“No,” I lied, barely audible. “You just seem…off.”
Patrick’s anger simmered dangerously close to the surface now, and when he faced me again, it was clear he wasn’t going to let it go. His eyes glittered with barely restrained fury, but there was something else there, too—raw, unguarded sadness.
“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” he snapped suddenly, so unexpectedly that I nearly stumbled backward. “You think I’m worthless, incompetent, insecure, and good for absolutely nothing except hockey.”
“What?” I stammered, blindsided by his intensity. “I never…”
“You didn’t have to say it out loud!” Patrick said.
“Oh, come on,” I snapped back, my voice rising defensively. “Now you’re twisting this into something it isn’t. You’re just looking for things to be mad about!”
“You’ve been doing that all along,” Patrick said, taking a step closer. “You’re always scheduling around your time, your availability, and never mine. I’m supposed to drop everything when you suddenly decide you need more data?”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” I said, heat rushing into my cheeks. “I’ve been nothing but accommodating. I’m the one skipping classes, rearranging my meetings, bending backward so I don’t inconvenience your hockey practice.”
Patrick scoffed bitterly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, Shane, because we all know I’m so precious and special. God forbid you interrupt my workouts—but hey, feel free to barge into my life every other moment of the day, right?”
“I don’t barge in,” I snapped, frustration and defensiveness warring in my voice. “You agreed to this schedule. You signed off on everything.”
“Oh, did I?” Patrick threw his hands up, incredulous. “When did I agree to you shadowing my every move? When did I say you could invade every goddamn second of my life, writing shit about me whenever you feel like it? Even when we’re not supposed to be working. When we are together, Shane.”
My jaw clenched tight. “If you had a problem, maybe you should’ve said something sooner instead of acting like everything’s fine and then exploding on me out of nowhere.”
“Maybe you should’ve noticed,” Patrick shot back, eyes blazing with frustration. “If you’re such a brilliant fucking observer, how come you missed that?”
“Patrick, this is ridiculous!” I finally exclaimed, exasperation flooding through me. “We’re fighting over nothing.”
“No,” he growled, voice rough with hurt. “We’re fighting because you wrote down everything you think is wrong with me, like I’m some fucking lab rat for you to dissect.”
My heart plunged. I stared helplessly, unable to find words. He was right, of course, but the truth felt brutal, too exposed. “You’re taking it out of context,” I managed weakly, voice shaking.
He laughed bitterly. “Oh, really? So when you wrote down ‘worthless,’ you meant that kindly? Or was ‘insecure’ a compliment? I trusted you.”
I pressed my lips together, suddenly angry, too, because this was unfair. “You wanna talk about trust? You read my notes.”
He took a huge step forward, growing taller and broader as he neared me. “You read my heartbeat, my thoughts, everything!”
The air grew heavier between us, an electric charge crackling. Patrick was silent. And so was I, stunned for the first time.
His eyes narrowed, lips parting as though to argue, but nothing came out.
“I did,” I admitted. “I read your heartbeat. I didn’t believe my eyes. I didn’t even believe the watch measuring your pulse until the end. I didn’t believe you’d ever be attracted to me.”
His lips quivered, and then anger buried whatever emotion had almost surfaced. “You used me. And now I know what you think of me.”
“Everything in there, Patrick—it’s just quotes. You said these things to me.” I said, my voice pleading more than flinging the truth at him vindictively.
Disbelief flashed across his face. He shook his head slowly. “You’re lying.”
Anger and hurt made my fingers clumsy as I snatched up the notebook, flipping through pages until I found the entry I remembered vividly. “October thirteenth, five in the afternoon,” I said, my voice tight, strained. “You were getting ready for your workout, and we talked about your diet. You told me that at sixteen, you ate raw oats because you didn’t realize they needed cooking. You laughed about it. And then you said, ‘I’m really no good for anything other than hockey.’” I slapped the notebook closed, the sound harsh and abrupt. “I wrote down only what I needed. It was insightful.”
His expression crumbled slightly, just enough to show vulnerability. Yet, pride surged forward, shielding him quickly. “Fine. But the rest…you chose the worst parts, Shane. That notebook makes me look like a self-hating disaster.”
I exhaled sharply, flipping the notebook open again. “Here. October twenty-ninth. ‘Incompetent.’ Just that one word, underlined. You called yourself that after a bad game. I noted it down because I was studying how harshly you talk to yourself. Not because I agree with you.”
He faltered, the anger fading from his face, replaced by embarrassment. His teeth dug into his lower lip, eyes flickering away. I waited, needing an apology I knew he wouldn’t give.
“You’re not going to say sorry, are you?” I asked quietly.
