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I can’t finish my words before her hands are on my chest again and I’m stumbling another few steps back to soften the blow. She rears back and lunges at me again and this time I catch her wrists and hold her back, her arms locked and muscles flexed in their effort to break through.
“What did I do? Where is this coming from?” I’m mentally cataloging our morning. We even had a decent night. I don’t think I’ve ever uttered a bad word about her to the media, even the school papers and news sites. I’m at a loss.
“I need to go home. Take me home. Right now, please. Take me home.” Her voice is a low growl, but I sense the emotion threatening to break out from inside.
“I was about to eat breakfast, but?—”
“Please,” she croaks, and the tiniest crack hits her voice, her eyes beading up with the tears. She blinks them away quickly and runs her palms over her face as she sniffles. “Please, Cutter. I need to get out of here.”
Her arms slack, so I relax my hold on her wrists, but I don’t let go of her. There’s something incredibly broken about her right now, and I’m half afraid she’ll fall over if I let go.
“Okay. Let’s go,” I say, dropping one wrist but sliding my other hand to grip hers. She indulges and clasps back for a few steps before jerking her hand away and burying them under her crossed arms while we march toward my Jeep.
“Do you need me to grab your stuff?” I ask when I realize she doesn’t have it.
“I’ll get it later. I just can’t be here now,” she mutters.
I open the passenger door for her and she closes it before I can for her. It’s somehow a relief that her independent streak seems intact. I rush around to the driver’s side and toss my school bag in the back as I hop in.
“I don’t have class for two hours, so if you want, I can bring you back then. Or later. Whenever you want.”
“Thanks,” she says in a near whisper.
“Of course.” I crank the Jeep and thank the battery gods when it starts right away. Whatever beef exists between Laney and me can wait until later. Seeing her like this sits heavy in my gut.
We ride back to the house in silence, and I pull up the driveway knowing we’re the only people here. I saw Matt at the rink setting up for some interviews for our team socials. It looked like an all-day thing.
I kill the engine and open my door, but stop when I realize that Laney is zoned out staring straight ahead, the same puffy eyes treading on the edge of betraying her tough exterior.
“You wanna talk about it?” I brace myself because I’m not sure whether to expect more shoving or a complete breakdown.
Laney turns her head slowly, her eyes blinking as she focuses on me.
“They’re starting Chelsea. And they gave her my fucking number.”
I pull the door back closed and fold my arms over the steering wheel. I shake my head as I process the feelings that come naturally to me as a competitive athlete. This is Laney’s entire world—her identity. And in a blip—poof! Gone. Because of dumb luck.
“Damn, Laney. I’m so sorry.” I lay my forehead on my hands and roll it to the side until my eyes meet her gaze.
She shrugs, but I know she doesn’t mean “oh well.” I swear I know everything she’s feeling without her putting a single word to it.
“We can sit right here as long as you want. And then, when you’re ready, we’ll go back to campus. And after class, I’m gonna let you hit some shit real hard. How’s that?”
She blinks slowly, and for a few quiet seconds I don’t think she’s going to respond. But then her lip lifts ever so slightly on one side.
“That sounds . . .nice.”
7/
laney
I hatethat Cutter saw me that way. I hate that I’m letting everything with Chelsea and my injury bother me so much. I have never been the person to protest that something isn’t fair. I know that’s life’s cruelest rule. The only thing a person can truly control is how hard they work. My mom spews a lot of crazy bits of life advice, and most I don’t really take to heart. But that one piece has always been embedded in my drive. It gives me power. I can work hard. I have control over that. But I’vebeenworkingso hard.And that’s what’s breaking me up so much. I guess it’s that I’ve never been in a spot where working my ass off wasn’t enough to get me what I want.
Yeah, yeah. Life isn’t fair.
My marketing for non-profits class wrapped up early, so I’m making my way to the hockey arena for what Cutter promised me would be a “transformational experience.” I’m naturally skeptical of him, but hitting things hard really has an appeal right now.
I find the side door propped open with what looks like one of Cutter’s shoes. I pick it up as I open the door wide and take it inside the arena with me. The lights are dim, only a third of therink lit up. And I’m wishing like hell I was wearing more than a long-sleeved T-shirt and training shorts.
