I should get out. Thank him. Go inside. Process this disaster.
But I can’t.
“Did I do something wrong?” The words just come out. No filter. No dignity. What is wrong with me?
His gaze snaps up. “What?”
“I just…feel like something’s off between us.” I sound pitiful.Get out of the car, Chloe.For the love…
“No. We’re good.” His voice is rough. And then he sighs, the kind that feels like I’m annoying him.
Right.
My hand finds the door handle.
“I’ll see you in two weeks, Chloe.”
“Yeah.” I’m already getting out. “See you then.”
Door closes. Maybe with more force than necessary.
I walk up the steps without looking back.
He drives away, tires squealing slightly.
Roadrunner cloud of smoke.
Gone.
I’ll admit, he really had me going at the party.
Someone give that man an Oscar.
twelve
brody
“You want ice for that?”
I look up from my bruised knuckles. The bartender is standing across from me, pointing at my right hand with a bar towel that’s seen better days. Purple-and-yellow bruising is spreading across my knuckles like a storm system. Swollen. Throbbing. The result of introducing my fist to a helmet during tonight’s game.
“No,” I say. “I’m good.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. Just goes back to polishing glasses.
I flex my hand. Pain shoots up my arm, sharp and immediate.
Good.
Better to feel this than the other thing.
I’m sitting in the hotel bar in Seattle—one of those chain places where every city is identical. Same dark-wood tables with brass fixtures. Same laminated, sticky drink menus and fake plants in the corners. The air smells like stale beer with a hint of someone’s leftover burger and fries.
I’m nursing a Coke because I’m not drinking. SportsCenter is playing on the mounted TV above the bar, volume low. They’rereplaying our loss. Seattle 3, Blue Ox 1. I watch myself take a hit into the boards. Get up slowly. Skate away with my jaw clenched.
We got destroyed.
I played like a man possessed. Blocked six shots—felt every single one of them. Pucks hitting shin pads and shoulders, and once, terrifyingly, my inner thigh, just above the knee. Threw three hits that rattled teeth. Then spent five minutes in the penalty box for roughing after their center said—I don’t even remember what—and I just…snapped.
