Finding Brinley parked on the side of the road won’t leave my head.
The way she was slumped over, her face buried in her hands when I pulled up. The way she lifted her head when she saw it was me, wiping at her face like she didn’t want me to see.
And her trunk.
Everything she owned was crammed in her car, like she wasn’t planning on staying anywhere too long. She could’ve kept driving right out of Rixton and never looked in the rearview if she wanted.
I keep picturing her checking her phone last night, waiting for me to answer. Waiting for me to call like I promised I would. Probably wondering if I was going to walk in with the rest of the guys or if she’d misread the whole thing.
My phone’s still in my hand now. I unlock it and open our thread. Her messages are right there at the bottom, asking if I’m coming to the party and if everything is okay.
That last one came close to midnight after she’d already left and gone to the farm. When the barn would’ve been quiet. When she was probably lying in bed alone, wondering and worrying about what had happened.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I want to text her now. To say I’m sorry again, to tell her everything, and give her a reason that explains why I’ve pulled away.
I drag my hand over my neck and stare at the wall across from my bed.
She was different when I saw her earlier. Not the Brinley who started to open up to me over the past couple of weeks. She was retreating into the same withdrawn woman I met that night at the bar, who was quick to push me away and assert that she could take care of herself.
And I hate that I’m someone she felt she needed to protect herself from.
Coach’s voice slips in whether I want it to or not.
“I’m telling you one last time to stay away from her.”
What if I can’t?
What if Reed digs and there’s nothing there? Nothing to find that points to any wrongdoing.
Am I ready to choose hockey over her?
The thought of walking away from her—of making her feel like she wasn’t worth fighting for—turns my stomach. I would be no better than her father, who chose to pay her mom off rather than be there for her.
I push up from the bed before I sit there too long.
I peel off my shirt and toss it toward the chair, then head into the bathroom. After turning the shower as hot as it’ll go, I step under it without waiting.
The water runs over my shoulders and down my spine. I stand there for a minute, hoping it’ll quiet my mind. But it doesn’t.
When I’m done, I dry off and pull on a pair of gym shorts and an old T-shirt. I lean over my desk and grab my Xbox controller, letting it hang in my hand for a second before I sit down.
I need my mind to drift somewhere else for a while.
The console light flashes on, and the screen flickers to life. A couple of notifications are stacked in the corner, but I ignore them and queue up a match. The loading screen spins while I sink into my chair, stretching my legs out.
The first round is a mess. I overcorrect on a turn and wind up getting clipped. Then I miss a clean shot I normally wouldn’t have.
“Come on,” I grumble under my breath.
I adjust, sit up a bit straighter, and let the rhythm settle in on its own like it usually does.
By the second round, I’m back into the game like my hands remember what to do.
Then a username flashes in the top right corner of my screen.
CerealKillahas joined the lobby.
We haven’t talked much lately, not since we exchanged a few messages the other day. She’d said she was moving and had stuff going on. I’ve been wrapped up in my own mess anyway.
