Every muscle hurts as I lower myself into the rigid chair. It’s going to be a long fucking hour having to sit up straight like this. No way will I make it through class and afternoon skate.
I pull out my phone to email Coach, and as I’m typing, my head lowered, the lecture hall doors open and the room grows quiet.
Holding my breath, I keep my head down and peer in that direction.
When the broody man with dark hair comes into view, my spine snaps straight. My entire body tenses, my gut clenching, my anxiety on high alert. It takes effort to breathe. Just the sight of him has my survival instincts screaming.
I try not to react outwardly. I don’t want to draw extra attention to myself. I refuse to cause any more problems for her. Inwardly, I’m still reeling as Mercer Eden stalks into the room, hair falling in his eyes and a scowl plastered on his face.
At the front, he unburdens himself of his bag, then takes out a stack of papers and glowers as if they’ve personally offended him, his every move made with precision.
He hasn’t noticed me yet.
He’s about halfway to the first row when the energy shifts.
To his credit, he barely reacts. Just the slightest flinch—one I wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t studying him like a wounded animal cowering to a predator.
My gut screams at me to run. To flee. Or at the very least to divert his attention.
Against my better judgment, I force myself to look up.
He strides closer.
As he barrels for me, my stomach riots, the breakfast burrito I forced myself to choke down so I could take my meds this morning threatening to make a reappearance.
But I maintain eye contact. I don’t move. I won’t show weakness.
It’s bad enough that I’m sitting. Once he’s close, he’ll loom over me.
When he’s about a meter away, Eden subtly lifts both hands, holding them up as if to say he means no harm. Or in this case, he means nomoreharm.
With raised eyebrows, he stops—asking for my consent to approach, I realize.
Anxiety and anger swell inside me, the urge to jump to my feet and get the fuck out of here clawing up my throat.
Swallowing it back, I nod, then I blow out a breath and sit back, trying to look unbothered.
He takes three more steps toward me, and when he’s close enough, he holds out the first paper on the stack.
I reach for it, not taking my eyes off him the entire time.
When I grip the edge of the paper, he doesn’t let go.
“Just tell me she’s okay,” he begs, the words desperate, low, and only meant for me.
My gut bottoms out.
He hasn’t talked to her?
“She won’t take my calls,” he says. “She hasn’t responded to a single email I’ve sent.”
Instinctively, I glance over to her desk.
Head lowered, he shakes it, suddenly looking smaller. “She hasn’t been back since that night. I haven’t even laid eyes on her. I know—”
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Then, he pulls the paper that’s been suspended between us out of my hand and places it on my desk. With a pained look at the doors, he rakes one hand through his hair.
“I know it seems futile,” he says, zeroed in on me. “I’ve given up hoping for any version of reality where she forgives me. I just want to know how she’s doing.”
