COMPLETED. A university student. A professional hockey player. They've proved they can be friends. Can they be more?
Although they're both in their early twenties and living in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, their lives couldn't be more different. Cami...
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I wish I could say that more happened that first night in Pasadena, but Taylor's comment was the climax.
After I stared at him speechless for what felt like five minutes, I yawned. And then yawned again. Which caused Taylor to yawn, and suggest that we get some sleep, that it was a long day.
As much as I wanted to continue our conversation, I had to admit that I was exhausted. And when I was exhausted, I tended to say things that wide-awake me would never dream of sharing.
So, essentially, me being tired was the equivalent of others being drunk.
Taylor got off the chair, stretched, used the washroom briefly, wished me goodnight, and then left the room.
As soon as he left my vision, my eyes wanted to make like the door and shut. But it was one of those frustrating nights where despite my exhaustion, sleep wouldn't come easily. This tended to happen on nights where I wrote an exam earlier that day, or when I stayed up extra late on my computer watching talent show audition fails; nights where you'd think I'd fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. At first, I thought it was because I was in a different bed—Taylor's old bed—when I had really only slept in one bed, metaphorically, my whole life. But then I had the constant feeling of having to pee, even though every trip to the washroom just resulted in a trickle.
I forced myself to lay as still as I could, as if to convince my mind that my body was asleep. That didn't work, because my mind was very much aware that every fibre of my body was awake and humming. Traces of excitement from the night were still flowing in my veins. There was also some adrenaline from my anxiety attack swimming in there as well.
Taylor's bed was small. There were only so many times I could toss and turn before I got motion sickness.
When I been laying there for an hour, according to my near-constant checking of my phone, I decided to take a walk and stretch my legs.
Yeah. Even I wasn't convinced by that. What I really wanted to do was sneak away to the den to see if Taylor was awake.
I thought about texting him, but I didn't know if he was one of those people who slept with their phone on "loud". I'd hate for the ping from my text to wake the whole house up.
My sock-covered feet didn't make noise against the carpeted floor, but I was still careful to not knock into anything. The den was easy to find—it was the room closest to the stairs—and Taylor was even easier to spot. There was one couch in the room, and it was arranged perpendicular to the door. Thankfully, Taylor's feet were perched on the end closest to me so I could see his face on the other side.
His sleeping face.
Sure, no lights were on and it was dark, but it wasn't pitch black. I could easily make out his long, lean body which took up the entirety of the couch, arm to arm. Taylor didn't snore, but his breathing was heavier than normal. He had one arm bent supporting his head and the other lay near his shirtless, blanket-less side.
