Page 101 of Playing for Keeps

“But if I stay without choosing myself first, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering who I might have been.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “I’ve spent my whole life uprooting myself – new cities, new faces, pretending it’s all part of my method. Maybe it is. But I need to know if I can stand still for once, and do it because I chose to.”

She swallowed, her voice wobbling. “So I need some time. I hate even saying it, but don’t call me. If you call, I’ll pick up. Every time. And then I’ll never give myself the chance to figure it out for myself.”

I almost tried to argue, to say that was impossible, but the words died in my throat. She was pleading with me to let her go.

“Are you coming back?” I asked, hating the way my voice betrayed me.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I need time to think about everything. Me. Us.”

Nope. That was it. That was the exact moment my heart broke.

I wanted to tell her not to do this, to beg her to stay, to promise her we could work it out together, but I could tell that she had already decided. And when Emma made up her stubborn mind, nothing in the world could change it.

So instead, I asked the only thing I could think of. “Can I kiss you?”

It sounded so small. Pathetic, really. I waited, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. I was terrified she’d say no – and almost more scared she’d say yes, because I knew what a yes meant now.

She didn’t move at first. Then she did – the smallest nod, the kind that ends things.

I pulled her close and kissed her hard. It was the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn’t, hungry and desperate. I kissed her like I could anchor her here with me, like if I gave her everything I had, maybe she’d remember and never let go. Her hands gripped my shirt, her breath breaking against my mouth. For a few stolen seconds, it felt like I could keep her.

When I finally let go, I pressed my forehead to hers. The quiet hit like a crash. I tried to memorize the smell of her shampoo, the warmth of her skin – anything to hold onto her a little longer. “Don’t forget about me,” I whispered.

I didn’t wait for her to answer. I couldn’t. I walked out before she could see me fall apart, leaving my whole damn heart behind with her.

50

EMMA

London smelt like wet pavement, the way it always did in the spring. I had been back for almost two weeks and I had already fallen into the rhythm of hopping off the Tube, weaving through crowds of umbrellas, and going into shops to shake the drizzle out of my hair. It felt familiar. Easy. Safe.

This morning I ducked into my favourite bookshop on Piccadilly. The air smelt of paper and ink, of spines and stories pressed close together. I ran my fingers over the covers without really needing to buy anything. Just touching them made me feel grounded, like London was reminding me it had always been enough before. The bookseller recognised me and asked how Canada had been. I smiled – probably too brightly – and said it had been good, very good.

Then I walked into the National Gallery. I took the same route I had taken dozens of times before, past people craning their necks to see the famous paintings they had only ever read about, and past schoolchildren being rounded up by enthusiastic teachers. I went straight to the room I always do, sat on the bench, and let myself look at the paintings that have held me up for years. The colours and brushstrokes still calmed me. But this time, I was restless, like I was meant to be somewhere else. With someone else.

I stayed longer than I meant to, watching people drift past. A little boy stopped in front of a painting of a hockey match on a frozen pond – tucked away on the far wall, small and easy to miss. His mum bent to whisper something and he grinned, pretending to skate on the marble floor. I don’t know why it undid me. Maybe because, for a second, I could see Max – the tilt of his shoulders, that intense look in his eyes. I’d spent weeks telling myself leaving was brave, that distance would bring clarity, but all it did was make the world quieter, duller.

I missed him. Max. The way the cold used to burn my lungs when I waited for him outside the rink, my fingers numb even through my gloves, watching him tap the glass twice before coming out, letting me know he’d seen me. I tried not to think about him, but he always found his way back into my thoughts. I missed the way he always made me laugh when I was too serious, the steady hand at the small of my back, and the stupid chocolate biscuits he always “accidentally” bought too many of, just because he knew I liked them. London was supposed to be enough. It normally was. But now… it just wasn’t.

I walked out into the cold, past taxis crowded around Trafalgar Square. The traffic lights smeared red on the wet pavement, and for a moment I considered heading home, packing my bags and going back. But I wasn’t ready to admit that – not even to myself. So I kept walking.

When I got to my parents’ house, the weight of it was heavy in my chest. Mum was in the kitchen, with her sleeves rolled up and fussing over something on the stove.

Dad looked up from his newspaper, his reading glasses sliding down his nose. “You look thoughtful,” he said, as he carefully folded the paper.

“I am,” I admitted, taking off my coat. “I’ve been walking all day trying to figure it out. And I still don’t know.”

Mum turned around with a spoon in her hand. “Figure what out?”

I sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, tired all of a sudden. “Where I’m supposed to be. I thought that coming back here would feel like coming home. And in some ways, it does. But…” I hesitated, the words knotting up in my throat. “But I think I might have left home behind when I left Max.”

Mum put the spoon down and looked at me properly. Dad didn’t say anything, but the silence was warm and patient, like it always was when he was waiting for me to find the right words.

The confession slipped out before I could stop it. “I’m afraid that if I go back, I’ll be giving up everything I’ve built here. But if I don’t…” I stopped talking because I didn’t trust myself to finish.

Dad cleared his throat and took off his glasses. “Did you know,” he said, his voice suddenly bright and deliberate, “that hockey players can reach speeds of more than twenty miles an hour on the ice? That’s faster than most people ever run.”