—Charlotte.
I send the email and pack up the rest of my feelings. No tears fall, my heart doesn’t hurt. I don’t hurt, I just am. I’m okay floating through life like this, as long as I don’t have to feel the inevitable pain once this all hits me.
Running is what I do best, and there’s no looking back now.
Chapter twenty-nine
4monthslater…
“Good game, Martel,” Johannson says as he claps my shoulder, making my hand shift. A few drops of whiskey spill over the glass and onto my fingers.
“You too.” He walks away, and here I am again, at this bar—alone.
I’m in the NHL, playing with the best of the best, and here I am after a huge win, sulking. I like my team, the people on it. Fuck, I even like the location. But this place, it’s missing something.
I, of course, know that thing is a five-foot nothing blonde who walked away with no second fucking thoughts. Anders and Eli are doing everything to win her back, and I’m grateful for their initiative and what it’s done for me. Personally, I think we should cut our losses and move on. The one fucking thing I asked her not to do was break me—and she did it. She did it fucking flawlessly, might I add. Not only did she make me fall for her, become addicted to her scent and taste, but she made me love her. I never told her, of course, and I’m thankful for it now. She didn’t deserve it.
She’s blocked our numbers and all of our social media accounts. Eli and Anders get tidbits of information from her friend, Piper, but she keeps her lips pretty sealed. We’ve tried reaching out to Kathy with no luck. Anders and Eli are positive that we don’t know the whole story, and they’re completely okay with just waiting for their moment. I’ve asked multiple times what exactly that moment is though.
This is exactly why I wanted to fucking wait and not do anything during winter break. The stakes were way too fucking high. Thank fuck we can all at least continue to play at a high level and stay focused. In the end, I guess I got what I wanted, to be in the NHL and become a better hockey player. Somehow it still doesn’t feel like enough.
A blonde Beta woman sits at the bar stool next to me. She’s wearing a jersey for our team. I lean back, and I’m not surprised by the teammate she is repping. I shake my head and lean back over the bar. My forearms rest on the clean bar top as I stare into the whiskey glass, wondering when this empty feeling will go away and why this whiskey doesn’t seem to be helping.
“Oh my god. You’re sin bin Martel,” she says, and I grimace, hating the nickname I’ve been coined in only a few months.
“That’s me,” I say in a shitty tone, sitting back and taking another sip of whiskey.
“Great game tonight. That fight with Petrov was something else.”
It was, wasn’t it? I fucking hate that guy, hoping I get to smash his pretty little face up against the glass in the near future. I don’t reply to the eager woman, but she keeps on going.
“So can I get you a drink?” I look over at her, and she just looks like a woman. I don’t find anyone attractive anymore. Part of me wanted to find as many Betas as possible and fuck the living daylights out of them. But I can’t. I don’t want them.
I want pancakes and maple syrup. I want sass and that tight Omega cunt she got me addicted to. I sigh and throw back the rest of my whiskey, knowing that sitting here isn’t going to help shit. Plus, if I don’t get home soon, I know they will come here looking for me.
“No, thanks.”
“Can I get you anything else?” she says, placing her manicured hand over my forearm. All it does is make me miss Charlotte’s nails dragging down my back as I fucked and knotted her senseless. Don’t even get me started on how much I miss knotting. I even bought an Omega jelly masturbator. Unhappy to report that it’s nothing like the real thing, and you will be gravely disappointed.
“No, thank you. Have a nice night.”
She scoffs, but turns around and scans the room, likely looking for her next target. I wish her luck. A year ago, I would have had her in the closest bathroom stall and taken what I wanted. But the one thing I want is the one thing that was taken away from me. Ironic, isn’t it? When we met, all I wanted was my hockey career, but now that I have it, all I seem to want is Charlotte. Or the idea of Charlotte. I’m angry with her for leaving, and I don’t know what I would do if she were actually in front of me.
I’m nothing but predictable as I pull out my phone, waiting for my ride to get here. She’s blocked all of us on her social media accounts and her number. But I still try to pull up her information anyway—as suspected, nothing.
My phone buzzes, and it’s Anders. I snooze the call immediately. I feel like they treat me like I’m going to go off in the deep end, when I know that I’m not. The ice has been my outlet. Feeling pissed off? Punch someone without my gloves on, so it hurts the both of us. Feeling sad? Drink a whiskey alone and think about what could have been. I think I’m handling things very maturely, and they can fuck right off.
The October air feels cool on my skin as I look around at the busy street. Everyone looks so fucking happy.
Well, fuck them.
My ride gets here, and I get into the backseat. Proud of myself for not having that much whiskey. Practice tomorrow is going to fucking blow.Stop thinking about her, and focus on the game in three days.
I will myself to push her out of my mind, knowing damn well I’ll be thinking of flashbacks of fucking her while I stroke myself tonight.
I hate feeling like this, and I hate Charlotte even more for making me feel this way.Fuck scent matches.
“This you, pal?” the driver says, breaking me out of my self-loathing.
