Page 188 of Puck Me Back to Life

He exhales slowly. “Baby…”

I pull his hips against mine. “I need you.”

“I know.” His thumb brushes my jaw. “But I can't. Not like this.”

“Then fucking leave.”

He searches my face for several long seconds. Then he steps back.

Then he leaves me standing alone in the quiet room.

The door clicks shut behind him. I can't fucking do this. I can't fucking keep living this disgusting, idiotic life.

I rip my jersey over my head and throw it hard enough that it hits the wall before sliding to the floor. Then my elbow pads. Then anything else I can get my hands on. Gear scatters across the conference room carpet. A chair scrapes backward when I kick it.

The sound is ugly.

Satisfying.

Not enough.

Nothing is enough. Because Ash is right. That is the worst part. He is right, and I hate him for it.

I was trying to use him.

Not because I don't want him. God, I want him so badly it terrifies me. I want his hands, his voice, his stupid protective scowl. I want the way he looks at me like I am still something worth holding onto. But I also want the pain, the need, the obsessive desire.

That is the problem.

I don't deserve Angela's kindness.

I don't deserve Dante's loyalty.

I don't deserve Ash looking at me like I am breakable and precious and his.

I am not precious.

I am not his.

I am the ugly thing that survived.

My breath comes too fast as I shove a hand through my sweaty hair. My knuckles sting where the skin split earlier, but the pain barely registers beneath everything else. On the far table, tucked half behind a stack of old paperwork, sits Coach's hidden box of cigarettes.

I know it's his because everyone knows it's his. He thinks he's subtle.

He isn't.

I grab the box before I can think better of it, shove my feet into my shoes, and storm out of the room.

The arena hallways are quieter now. The game is over. The crowd has begun emptying into the cold night. Somewhere beneath me, reporters are gathering, teammates are showering, and Noah Grove is probably getting his broken nose looked at while everyone decides what kind of monster I am this time.

Let them.

I find the stairwell and start climbing. One flight. Then another. Then another. By the time I push through the rooftop door, the city air hits my face cold and sharp enough to make my eyes burn.

Or maybe that part is already me.

The roof is empty.