“BeforeImattered.”
“That’s not-” I stop. Because maybe it’s a little true, and he deserves better than a defence. “I didn’t think you’d-” I try again. “You’re Zane Blake. You don’t look for girls. Girls find you. I thought after Halloween you’d move on in a week.”
Something crosses his face. Not anger this time.
“Is that what you think of me.”
It’s not a question.
“It’s what I told myself,” I say quietly. “Because it was easier than the alternative.”
“Which was what?”
I look at him. He’s pale and there are shadows under his eyes. He’s standing like he’s bracing for impact. Like he’s been bracing all night.
“That it mattered,” I say. “Thatyoumattered. And that I was going to lose you the second you found out the truth.”
The silence stretches.
“You almost did,” he says.
“I know.”
“I sat in that corridor for twenty minutes trying to decide if I was coming back.”
I hadn’t known that.
“What made you come back?”
He looks at me for a long moment.
“I kept thinking about the Eagles game,” he says finally. “First period. You drew the defender and slipped the puck across and I scored before I even had to think. And I remember skating back to center ice thinking —who is this guy?” A short, humorless laugh. “Turns out I was right to wonder.”
“Zane-”
“I’m not done.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You made us better, Leonora. You mademebetter. And you could have told me. At some point - any point - you could have trusted me with it. That’s the part I can’t quite get past.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I should have. I was a coward.”
“You’re the least cowardly person I’ve ever met.”
“About hockey,” I say. “Not about this. Not about you.” I look at him steadily. “I was terrified of you. Of what you’d do with it. Of what I’d lose.”
He’s watching me. That way he has - like he’s tracking a play, waiting for the right moment.
“And now?” he asks.
“Now you know everything,” I say. “And I’m still here.”
I reach for him. I don’t plan it. My hands just move, finding his face, pulling him down to me. He stands there, his hands still at his sides.
I kiss him.
For a second, nothing. Then his hands come up, not gentle, not tentative, grabbing my waist and slamming me back against the door. The impact drives the breath out of me and he’s there, his mouth on mine, angry and hungry and nothing like the first time.
His teeth catch my lower lip and I gasp. His hands are everywhere - my waist, my hips, my thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise, pulling my leg up around his hip. I feel the evidence of how much he wants this pressing against me through his sweatpants, and something desperate and needy curls low in my stomach.
“You want to know the truth?” I pull his shirt over his head. “You want to know what I was thinking when you passed methe puck? When you smiled at me on the bench? When you stepped in front of that hit for me?”
