Fuck. Fuck, fuck,fuuuck.
He and I needed to talk about this, and we needed to doit soon. Straighten things out as best we could. Do whatever damage control I needed to do.
I ate as much as I could stomach, plus a little more just to sell my teammates the story that I was fine, perfectly fine, and had no earthly idea why Peyton had bailed the second I’d sat down. Then I casually left the banquet hall and headed upstairs. I had to resist the urge to sprint out of the elevator and down the hall, especially since some of my teammates were out and about.
Act casual. Don’t let anyone suspect anything.
Finally, I was in my room. Now…
Now I just had to figure out what the hell to do.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I chewed my lip and debated what to do next. We had to talk. We didn’t have a lot of time before we needed to be on the bus, but we needed to clear the air before we had to be on the ice together. If we were off during practice, that could throw off the whole team and screw us for tonight.
I grabbed my phone, pulled up his contact, and sent him a text.
Did something happen last night?
It seemed like a cowardly approach, but I wasn’t sure what else to say. Asking if I’d kissed him would make things supremely weird if I hadn’t. Telling him we needed to talk would just put him on edge.
As I stared at my stupid message, the word “Read” appeared underneath it, sending my heart into my throat. Then the three dots appeared, and I held my breath.
Peyton started and stopped typing a few times. Finally a message came through.
We should do this face to face. I’ll be up in 5.
My stomach knotted. Then it tightened even more when I realized he hadn’t asked which room was mine.
Because he already knows.
I tossed my phone aside and buried my face in my hands.
Oh my fucking God.
I was still self-flagellating when there was a quiet knock at my door. I opened it, and all I had to do was make eye contact, and I knew which of my low-resolution memories were dreams and which had been very, very real. The uncomfortable expression. The renewed color. The way his eyes flicked away from mine.
I let him in and shut the door behind us. We stood in awkward silence for a long moment, several feet of space between us. He was by the TV stand, and my skin crawled; that was where it happened, wasn’t it? I’d grabbed him and kissed him right there, pushing him back against?—
Fuuuck.
Shoulders dropping, I looked away from him. “I’m sorry. Let’s just get that out of the way upfront. I… Jesus.” I raked a hand through my hair. “I am so sorry. I don’t even remember everything, but I remember enough, and I want to say I don’t do shit like that, but obviously I do.”
“I get it.” Peyton’s voice was even. Not hostile, but not overly warm either. “You were pretty drunk, so you weren’t yourself.”
My face burned even hotter. I was glad he understood, but I couldn’t say I felt any better. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“I know.” He finally looked at me, his expression soft. “I need you to level with me about something.”
I swallowed. Oh God, he was going to make me admit it out loud, wasn’t he? Tell him how much was the alcohol and how much was real? I didn’t even know how to answer that. I mean, I knew what the answer was, but how could I phrase it so things didn’t get any weirder between us?
“You don’t usually drink that hard,” he said quietly. “Was…” He studied me, furrowing his brow and tilting his head a little. “Was there something making you drink like that?”
Oh. Hell.
I tore my gaze away from his and folded my arms tight across my chest. Couldn’t he have asked about the kiss instead? Because I wasn’t ready to talk about this. Not with him. Not with anyone. Notever. “It was just a bad night.”
“Yeah, I got that. But what was?—”
“Leave it alone!” I snapped, meeting his eyes again.
