“It’s fine,” I say. “It’s just a bruise.”Now can I please go home finally?
“You’re limping,” Zev points out, voice far gentler than perhaps I deserve after giving Reverie Pack the cold shoulder. And yet there’s a damned good reason for that cold shoulder.
“Yeah, well. I’m not your responsibility,” I snap. “You can go back to your… whatever. Hockey thing. Or was that just a temporary gig for your moral redemption?”
He flinches, and immediately I want to take it back, but it’s already out there, swirling in the summer air with the scent of stale cigarettes and rain. I’m hurt both physically and emotionally, and now it’s all just tumbling out faster than I can handle it.
“I’m just making sure you’re okay,” he says. “That was a hard fall.”
“Like you’d know,” I say, stupidly, because of course he’d know. The man has probably fallen more times on an ice rink than I’ve eaten breakfast.
He shrugs. “Actually, I do. I took a hit last a few years back that ended in surgery. Left me with a cool scar, though.”
I hate that this makes me smile. “Well, congrats on the war wound. Maybe I’ll get one of my own if I’m lucky.” If this bruise ever dies down.
He steps closer, expression unreadable. “You should use only ice until tomorrow night at the earliest. It’ll help the swelling stay down.”
“I know how to treat a fall,” I tell him. “I’ve been falling since I was four. I don’t need you lecture me.”
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw clenching so tight it makes a little sound. “I’m not lecturing. I just—” He stops, starts again. “I’m not trying to piss you off, Grace.”
“Too late,” I say, but my voice is shaky, so it doesn’t land.
He sighs and starts fidgeting with his hands. I recognize the grip his fists take on—all that’s missing is the hockey stick. “You’re not one of my high schoolers. I know that. But I also know it hurts, and you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”
Something breaks in my chest at that. “You made sure I’d have to,” I whisper, almost hoping he won’t hear it.
But he does. He absolutely does. “That’s not what I wanted. Not then, not now.”
Maybe I should just collapse onto the sidewalk and let the night swallow me up. Instead, I stare at the scuffed toe of his sneaker. “Well, it’s what happened. So… congratulations, I guess. You win.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s not possessive or creepy, but itisfar more physical contact than I ever thought I’d have with him again. Still, I don’t shy away from it. “I’m sorry.”
The words are like a hit to the teeth. Nobody ever apologizes in this world and, more importantly, means it. But I think Zev does, or he’d follow it up with some off-key joke or subject change. He doesn’t, so there must be some amount of authenticity to his words.
The amount to which I want to believe this to be true scares even me.
But I can’t. A single moment of kindness won’t erase what his pack did. I shake him off. “Don’t. Please. Just don’t.”
He lets his hand fall. “Okay. But for what it’s worth, I really am sorry. About tonight. And about back then. We were assholes. I was an asshole. I know it doesn’t fix anything, but—” He trails off and stares at a puddle like maybe he’ll see his answer there.
“You can’t just say sorry and expect me to—” My voice cracks. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek.
He backs up a step and holds up his hands up like I’m a scared animal. “I don’t expect anything. You don’t owe me anything, Grace.”
“Damn right I don’t.” But it doesn’t even sound convincing to me.
This conversation has to end.I’m confused, both by his words and my reaction to them.
We stand there for a second. Maybe the awkwardness will save me and vaporize us both.
Zev clears his throat. “Use ice only for 24-48 hours then both,” he repeats. “And if you need anything—anything at all—you can text me. Or don’t. Whatever you want.”
I almost laugh. “You think I still have your number?”
He grins. “You definitely still have my number.”
He’s right. I do. But I’m not about to admit it.
