Syn’s lip curled, and her eyebrows drew together. She looked genuinely pissed on my behalf. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them. “He literally told his entire hockey team I was off-limits. No one will even talk to me anymore.”
“That’s so fucked up.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What’s his deal?” Syn shook her head, black hair swishing.
I didn’t have an answer for that. I had been asking myself the same question for weeks, and all I’d gotten was a headache.
“Have you heard from Trystan and Cam lately?”
Syn’s expression shifted. “No, actually. I tried calling them yesterday, but they didn’t answer. Their location shows they’re in France right now.”
“Must be nice.”
“They’re living the dream.” Syn didn’t say it with any bitterness, just matter-of-fact acceptance. “Speaking of which, Owen’s supposed to come visit during winter break. You should come too.”
My heart did a traitorous little stutter at the mention of his name. “I don’t know if that’s…”
“Come on.” Syn grinned, practically begging. “It’ll be fun. You can spend time with Kailyn. I can tattoo you against your will.”
I smiled because I didn’t have the energy to explain why spending winter break in close proximity to Owen sounded like both the best and worst idea anyone had ever had.
A knock at the door made me jump.
“Oh, my food’s here,” I said, shifting as I unfolded myself from the couch. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“You’d better. Love you, bitch.”
“Love you too.”
I ended the call and padded toward the front door, my socked feet silent on the hardwood. The house was dark except for the lamp I left on in the living room.
I was halfway there when I stopped.
Wait.
I never ordered food. I was in the middle of it when Syn called and interrupted me.
My hand froze on the doorknob as my heart pounded against my ribs. The knock came again, three sharp raps that echoed through the empty house.
“Who is it?”
“Pizza delivery.”
My stomach fluttered. I knew that voice the way I knew the lyrics to every song I ever loved.
I yanked the door open.
Owen stood on my porch, backlit by the porch light, holding a pizza box like it was a peace offering. He was wearing a black hoodie with the hood pulled up and matching black joggers. There was something almost nervous in the way he was standing as his weight shifted to one foot, free hand shoved in his pocket.
This was the first time I could remember Owen ever knocking. He didn’t need to because he was part of the family. He lived here.
“What are you doing here?”
“Told you.” He lifted the pizza box slightly. “Delivery.”
