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Next to her?
Sebastian smiled, the edges of his beautiful mouth curling up, eyes crinkling, and she was lost in the masculine beauty of his face. He said something else, but it was lost in the noise of the crowd. And oh, she suddenly hated them. Why couldn’t the world be silent when she needed it to be?
The roar grew louder, and she shook her head and touched her ear, indicating she’d missed what he’d said.
Sebastian leaned in and yelled, “Want to go talk somewhere?”
She wanted to fling herself in his arms and bury her face against his neck. But the music changed, and Pisa’s new team skated out, just as Drew sat down on the other side of her. Oh, should she stay or should she go? Would Pisa understand? Or would she even know that Sebastian was next to Chelsea? She hesitated, torn, and then lifted a finger to Sebastian, indicating they should wait, and then pointed at the track. “I have to stay to cheer her on,” she yelled back.
“I’ll wait for you,” he shouted just as the announcer began the roll call of names.
She nodded and forced herself to stare at the track. She knew Pisa would be looking for her and Drew in the audience. And even though the lighting would probably make it impossible for Pisa to see them, it didn’t matter. She couldn’t bail on her friend, the person who always picked her up when she was down. So she waited, and clapped and whistled for each player that was introduced, and all the while her thoughts were in a jumble. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sebastian texting someone on his phone, and a stab of jealousy shot through her.
Was he texting Lisa? Had he come here to tell Chelsea it was over? Why did that hurt so much?
She closed her eyes against the pain. God, why had he come here to tell her in person? He should have just texted her . . . Then again, maybe he had. Damn it, she should have answered them. Then she wouldn’t be sitting here, in agony, waiting for the worst to be flung down on her. For him to twist the knife. This wasn’t going to help her get over him. Not in the slightest.
A hand touched her arm.
Chelsea opened her eyes and saw Sebastian holding his phone out to her. She read the message he’d typed in.
Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been able to look at your beautiful face? I don’t know if you’ve been counting, but it’s been eleven of the longest days of my life. 264 of the most gut-wrenchingly awful hours, and 15,840 of the slowest minutes ever. Not a single one of those minutes passed in which I didn’t think of you. Over and over again.
Her breath caught in her throat. She looked up at the top of the screen to see who he was texting it to.
Safety Date Chelsea.
Oh.
Her vision blurred with tears. The music changed and a new team started to come out on the track, but Chelsea stared at that phone, at the beautiful message there . . . and began to type one back. Still using his phone, she entered in her response.
You shouldn’t be here. We’re done. Our marriage just can’t be, okay?
It hurt her on every level to have to type in the short, hateful words. He’d come after her, and she had to push him away again. She handed the phone back to him, loathing herself for it.
Sebastian didn’t get up and leave, though. He started to type again. A curious sort of anxiety built in her stomach, to where she couldn’t even watch the bout as it began. It was noisy, but not so loud that they couldn’t talk anymore. And yet, she was silent, just watching him type into his phone. Eventually, he handed it back to her and waited.
You really should learn to answer your phone, Elsie.
Elsie? Was that one of his horrible nicknames? A giggle rose in her throat, and she couldn’t resist texting back her own snappy answer.
Maybe I didn’t want to talk, Basty.
He typed, then gave it back.
It could be worse, I suppose. You could have called me Nugget.
A horrible giggle escaped her throat.
She returned: I would never.
He sent back: And that’s why I love you.
When he handed the phone back with that, she started to cry again. Damn it, she’d told herself she wasn’t going to weep and blubber like a baby over a man. She was strong and independent. She was Chesty LaRude, badass derby diva. A survivor.
But right now? She would have given anything to be a snuggler instead of a survivor. To let Sebastian envelop her in his arms and let her know everything was handled. That it was cool. That she was safe, and she was his, and he loved her, and nothing would ever separate them again.
But that was a dream, of course. Reality had shit all over that.
Upset, Chelsea stood up and handed the phone back to him. She had to get away. Fumbling, she pushed her way through the crowd and exited the stands. She knew he was following her, but she didn’t care. She’d retreat to a bathroom, or to a locker room—somewhere, anywhere—that she could get away from him.
