Page 71 of The Has-Been

I touch her cheek, her skin beneath my fingertips still so cold.

I trace the line of her cheekbone and jaw. “Don’t you apologize, not for one second, Aubrey.”

Her eyes find mine, still sparkling with tears, their brilliance a painting of sadness and beauty, a breathtaking combination for a man who appreciates design in any shape.

And that is what she is to me—an art piece, a creation worthy of admiration in any form.

I lean in, ignoring the voice that screams at me not to, and press a kiss to her forehead.

“Aubrey,” I choke as she nods subtly. “Don’t you ever be sorry. Don’t you ever let yourself feel less for simply feeling—” I choke, dropping my fingers away from her.

We sit in silence for several minutes until I know that the water is turning cold. I retrieve a towel and wrap it around her shoulders. “The water is cold, and I, I—” I rub the fabric over her shoulders, trying to warm her, “I think I should go.”

But she freezes, wrapping the cloth around her as she stands. The sound of water sloshing fills my ears as she uses my shoulder to balance herself and step over the ledge. My muscles tense as she runs her fingers through my hair. So quick, I have to blink to make sure I haven’t fallen asleep. That this isn’t all a dream.

It feels so right…

And yet so wrong.

I fight the urge to jump back, to force myself away from her and her clearly confused feelings.

But then she admits, “Stay—please don’t leave me alone.”

I let out a deep breath, my shoulders sagging. My body wants me to stay.

But my mind knows it’s a very, very bad idea.

“Please,” she whispers softly.

And I nod because no one can tell a Vaughn no. Especially not me.

Aubrey Vaughn could tell me to go to hell, and I would. And for a brief second, I think she already has, because staying here, all night, with her and our lingering touches and wandering eyes—I’m certain that’s some specially designed hell just for me.

But I’ll be damned, because I can’t—I won’t leave her like this.

CHAPTER 14

HEAVEN OR HELL?

AUBREY

“Liam,” I whisper as I violently try to shake him awake.

He doesn’t move. For some reason, though he’s asleep right before me, I’ve never felt so alone.

My eyes can’t help but glance over at the bottle of pills thrown about my nightstand.

It’s been six months since he broke his leg, just months before he was supposed to sign with the Detroit Cardinals. We are a few weeks away from the start of our junior year, and even though his leg is fully healed, he still occasionally gets into the pills. He’s pushing himself too hard, convinced he can somehow come back from this.

He can’t. And from his ongoing bad attitude, I’m starting to think that realization is finally settling in.

Like last night, when he spent thirty minutes yelling at me because I suggested he go with Reid for a skate.

It’s not like he’s unable to skate again—the doctors never said he wouldn’t—just that he’d never skate on that level again. Never be able to play professionally.

But I know he lost a lot more than just his ability to play in the NHL—he lost his will to live, to accept any other future than the one he was so determined to have.

I blink as I stare at his form.