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“A kiss. One kiss. That’s all we had. Past tense,” she said.
“Liv…”
“No, Dillon,” she held up her hand. “I’m dead serious. This isn’t happening. You and I are going to pretend we never met. Do you understand? Never met.”
I reached for her again, feeling like I was sinking. “Don’t do this. This can be so good.”
She looked at me like I was a worm. A worm she wanted to step on. “You lied to me. You tricked me. None of this is good. Don’t follow me or so help me God I’ll scream so loud I wake up the entire town.”
“Liv! Come on. Let’s talk this out...”
She shook her head and jogged away from me. Then ran. Then she was full out sprinting.
I could have caught her. If I started running after her, I could have caught her. Except what the hell would that accomplish?
Instead, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called Bobby’s cell.
“Uh, didn’t I just leave you two?” he answered after a single ring.
“I pissed her off,” I told him. “And she took off. I don’t want her running at night alone. Double back and head east on Beach Street. Then give her a ride home, yeah?”
I didn’t have to say anymore. “A’yup.”
The call disconnected and I stood there in the street for a minute. Not ready to walk away. Not willing to accept that was the last time I was going to see Liv. Talk to Liv.
Kiss Liv.
No. No way. This wasn’t the end. I wouldn’t let it be. I just had to figure out how to win her back.
Then I remembered I didn’t even know her last name.
“Fuck!” I shouted into a Christmas movie set in August.
5
Three Weeks Later
Bruisers Training Facility
Portland, Maine
Dillon
The atmosphere in the team conference room was electric. Charged. Legs were bouncing. Shit was talking. There were handshakes and hugs. There were pencils and notebooks set out in front of each of our chairs, like it was the first day of school.
The first day of school with a bunch of driven, competitive, sometimes asshole, grown men. Everyone was excited. Everyone was five pounds overweight.
Everyone was ready to get the season started.
Except our brand-new, star forward, Balak Novek, was nowhere to be found.
“Fucking phenoms,” Ron Morgan muttered next to me.
Ron was a senior player, in his late thirties, plagued by an ankle injury. Bounced around from team to team for the past few years, he was a specialized defensive player. But it was clear from the moment he stepped onto the ice with us at the end of last year, that he wasn’t looking to make friends or bond with the team.
He was here to collect his paycheck and that was it.
I didn’t like it. You didn’t build a team that made it to the finals with role players.
