“Exactly.” I sling my bag over my shoulder, a determination I haven’t felt all night suddenly coursing through me. “I need to prove to her that I can be different. That Iwantto be different. For her.”
Blaze claps me on the shoulder. “Good luck with that, man. For what it’s worth, I think you two would be good together. She doesn’t put up with your crap.”
He’s right about that. Chey has never been impressed by my hockey status or my Instagram followers or any of the superficial stuff that seems to work on other women. She sees right through me, always has.
Maybe that’s part of why I’m falling for her.
I say goodbye to Blaze and head out to the parking lot alone. The night air is cold, cutting through my jacket as I walk to my truck. I need a plan. Some way to show Chey that my feelings for her are real, that I’m not just playing games. That the guy in that jewelry store photo—the one looking at her like she hung the moon—that’s the real me.
I just have no idea how to convince her of that.
Not when I’ve spent years convincing the world—and myself—of exactly the opposite.
But I’ve got to try.
Chapter Nineteen
Cheyenne
Dragons and magic kingdoms aresomuch simpler than real life.
I’ve been curled up with this fantasy novel for two hours now, lost in a world where the rules make sense, where people say what they mean, and where running from your problems usually involves an actual dragon chase. In my world, the dragons are gossip articles and text messages, and I can’t seem to outrun them no matter how deep I bury myself in fiction.
Jhett dozes at my feet, occasionally sighing in his sleep. The apartment is quiet. Genna’s out with Paul—again. Not that I mind. She deserves to be happy, and I’m genuinely thrilled for her. But the silence feels heavier somehow, more noticeable, like it’s deliberately giving me space to overthink everything.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I ignore it. It’s probably another notification about that stupid article. I’ve been getting them non-stop for days now, each one a fresh reminder of how my private life has suddenly become public entertainment.
But then it buzzes again and again—the insistent pattern of a phone call rather than a text. I glance at the screen and nearly drop my book.
Mom.
She hasn’t called in over two months, and now she’s FaceTiming me out of the blue? My stomach knots as I set down my novel and pick up the phone. Taking a deep breath, I swipe to answer.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to sound casual, like her call isn’t completely unexpected.
“Cheyenne!” Her face fills my screen, perfectly made-up as always, not a hair out of place despite the fact that it must be the middle of the night in Europe. “Darling, there you are!”
She’s in what looks like an elegant living room, all cream-colored furniture and tasteful art on the walls. I catch glimpses of high ceilings and what might be a chandelier in the background. Nothing like my cozy but decidedly unglamorous apartment.
“Here I am,” I echo, suddenly self-conscious of my messy bun and college sweatshirt. “Is everything okay? Isn’t it, like, three in the morning there?”
“Oh, we just got in from the symphony.” She waves dismissively. “Richard’s making nightcaps. But never mind that—whydidn’t you tell me you were seeing someone new? And a professional athlete, no less!”
My heart sinks. Of course. The article. That’s why she’s calling.
“Mom, it’s not—”
“Richard!” she calls off-screen. “Come say hello to Cheyenne. She’s dating that hockey player I was telling you about. The handsome one from the article.”
I close my eyes briefly, willing myself patience. “Mom, I’m not dating anyone. That article was completely wrong. Dylan is Genna’s older brother. We’re just friends.”
Her face falls slightly. “But those photos ... you were looking at engagement rings!”
“We were just window shopping,” I explain, heat rising to my cheeks. “We were walking downtown after a game, looking at Christmas lights, and Dylan thought it would be funny to go into this jewelry store and pretend we were engaged. Someone took pictures and completely misinterpreted the situation.”
Mom tilts her head, studying me with narrowed eyes. “But you were holding hands in one of the pictures. And he had his arm around you.”
“We were putting on a show for the sales clerk,” I insist, my voice getting tighter. “It was a joke, Mom. That’s all.”
