And that absence sent alarm bells blaring in my head.
I studied his serious expression, the way his eyes darted away from me, focusing on the silent TV instead. His hands—hands that had held me, touched me, loved me for years—now gripped the doorframe so tightly that they looked almost… alien to me.
“You kissed her.” It wasn’t so much a question as it was a simple statement of fact.
“I…” His mouth opened then closed again.
“Did you fuck her?”
“Jesus Christ, Franny.” He was the only one who called me that, always saying "Frankie" sounded too masculine. One of the many red flags I’d ignored.
“That isn’t my name.” I kicked off the plush white comforter we’d picked out together and stood up, walking toward him. “It was a simple question.”
“Yeah, well, the answer isn’t so simple.”
There it was. The final blow. His words pierced through me, shattering my insides like broken glass. “The fact that you think so is hilarious.” Nothing about this was funny. The fury that surged inside me was beyond words. “Just a fucking joke.”
I turned, my steps heavy as I marched toward the shared dresser, the one we’d both used for years in this shared fucking room.
Yanking open a rickety brown drawer, I slammed it at his feet. Without a word, I grabbed another and tossed it at him.
“Fran, what the hell are you doing?”
He wasn’t swaying anymore as he stepped over the scattered socks and underwear to get to me.
“Reorganizing,” I said flatly, not sparing him a glance. Then, I yanked out another drawer. “Look at all this extra space I’ve found. Isn’t it just perfect, Trav?”
“We can talk about this.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” I tossed his t-shirts to the floor. “We’re talking. So many fucking words.”
“You know I hate it when you curse.”
That was one of his many complaints. Cursing was unladylike. Playing hockey wasn’t for women. My hair, usually pulled back in a long braid, framed my face in a way he hated. My features, too strong, too sharp. My chin, my wide forehead, everything about me seemed to irritate him.
And then, there was the bossiness. Oh, how he hated that.
I stalked to the closet, grabbing the old duffel bag he’d carried since his college days in Minnesota. I shoved it into his chest, locking eyes with him. “Get out. Now.”
“Fran—”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Was that too bossy for you?” I let my smile soften, but the bite was still there. “Travis Graham, would youpleasedo me the honor of getting the fuck out?”
He stood frozen, his gaze intense, before he bent down to start stuffing clothes into the bag. “You’re a real bitch, you know that?”
“Thank you for noticing.” It was one of my better qualities.
I kicked a pair of pants his way, trying to hold on to the anger, desperate to maintain it as I watched three years of my life fall apart at my feet.
It wasn’t until the door slammed behind him that I finally collapsed onto the bed, listening to the hollow silence echo through the empty house.
CHAPTER TWO
TEDDY
"Get your head in the game, Valentine!”
I was skating toward the bench after the puck, trailing behind the opposing winger, when Coach Frankie's voice sliced through the air, freezing me in my tracks. Danny Sillinger picked up speed, widening the gap between us, and I pushed harder, my legs burning, trying to shake off the sting of Coach's sudden outburst. She rarely raised her voice like that—screaming was Coach Griffin's territory.
