He’s not wrong about what he said—sitting here with my skates half-laced and panic clawing up my throat, I know that letting Finn go is going to be the biggest regret of my life.
But I’m still not going to call her.
Still not going to beg her for forgiveness.
Ican’t.
I tie my skates, strap on my shin guards, tug up my socks and pants then move on to my shoulder and elbow pads, my jersey and helmet. My gloves.
But it’s all by rote.
All fucking bullshit.
Because I’m not here, not really.
I skate.
I shoot.
I backcheck.
I score a goal.
Then I do the whole damned thing again.
But none of it means anything—the win, the goals, the good plays.
Because the entire time all I can think is…
She flies out tonight.
And even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to go after her?—
I know I have to let her go anyway.
For all our sakes.
Thirty-Nine
Finn
Rhodes played well tonight.
Two goals and dominating the ice with an intensity that took my breath away.
I probably shouldn’t have watched.
But part of me needed to say goodbye…even if it was through a television screen.
Plus, Jean-Michel was at the game, wouldn’t be flying out until it was over.
I needed to know when it would end so I could properly time my arrival at the airport, right?
Sure.
Now I’m aboard his private jet, his wife Tiff sitting across from me while he talks on the phone.
The flight attendants bustle around and the pilots are in the cockpit, doing whatever checks they need to do before takeoff.
