So why does my chest ache like I’ve lost something I never actually had?
I toss my phone onto the pillow and bury my face in my hands, my earlier panic giving way to a different kind of pain. Jhett whines softly, nudging my elbow with his nose until I lower my hands to look at him.
“See?” I whisper, scratching behind his ears. “Just a headline to him. Nothing more.”
Jhett tilts his head, his brown eyes fixed on mine with that uncanny canine perception that sometimes makes me wonder if he understands more than I give him credit for.
“It’s better this way,” I tell him, trying to convince myself as much as my dog. “Really, it is.”
But as I glance at my phone again, at those three words glowing on the screen, I’m not sure I believe it.
Chapter Eighteen
Dylan
“Not your fault.”
Three pathetic words. That’s all I managed to text Cheyenne when she reached out about the article. Three words that say absolutely nothing about the hurricane of thoughts spinning through my head since those photos hit the internet.
I scroll through the article for what must be the hundredth time, wincing as the headline glares back at me: “Hockey Star Spotted Ring Shopping with Mystery Brunette.” Mystery brunette. Like Cheyenne’s identity could be reduced to her hair color and her proximity to me. Like she hasn’t been part of my life for fifteen years.
I toss my phone onto the couch beside me, but I can’t escape the images burned into my retinas. Photos of Chey and mestanding close together at Meridian Jewelers, my arm around her waist, her face turned up toward mine with a smile I’d give anything to see right now.
The worst part isn’t the invasion of privacy or the speculation.
It’s that the pictures make us look ... right together.
Happy.
Like we actually could be a couple shopping for engagement rings instead of two friends messing around.
Meanwhile, Cheyenne’s gone radio silent. It’s been two days since the article dropped, and aside from the initial “Sorry that happened” text, nothing.
Not that I gave her much to respond to.
I pick up my phone again, scrolling further down the article. The writer has done a thorough job of documenting my “playboy lifestyle,” complete with a collage of Instagram photos featuring me with various women at events.
Seeing them all collected like this makes me cringe.
Ihavedated a lot of women. I’ve cultivated this image of the carefree bachelor, the hockey player who works hard and plays harder. It’s been my brand, my comfort zone, my defense mechanism.
So, what is happening to me?
I click on the largest photo of Chey and me at the jewelry store, zooming in on our expressions. The photographer caught a moment I didn’t even realize was happening—a split secondwhere I was looking at Cheyenne like she was the center of the universe.
And maybe, at that moment, she was.
When did this happen? When did Chey stop being just my sister’s best friend and start being the person I can’t stop thinking about?
Maybe it was at the Christmas tree farm, when she saw my elf outfit and laughed until she couldn’t breathe. Or at the Italian restaurant afterward, when she talked about her grandmother with such love in her voice. Or maybe it was at Cam and Nila’s party, when I found myself gravitating toward her all night, annoyed every time someone else made her laugh.
Or maybe it’s been happening slowly, over the past fifteen years, and I’ve been too blind or too stubborn to notice.
My alarm goes off, jarring me out of this dangerous line of thinking. Game time’s in three hours. I need to get my head on straight.
But as I pack my gear and head for my truck, I can’t shake the image of Chey and me together. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve screwed up something important before it even had a chance to begin.
Cam sends a perfect pass my way, but I’m looking in the wrong direction, and it sails past my stick. Coach Wilson barks something from the bench, but his words don’t register. I shake my head, trying to clear it, trying to focus on the game and not on hazel eyes and a smile that makes my chest hurt.
