Page 89 of Breakaway Hearts

I walk right onto the grass, around to the side of the building.

“The grass. That daisy. The moon. That streetlight. The statue,” I name five things I can see.

“The crowd inside. My breathing. The hum of the AC. That girl talking on the phone.”

I hide in the shadows to avoid her.

“The cool of the brick…

I sit on the ground, leaning my back against the building, until my breathing slows, then a little longer, until the tears stop. They’re mostly out of frustration that this is happening and I can’t stop it. That just his name still has an effect on me. That people really think those things of me.

My phone rings with a call from my mom, because I really did promise we would talk later, but I hit ignore because she’d immediately know something’s wrong.

I stand and make my way home, continuing to breathe in my nose, out my mouth, then let myself cry in the shower so I can wash away the evidence before Jay gets home.

We watch a documentary on Pearl Harbor, and I know he knows something is up, but he holds my hand and doesn’t say anything.

Owen texts, but I ignore him as well. I try to focus on the screen and on not breaking down again in front of an audience, even if it is just Jason. He already worries about me enough.

When he goes to the washroom, I check my phone, just to see.

Brooks

Coming to Slapshots?

Or do you want to meet somewhere else?

I can come to you ;)

Everything okay?

I type out an apology, then erase it and try aloof, like I just decided to stay in, no excuse or remorse. But I lied to Tab, and they might talk. I try to reiterate whatever I told her I was going to do, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what I said, only the overwhelming urge to get out of there.

Instead, I leave him on read, feeling like an asshole, even as I remind myself this is only supposed to be sex, and I don’t owe him anything.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Owen

Don’t want anyone else

Me

Coming to Slapshots?

Or do you want to meet somewhere else?

Itexted Madison before I showered, then again when I got out and Tab told me she’d gone home. I didn’t see her in the stands for the last period, but Tab wasn’t there either, so I’d just assumed…I don’t know, but now I’m at Slapshots with the guys, debating how many points I’ll lose if I text her a third time without getting a response.

“Thank you, Astrid, those were amazing,” I tell our waitress when she comes to clear my plate. She smiles like she does every time I use her name.

“I’ll let Andrea know,” she assures me. “You sure you’re not drinking?”

“We play again tomorrow,” I say, though she doesn’t usually try to convince us to drink. I’m actually considering sticking to my one beer limit all season, not just before game days. “Why?”

“Those girls keep trying to send you screaming orgasms and blow jobs,” she explains, nodding to a group of four girls who are looking over at us expectantly.

“Thank you for fielding that,” I tell her.