“Like what.”
“Like you're trying to memorize me.” He met my eyes, and there was no challenge there now. Just exhaustion. Just truth. “Like you want something you can't have.”
I should've denied it. Should've shut it down immediately and rebuilt the walls I'd spent all day constructing.
Instead, I said nothing.
Because he was right. He was absolutely fucking right, and we both knew it.
“You spent all day being a bastard to everyone,” he continued, voice low. “To the team. To me. You think I don't know why? You think I can't see what you're doing?”
“And what am I doing?”
“Pushing everyone away so you don't have to deal with this.” He gestured between us. “So you don't have to admit that you want?—”
“Don't. Don't finish that sentence.”
“Why not? Because it's true?” His eyes held mine. “You want me. I want you. And you're so fucking terrified of it that you'd rather be cruel to everyone than just admit it.”
My jaw clenched. “We can't?—”
“I know we can't!” His voice rose, frustration breaking through. “You think I don't know that? You think I'm not aware of every single reason this is a bad idea? But being an asshole to me, to the team, to everyone—that doesn't fix it. It just makes you a coward.”
The word hit me like a punch to the gut.
“Careful, Hartley.”
“Or what? You'll bench me again for nothing? You'll make practice even more miserable tomorrow? Go ahead, Coach. Do your worst. It won't change what's between us.”
The silence that fell was charged.
“I'm trying to protect you,” I said finally, and my voice had lost its edge. “Both of us.”
“I know.” His eyes held mine. “But it feels like you're just trying to make me hate you.”
Maybe I am.
Because hate would be easier than this. Hate would be simpler. Hate would create the distance I needed without having to feel this constant pull toward him.
But I couldn't make myself say that.
“Get some rest,” I said instead, turning back to my laptop.
I heard him move behind me—heard the rustle of sheets as he climbed back into bed, heard his breathing even out after a few minutes, though I knew he wasn't sleeping.
Neither was I.
I sat at that desk for another hour, staring at footage I wasn't processing, listening to him breathe, feeling the weight of everything unsaid press down on my chest like a hand.
CHAPTER 14
OVERTIME
JACE
The second game was a carbon copy of the first, except this time we won by three goals and Coach was somehow even more pissed about it.
We dominated from the opening faceoff. I scored twice—one on a wrist shot from the circle that went top shelf, clean as fuck, and another on a rebound that I jammed through the goalie's pads. Rook had a goal and two assists. Volkov shut down their top line so completely they might as well have not shown up.
