“I’ll be sure to make it clear to him.” I can’t help but laugh, which causes him to laugh too, and god, does it sound good. I’ve missed hearing it and I didn’t realize it until just now.
“Do you still care about us?” His laugh fades away, bringing a somber tone with him.
“It’s complicated.”
“Yeah, you’ve told me that already. Just answer me, Ginny. Or is it Geneva?”
A name far too formal for me. It’s not that I don’t love it. I do and maybe one day when I’m older, or the right person calls me by it, I’ll embrace it. But for now, I like Ginny and I just wish I could get everyone to realize that.
“Ginny. Only my dad calls me Geneva, and for the love of me, I can’t figure out why Antony did that yesterday.” I pause for a minute, but he deserves an answer. “I do still care about the three of you. I didn’t want to leave the way I did. I just thought it would be easier. My father gave me the ultimatum to be back here and Antony was laying it on thick about how I was letting him down, because I was costing him his shot at his dream. It was too much. I wanted to contact the three of you so many times, but I thought it would make it worse. I know it doesn’t make up for how I handled things.”
“It doesn’t help either that you’re Coach Lein’s daughter. That’s an instant don’t touch.”
I smirk. “Or that I have a strict no dating hockey players rule.”
He belts out a laugh that has him doubling over.
“Yeah, Coach would kill us if he found out about our time together.”
“So, what are we going to do to fix things between Chase and Blake?” I ask, hoping that he’ll take a bite of the olive branch I’m offering.
Chapter 6
Blake
The world feels heavy,almost as if gravity doubled overnight, but I know that’s not possible. Is it? A dull, relentless throb pounds behind my eyes, each one like a strike of a drum performed by our school’s marching band. The taste of stale beer and regret linger on my tongue, metallic and bitter.
I pry my eyes open, wincing as the pale morning light slices through the room like a blade. Fuck me, I forgot to close the blinds when I stumbled into the room last night. My only thought was making it to my bed without puking my guts up or breaking my neck.
The faintest sounds of people conversing in the hallway, a distant car horn, even the rustle of fabric from my movement feels like a personal assault, sharp and malicious. I go to swallow, but my mouth is so dry my tongue feels like it’s been replaced with sandpaper.
I sit up quickly and instantly regret the decision as a wave of nausea rolls through me, the room spinning in protest, and I fall back onto the bed. My limbs feel as if they're made of lead, mybody stiff, and I wonder if I fought a battle in my sleep and lost. Does my opponent feel a quarter of the pain I do today?
The remnants of last night are a blur, laughter and music jumbled with the unmistakable haze of overindulgence. Yet, there’s a sense of relief, as if a slight weight has been lifted off my shoulders, but I’m not sure why. Why can’t I remember? I fight against the battle zone in my head to piece together the jumbled up pictures playing through my memory when it finally comes rushing back like a freight train.
I told Carter what happened that night. Fuck! I’m still alive. How the hell is that even possible?
A massive groan escapes me as I press my palms against my temples in a futile attempt to quiet the marching band competition in my head. Each breath I take feels labored, every movement an effort to perform. The only thing sharper than the physical discomfort is the creeping anxiety about what Carter’s going to do. Is he going to tell Chase?
A shrill buzzing from the alarm on my phone echoes through the room, wreaking havoc on my already fragile head, clawing at the last piece of calm that was present. I blindly reach out toward my nightstand, wanting to end the foul noise. Instead of grasping the phone, I end up sending it clattering to the floor. I’m praying I didn’t crack my screen—again! My clumsiness not only makes my phone a casualty, but turns over a bottle of water and an open container of Tylenol, scattering tiny white pills across the carpet. And instead of silencing it, my fumbling knocks the clock off the edge, creating a symphony of plastic and persistent beeping as it clatters to the floor. “Damn it,” I mutter, my voice hoarse. My head throbs in protest as I lean over the side of the bed, ripping the alarm clock cord out of the outlet while fumbling to retrieve my phone, sighing in relief when I do, silencing the annoying sound.
I notice a folded piece of paper lying on the edge of the nightstand, miraculously untouched by the chaos. The handwriting on the front is familiar:Carter.My stomach churns—whether from the hangover or the sight of the note, I’m not sure. Any hope that last night had been a drunken dream is long gone. I reach for it, hesitating for a moment before unfolding it. Carter’s unmistakable scrawl greeting me.
Drink some water. Take the Tylenol. Talk to Chase.
In that order.
You need to tell him what happened. If you don’t, I will.
Either make it right with him and be a couple, or make sure he knows it’s over. You’re my best friend, like a brother, but he’s my blood and I’m not going to let you hurt him.
Also, don’t forget about practice. I set your alarm.
Carter
I crumple back into bed, clutching the note to my chest like it’s a lifeline. I was rash that night, I can admit it. But he wanted to keep us a secret and I couldn’t do that. I love him too much to hide in the shadows and pretend like he means nothing when he means the world. But how can I tell him how I betrayed him? Any inkling of a chance that we’d make it through our issues and come out happily on the other side is long gone. It dissipated when I fucked up that night.
Practice! Fuck me!
