He exhaled through his nose and grabbed his shirt, dragging it back over his head as he stood. “Okay. No tattoo. Have lunch with me then.”
“It’s ten a.m.”
His composure slipped at the edges, and he stepped closer, hands falling to his sides. “Why won’t you just let me like you? I don’t get it.”
The question hit harder than anything else he’d said.
Because liking him meant imagining more. It meant picturing where we’d end up when his world collided with mine. It meant risking the version of myself I’d fought to build.
“You can like me all you want,” I said. “What I’m trying to say is… I’m the one who doesn’t like you.”
He went still.
I forced myself to hold his gaze, to let him see the certainty on my face, even as something inside me strained against the lie.
13
Aiden
The bar hit my chest and stalled halfway up.
I forced it the rest of the way, arms shaking, then racked it harder than necessary. The metal clanged against the hooks and echoed through the empty team gym.
Six reps. I’d planned for ten, but needed to move on or I’d implode.
I swung my legs off the bench and sat up, towel draped over my neck, sweat running down my spine. The wall-mounted TV replayed last night’s game on mute. My line change flashed across the screen. I watched myself take the puck at the blue line, pivot, pass wide.
I didn’t remember that shift, or much of anything else that had happened.
I grabbed the remote and cranked the volume. The announcer’s voice filled the room, breaking down a play I’d executed on instinct. I stared at the screen, trying to follow the breakdown.
But all I could see was her standing in that booth, telling me she didn’t like me.
I dropped the remote on the bench and stood. The rubber flooring stuck slightly to the soles of my shoes as I crossed to the squat rack. I slid a plate onto each side of the bar, then another, telling myself I needed the weight.
If I was sore enough, tired enough, maybe she’d clear out of my system.
I ducked under the bar and lifted it off the hooks. The metal settled across my shoulders. I stepped back and lowered into a squat.
At the bottom of the movement, her face flashed again. The way she’d held my gaze while lying to me. The way her voice had strained on my name when she told me to leave.
I drove up too fast and had to correct my balance at the top.
Focus.
I dropped into another rep. My thighs burned in the best way. This was good. Wreck myself to recalibrate. An age-old method for healing, both physically and emotionally.
By the fourth rep, my form slipped. I shoved the bar back onto the rack and stepped away before I did something stupid.
Across the room, the treadmill lights blinked idle. I walked over and punched in a speed without thinking. The belt kicked to life under my feet, and I ran harder than my warmup required, breath pulling through my teeth, sweat dripping off my chin onto the moving rubber.
I told myself I wasn’t thinking about her.
I told myself she’d made it clear.
I felt her mouth on mine anyway.
I reached for the console and hit stop mid-stride. The belt slowed under me. I stepped off and grabbed a water bottle from the cooler, downing half of it in one pull.
