I always do.
***
The weekend passes quietly.
I spend most of Saturday working, and what little time I have left holed up in the loft. I haven’t spoken to Cooper since I left his place, but not because he hasn’t tried.
Sasha texts me to say he stopped by the bar Saturday night and asked about me. She adds a question mark I don’t answer. On Sunday, he shows up at the loft. I don’t open the door.
I haven’t figured out what to say to him yet.
The guilt sits low in my stomach, but I let it. It feels easier than opening something I don’t know how to close again.
Monday is my day off, except for one early class. Afterward, I head to the student center with my backpack and laptop and claim a corner table. It’s the only place I can reliably check my email without fighting the internet. The Wi-Fi I leech from the bar has barely worked over the past couple of days, and while I could add a hotspot to my phone plan, that would mean spending money I don’t really have.
Rent comes first.
I log on and skim through my inbox. Same as always—class notifications, automated alerts, confirmation that my phone bill went through. I’m already half checked out when I see it.
A new notification fromDead Zone, the game I haven’t touched in weeks.
I open it before I can talk myself out of it.
Rowdy87: Haven’t seen you online in a bit. You good?
I stare at the message longer than I should.
Rowdy’s the only person I’ve played with consistently for years. Most of the guys onDead Zonemake it unbearable once they realize there’s a woman on the other end. Mostly snide comments and jokes, garbage that makes it easier to keep my headset muted and bounce between squads.
Rowdy’s different.
We’ve never exchanged real names. I don’t know much about him beyond the fact that he’s a farm kid with a sister. Ourconversations stay at a surface level about the game. Whatever he was fixing that day. Whether I’m tired or just off my rhythm.
I know he’s athletic—at least I assume he is. He’s always talking about chores and having practice or a game the next day. I’ve never asked questions, never pushed for details.
It was safer that way. Asking questions invited them in return.
So it makes sense he noticed my absence. We usually run together when we’re both online.
I move over to the web browser and log in, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, hesitating on how much of myself to share.
Before I even open the chat, I hear a familiar voice drift from a few tables over.
“Rowdy, good luck in your game tonight.”
I freeze.
My pulse jumps as I turn my head, peer past the shelf to see a group gathered at another table across the room.
“It’s against Braysen. Should be an easy win.” Cooper’s mouth curves into a knowing smirk.
My eyes flick back to my screen as I click on the Inbox tab, seeing one unread notification fromRowdy87staring back at me.
My thoughts start racing, pieces snapping together to the nights he talked about his practice schedules, how he’d log in late at night and would mention getting back to town from a game.
And suddenly, the quiet of the student center feels too loud. My screen glows at me like it’s holding a secret I don’t know what to do with.
I haven’t even opened the message. I’m too busy staring at my notebook. The same one I used to leave the note before I took off from the hockey house.
