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It’s what I practiced saying with George. What sounded right when we came up with it. But now—God, nothing feels right about it at all.
Vaughn’s jaw flexes twice, but his eyes stay locked with mine. All the things he lets me see shuttered away and out of reach. I don’t want to cry in front of him, but already I can feel the part of me holding the tears at bay beginning to crumble.
“Say something,” I plead.
He brushes a few strands of hair from my face, tucking them gently behind my ear. “It’s okay.” The back of one knuckle softly runs the line of my jaw, making me ache to lean closer. “You don’t date hockey players and I don’t date period, right?”
The words are from that first night in Vancouver. Issued between the breathless, desperate kisses that started all this. And now he’s bringing them back. Not cruelly. Without animosity.
I nod, and that brutal eye contact slips away, leaving me cold without it.
Pushing to his feet, Vaughn slides his hands into his pockets and starts toward the street. “Take care, Natalie.”
* * *
Vaughn
I plugin my headphones and blast the volume before walking into the locker room the next afternoon.
Mydon’t fuck with mevibe must be strong today because everyone keeps their distance as I gear up for practice.
Good. Leave me alone.
It’s what I need. What I want.
Let me get through the next months so I can get the fuck out of this city, this state… And never see her again.
Don’t think about it.
Never hear her laugh.
Don’t.
Never taste her kiss.
The flat of my hand meets the back of my stall and I drag a ragged breath in through my nose.
Calm. The fuck. Down.
It was only a matter of time before it ended. I knew it from the start.
Except, this thing I thought I was prepared for feels like my chest has been ripped open and all the vital organs removed… but somehow I’m still fucking walking around, still expected to function like a living human being. Still expected to perform. To deliver.
Hell, at least that part I can do.
Easing my hand off the wall, I turn to go to practice—and find Baxter six feet away, arms crossed over his chest, an all-too-smug smirk on his face as he watches me. A beat passes and then finally I give him a jut of my chin because I don’t have anything else.
His brows buckle, and I head for the ice.
It’s the one place where I can shut out the noise. Where there’s a single job to do and no room for anything else.
It’s what I need.
So I push it, carving up the ice, demanding more drills until Coach forces me to go home.
O’Brian blows up my phone for a while, and I get a message from Garcia, but I don’t want to talk. I just want to get through the hours until the next game so I can shut it off again.
Eat.
