Not going anywhere.
I made the right play, but I should’ve made it sooner.
That’s the problem.
That’s been the problem.
And I realize—
I am completely, catastrophically in trouble.
And the only person who can do anything about it is the last person I should be anywhere near. I pull off my helmet and set it down carefully.
Figure it the fuck out, Nash.
I can’t let anything get in the way of hockey.
I keep fucking up.
Chapter 30
Rhys — Past
It was April, and things between me and Marcus were sappy and I didn't even care. We held hands when nobody was watching. We texted all day and half the night. We spent every free hour at his place or mine, tangled up in each other, losing track of time the way that only happened when you were somewhere you actually wanted to be.
We were in love and it was the best and worst thing that had ever happened to me — best because it was him, worst because I had to pretend every day that it wasn't. Still hidden. Still no end date from him on when that changed.
But I was floating. Genuinely, embarrassingly floating. The kind of happy that made you stupid. The kind that got in your bones before you understood what it was, that rearranged things quietly without asking, that made every ordinary moment feel like it had been lit up from the inside.
I loved him.
Not the easy kind. Not the this is nice, let's see where it goes kind. The kind that made you naive. The kind you didn't see coming until you were already completely inside it and there was no version of you left that existed before it.
I was so naive.
Like I said. Stupid.
The party was at someone's house — one of those off campus places that showed up in a group chat with an address and noother context, thrown by someone none of us probably knew and all of us showed up for anyway. The kind of party that existed specifically to make you forget you had practice in the morning.
It was a good night.
That was the thing I kept coming back to. The part that made it worse. It was completely, genuinely a good night. The team was loose and loud, someone had a good playlist going, the kind that built right without anyone noticing. People were dancing badly and not caring. Cups everywhere. The warm press of too many bodies in a space that was a little too small for all of them.
Marcus kept finding excuses to be near me.
That was how it always was in public — we were careful, always careful, but he was magnetic and I was drawn to him like a piece of metal, and we'd developed this whole language of almost. His hand at the small of my back for one second as he moved past me in the crowd. His mouth near my ear to say something that absolutely could have been said at normal volume. The way he looked at me from across a room, just for a beat. Little moments that didn't mean anything to anyone watching and meant everything to me.
I was happy.
Really, actually, completely happy.
We'd had one too many shots by midnight — Marcus's idea, always his idea — and he was drunk and loose beside me, laughing at something someone said, and every few minutes he'd glance over and find me already looking and smile like he couldn't help it. I couldn't help it either.
He leaned close eventually, mouth near my temple.
"Come upstairs with me."
I was already moving before he finished the sentence.
