He stretches his hand toward me. I step back.
"Ivy, please..."
I square my shoulder, swipe at my eyes angrily.
"We're done." I force the next words to come out of my mouth. "Whatever this was, practice or real, it's over. I want you gone from my life."
"Ivy, don't do this." His voice is filled with pain.
But I'm already going toward my office. Something crashes on the wall, followed by a frustrated shout from Declan. But I keep walking, then grab my boxes and leave through the side entrance where fewer people will see me crying.
I drive back to Sloane's apartment in a daze, my vision blurring with tears I can't seem to stop. By the time I pull into her building's garage, I'm sobbing so hard I can barely breathe. She finds me there later, still sitting in my car, surrounded by boxes that represent everything I've lost.
"Oh, babe." She pulls me out of the car and into her arms as I completely break. "I've got you."
But she hasn't. She doesn't even understand the magnitude of what has happened to me.
Nobody does.
22
DECLAN
When Everything Falls Apart
The puck slams into the boards two feet from where it should have gone.
Coach Petrov's whistle screams across the ice, sharp enough to split my skull. My chest heaves, lungs burning from the hollow ache that's been eating me alive since Friday.
Since Ivy looked at me with devastation in her eyes and said,"We're done."
"Hawthorne!" Coach's accent thickens with rage. "Are you planning to actually play hockey today, or should I put a traffic cone in your position? At least the cone won't actively sabotage us."
A few guys skate past, heads down. Nobody meets my eyes. They've learned that engaging with me lately ends in snapping jaws and thrown equipment.
"Again," Coach barks.
I line up for the drill. The puck comes to me, and I take the shot. It goes wide again.
"What the hell was that?" Tyler yells from across the ice.
I ignore him. Skate harder. Faster. Like I can outrun the image of Ivy's face when she said I abandoned her. The way her voice broke at the words.
She's right. I did.
The thought makes me sick.
Practice drags. Every drill feels like forcing my body through concrete. I miss passes, take stupid penalties during scrimmage. My muscles scream, sweat dripping down my spine. But the exhaustion doesn’t touch the gnawing emptiness in my chest.
When Tyler checks me hard into the boards, I come up swinging, fists connecting with his jaw before anyone can pull us apart.
Coach's whistle shrieks. "Hawthorne! To my office, NOW!"
I follow Coach through the tunnel, past the curious stares of trainers and staff. Blood pumps hot in my ears, my knuckles throbbing. The strong smell of disinfectant assaults my senses the moment I step into his office. He closes the door with a click that sounds like a judge's gavel.
"Sit."
I sit.
