“I have to go.”
I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, or the way he’s standing there like he’s going to try to stop me. It makes me throw my arm out between us, the motion like the slice of a blade, severing something I don’t want to kill.
“Shiloh—”
“Don’t.” He freezes. “Don’t, Donovan. Don’t fuck this up, please. I can’t… I…” I swallow hard, sharp little shards of glass cutting me open from the inside out. “I’ll talk to you later.”
And I turn before he can catch up, shutting the door to his apartment quietly behind me and wondering if the one thing that finally made me feel a little human is ruined because the monster inside me refuses to give up its hold on my heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DONOVAN
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Air whooshes in and out of my lungs in slow, controlled breaths as I sit on the padded floor of the gym in the basement of the arena. I’ve been here for the last ten minutes, breathing into the silence around me. Somewhere behind the door my teammates are getting ready for the game, throwing on gear in the locker room and playing sewerball in the hallway. Following their own routine as I follow mine.
Finding my zen.
Searching for focus.
I sit in splits, legs extended out to my sides to give my hips the stretch they need. There’s a slight pull to the muscles and tendons beneath my skin, but it’s not a bad feeling.
It’s good.
I’m good.
I inhale another long, slow breath, forcing it in through my nose and out of my mouth, narrowing my focus on the game ahead. I’ve spent time working on hand-eye coordination with a tennis ball against the concrete hallway walls in the basement of this arena. In a few minutes, I need to get up and start getting dressed. I have to tape my sticks and take a moment to sit in silence with my good-luck skate lace in my hand as I do before every single game.
I have to follow this carefully crafted routine, even if it feels like everything is sharpened at the edges today.
I take another deep breath as I consider Shiloh and the words he spat at me earlier. I don’t have time or space for them in my head with puck drop so close, but he never seems to care much about that. Since we met, he’s barged into every single nook and cranny in my life and tonight it’s no different, even though I can’t get stuck thinking about what happened earlier.
I can’t be distracted, but the more I tell myself that, the more I think about him.
I sent him a text when I arrived at the arena, to let him know that a ticket with his name on it is at will call if he wants to come. There’s a pass there too, so he can sneak down to see me after the game, or grab some snacks in the guest lounge if he wants to.
I hope he wants to.
He didn’t reply, but I know he saw it.
Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m compelled to grab my phone and check, just in case he’s responded. I turn the screen on and type in my passcode, but though there are a handful of notifications, there’s nothing from Shiloh. I grumble under my breath as I swipe away email notifications from the smoothie shop I frequent and an offer for free vitamins from what’s likely some scam company. I do have a new message on Instagram, though, and that catches my attention even though I hardly use my social media anymore. Krystal is always on us to postfrequently, but I think the last thing I sent was a snapshot of my skates at the beginning of the year. I click the notification to find a message that reads:
Nice helmet. What do I win if I guess who the artist is?
All roads lead to Shiloh.
I’m tempted to respond with “nothing,” but instead I close the notification with a sigh and put my phone back down. It’s time to find my chill again, and I push all thoughts of gray eyes and green curls to the back of my mind where they can stay until after the game.
Inhale.
