Page 86 of Playing the Player

Conor

I technically shouldn’t be driving. The only reason I can get away with it is because my truck’s automatic. One hand on the wheel is all I need. If aunt Dee heard me saying that she’d be giving me a good slap around the head.

I took a trip down to the big supermarket about ten minutes away from my apartment, getting all the ingredients to make Sasha a traditional Canadian dish that my mom always used to make. After everything she’s done for me, I wanted to do something special for her. I wouldn’t say I’m the best chef in the world, but I make a damn good poutine.

I’m only a few streets away from my apartment when my phone rings through the Bluetooth speaker. My whole face lights up when I see Sasha’s name. Is it normal to feel so much when you see that one name flash up on the screen? I should actually ask someone who knows what they’re doing in relationships.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

“Hi.” My smile falters. Her voice is flat. Heavy. Sad.

She’s been different ever since I got back from Canada last week. She’s been distant. Quiet. She insists that nothing is wrong, but I know her too well to believe that.

First she blamed it on her period. Except she doesn’t get periods with the contraception she’s on. Then came the ignored phone calls, the one word replies. When I try to make plans, she mysteriously doesn’t see the text until the next day. She’s avoiding me and I fucking hate it.

“What’s going on, eh?”

“Nothing.” She sighs heavily on the other end of the phone before speaking again. “Can we talk?” That phrase, mixed with the defeated sound of her voice makes my stomach drop.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, so tight that my knuckles turn white. “Sure. What’s up?”

“Not over the phone.” Her voice cracks, the sounding hitting me straight in the chest. “Can you come over later?”

“I can come now.” I just want to get this over with.

A long silence greets my ears.

I know what she’s going to say. It doesn't take a genius to know what’s going on. We’ve been tiptoeing around this since her friend's engagement party was over, finding excuses to keep up this ruse of being together. I knew this day was coming eventually, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Okay.” She whispers down the phone. It sounds like she’s barely holding herself together.

“Okay.”

Twenty minutes later, I pull up outside Sasha’s apartment building. I would have been here sooner, but I needed to put the food away before it rotted in the warm heat of my truck.

I’m spiraling. I have been since we ended the phone call.

What if I don't go in? What if I just drive back to my place and forget all this shit? I could just pretend that nothing happened.

Coward.

Slamming the door of my truck, I force my feet to move inside the building. I feel more nervous now than I ever have before a game and it’s fucking with my head.

Sasha’s apartment is on the second floor so it doesn’t take long to walk up the two flights of stairs. This reminds me of the first real fake date I took her on, only whatever I’m feeling right now is the complete opposite from that night. Every step closer feels heavier than the last.

Like that night, as soon as I knock on the door, it swings open, but Sasha isn’t standing there in a beautiful dress that accents her tanned skin. Her eyes aren’t bright and full of excitement. Her beaming smile and rosy cheeks are gone.

Instead, she’s in sweats, a baggy t-shirt and her eyes are red rimmed from crying. Her smile is nowhere in sight and her skin is ghost white.

“What’s wrong, Angel?” Without thinking, I pull her into me. She freezes. Her body goes completely stiff. She doesn’t want me touching her. I release her, looking down into those sad, brown eyes.

She swallows hard, not meeting my eye. “Come in.” She softly closes the door when I walk through and we both move to the couch. She sits as far away from me as physically possible. That hurts a lot more than it should. “How’s your shoulder?”

“It’s fine, but you would know that if you hadn’t been avoiding me all week.” Sasha flinches. Shit. I didn’t mean to say it like that. Before she can respond, I ask the only question that matters. “Why am I here?”

Silence. God, she won’t even look at me. “Max and Jessica broke up.” She says, biting on her lower lip, driving me mad.

“How do you know that?”