LEONORA
I don’t manage to get to sleep at all. By the time pale light starts creeping under the curtains I’ve accepted that. I sit up, pull my knees to my chest, and start mentally preparing for what it’s going to feel like to skate beside him today knowing everything is broken.
Then there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I call. Tara, probably. Checking the bandage before the game.
But it’s Zane.
He looks tired and frustrated and he’s looking at me like he doesn’t know whether to kiss me or kill me.
I know which one I’d choose.
He’s still in last night’s clothes. There are shadows under his eyes. He obviously didn’t sleep, which means he’s been stewing about this all night, and he’s made a decision at some point in the dark.
“Why are you here? We have a game in a few hours.”
“Yes. And I can’t play with you like this.”
So that’s it. It’s over. Still, I have to try to convince him.
“But the team…”
“Fuck the team.”
He never talks like that. Not about hockey. Not about something that matters this much.
I stand up. I don’t know why. Maybe because sitting feels like waiting for something to happen, and I’m done waiting for things to happen to me.
He watches me cross the room. His eyes track every movement. When I stop in front of him, close enough to touch, he doesn’t step back.
“You’re angry.”
“I’m furious.”
“You should be.”
“Believe me, I am.”
He doesn’t move. Neither do I. But I can feel the heat coming off him, the tension in every line of his body, the way his breathing has gone shallow.
“How long were you going to let me keep looking for her?” His voice is rough.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You didn’t try.”
“No,” I admit. “I didn’t.”
Something breaks behind his eyes. Not the anger - that’s still there, burning hot and bright. It’s something underneath it that looks like it’s been bleeding for weeks.
“I looked for you,” he says. “Everywhere. I looked for you.”
I hold his gaze. “I know.”
“Do you?” There’s an edge to his voice. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you knew exactly what you were doing. Every single day.”
“I did.” There’s no point pretending otherwise. “I knew it was wrong. I told myself it would end before it mattered.”
