His smile falters, but he recovers fast. “You’re still angry. That’s fair. But we’ve got something real. Don’t throw it all away. I didn’t always treat you like I should’ve, and I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for the apology.” I round the counter, putting it between us.
He exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re all about leaving a mark for the occasion. I should’ve known you didn’t love me enough when you didn’t get one commemorating us. Why not close our chapter properly?”
“No.” The word lands hard.
Hurt and anger flicker in his eyes. Then the mask slips back into place. “It’s Tully, isn’t it. You’re still not over him.”
Whatever he sees in my face makes him take a step back, and then he nods slowly.
“Got it. Maybe I’m not the villain you’ve made me out to be. Maybe you are.”
That stings. And hits a little too close to where my thoughts have been ever since leaving Tully.
“I never said you were a villain,” I say quietly.
He unlocks the door and pauses with his hand on the knob. “You’re really blowing it, Lola. One day you’re going to wake up and realize you’re all alone, and by that time, no one will want you.”
He walks out. “Bite the Hand” by boygenius kicks in. Fitting. I stand there, breathing hard, until the adrenaline crashes. Then I sink onto the stool behind the counter, head in my hands.
I pull out my phone and text Isla.
Patrick just showed up. Wanted a tattoo. I said no. And he said I’m going to wake up, realize I’m alone, and by then, no one will want me.
Her reply is instant.
Isla
What a fucking asshole. Jerkwad. Dickhead. Twat waffle. Are you okay?
I snort as I stare at the screen. My thumbs hover.
Not yet. But I will be.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
OLD WOUNDS, NEW WOUNDS
TULLY
I rub my eyes. It’s mid-morning, and I’ve been out on the ice for hours already, but the lights still feel too bright. I’m waiting for the whistle. Coach Harlan Jossey—Harl typically, The General when he’s pissed—stands at center ice in his black tracksuit, clipboard in hand, and barks line combos like we’re still figuring out how to skate.
I’m not figuring out shit today. My edges feel dull, and it’s like I’ve forgotten how to aim. I’m half a second late on every play and just generally looking like a fucking idiot out here. I’m the captain. I’m supposed to be the one setting the tone, not the guy who may as well be skating through mud.
“Tully! Head in the game!” Harl’s voice cracks across the ice.
I nod once, sharp. “Yeah, Coach.”
Finn Stark skates up beside me during a line change. “Cap, you good? You look like shit.”
“I appreciate that. I’m fine,” I mutter, tapping my stick on the ice.
Behind us, Knox “The Wall” Bend, our six-foot-seven defenseman, snorts. “Not so sure about that.”
“I’msure…that he’snot.” Silas Kane, our resident shit-stirrer, glides past with a grin.
“Fuck off, Kane,” I say, but there’s no heat in it.
