thumb brushing over my cheekbone. "You do, Captain. You always do."

I looked at her—really looked at her—and I realized that my father’s shadow didn't reach this far. In this dark, drafty alleyway, with this tiny, brilliant girl in my arms, I wasn't the Legacy or the Prodigy. I was just Lucas. And for the first time in my life, that was more than enough.

"Come on," I said, taking her hand and interlacing our fingers. "Let’s get out of here. I have a lot of studying to do."

Lilly laughed, the sound bright and clear against the city noise. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

"Shut up, Rossi," I said, but I was pulling her closer, my heart finally finding its rhythm. "Just shut up and walk."