Page 24 of In Your Wake

“I don’t need to follow it to know what’s going on. This is a small town, remember? People like to talk about their number one star.”

“Technically, Spencer’s the number one star,” he says, his face serious, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “And what are they saying?”

“Find out for yourself. Now, get out of my way.”

He crosses his arms, leaning against the door, and I hear it click shut.

I puff out my cheeks. He’s not about to let me go. I know that much. And the sooner this conversation is over, the better. “They’re saying you don’t play as well as you used to. That you’re getting old and you’re being shopped around,” I add with a flourish of my hand.

A hard swallow makes Mitchell’s throat bob, and my eyes linger on his thick neck for far too long. “Those are all lies.”

“Oh, are they?” I press my lips together, nodding. “How’s your hip?”

Everyone has heard about his surgery last year to fix an injury we all watched him sustain during the playoffs. I still remember watching the game with Hunter and Spencer, hearing their horrified gasps when Mitch fell. The ghostly reminder of how it felt seeing him sprawled on the ice, unmoving, still makes my stomach lurch.

Mitchell knocks his hip with his fist. “Never better.”

I almost believe him until I see his left eyebrow twitch twice in quick succession—the same tell he had when he was younger.

“Whatever,” I reply. “Keep lying. That’s what you’re good at.” I reach around him for the doorknob, but he doesn’t move. “Seriously, do you mind? I have things to do.”

He doesn’t budge. I’m about to shove him out of my way when he reaches behind him and opens the door, but only a little. I wedge myself through the narrow opening and pretend not to notice the thrill that rushes through my body when my arm brushes against his chest.

Zayne is quietly studying at the desk, but I feel his buzzing, curious energy, and how he’s dying for gossip after overhearing our argument. It wouldn’t be too hard to overhear—the hotel is as quiet as a church.

He looks up, mouthing, “You okay?” and I nod, feeling Mitch not far behind. I busy myself with cleaning some nearby surfaces.

“Despite what you may believe, Max, I’ve never lied to you.”

There’s no missing the accusation in his words. I spin around and glare at him. “I told you to stop calling me Max.”

He raises both hands. “Sorry. Maxine.”

“There was a time when I believed everything that came out of your mouth.” My gaze falls to his lips, then further down to the floor. I tuck the cleaning supplies to my chest, feeling terribly vulnerable, stricken by the memory of how I used to long for and absorb every single syllable that spilled from those lips.

“I get that we’ve grown apart, but—”

“Grown apart?” I snap. “We haven’t grown apart, Mitch. You left. You cut me out.”

Warm tears build in my eyes, so I hurry toward the back dining room, glad to see Mabel has gone up to bed. In an effort to end Mitch’s incessant chase, I try to slam the door behind me, but he’s quick to stop it with his big mitt of a hand.

“Hang on a second. We need to talk about this.”

“No, we don’t. Goodbye, Mitchell.”

He drops his hand, letting me shut the door, which has zero dramatic impact considering it’s a French door, and he stares at me through the little square window panes. I can tell he’s fighting not to laugh. Even if his lips remain in a straight line, a smile dances in his eyes.

He reopens the door, and I take a step back, letting him. No matter the amount of anger pumping through my veins, no matter the years I’ve stewed in my hate for him, I won’t deny the bond that somehow still lingers between us. It’s too strong, too significant… And I fucking hate it.

Usually, when the inn is vacant, like today, I cherish the solitude and the serenity, the way the house creaks under its own weight and age. But now, I wish guests filled the room to cushion me from Mitch’s overpowering presence.

“Why won’t you just leave?” I ask, overcome with defeat and desperation.

“Here’s the truth,” he begins, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I’m a free agent, but you’re right, no one wants to take me on.” His shy, uncomfortable grin fills me with pity, but I ignore it. “Honestly, it wouldn’t matter if they wanted me, because my hip is too fucked up.”

“You always were a sensitive wimp,” I tease, my voice low, but a strange rush washes over me at the sound of his light laugh.

“Exactly. And now I’m paying for it.”