Even if it felt like everything.
20
AUSTIN
Fuck. What did I do?
The thought’s been on a loop in my head since last week. Since I touched her face and tipped her head back, getting lost in those ocean-blue eyes. Since I kissed Maisie in the damn library like a complete idiot, and then ran off like an even bigger one.
I’ve spent the last seven days pretending I’m fine. Like I didn’t completely ruin something good. Like I haven’t replayed that kiss a hundred times and regretted every second that came after.
I haven’t texted her. Haven’t seen her.
Not on purpose, anyway.
I skipped tutoring on Friday. Told myself it was because I was slammed with practice now that Coach cleared me to skate again. But that’s bullshit. I’m avoiding her.
Every time I go to type something, I stare at the blinking cursor for ten full seconds, then chuck my phone across the room.
Because I don’t know what to say.
Because I don’t know what it meant.
Because she deserves better thanfuck, I panickedandmy badandplease don’t hate me, you’re the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not completely losing my mind.
Because I don’t want to make things awkward when I don’t even know what the fuck that kisswas.
All I know is I miss her.
I lean forward, scrubbing my hands down my face, trying to shake it off, but all I see is her. Standing in the library. Those bright blue eyes on mine. Lips pink and parted when I cupped her face. The sound she made when I kissed her.
Christ.
Ryan skates up beside me and nudges my shoulder. “You good?” he asks.
I nod, my eyes fixed on the scratched glass behind the boards. “Yeah.”
“Are you sure?” Logan asks, peeling off his gloves. “Because you haven’t smiled once today. It’s not like you, Rhodes.”
“Give him a break,” Nathan says. “He just got cleared to practice again. Probably still adjusting.”
I shoot Nathan a grateful look.
He shrugs in response and leans over to re-tape his stick.
Because yeah. Iamadjusting.
I’m back.
Back on the ice. Back at practice. Cleared to play again once Coach gives the official go-ahead.
After weeks of suspension and tutoring and trying not to crawl out of my skin, I finally feel like myself again.
Or… close to it.
If I could just get her out of my head.
I spend the next fifteen minutes on solo drills, pushing hard, ignoring the burn in my legs and the sweat dripping down into my eyes. Coach is barking orders—he clearly missed yelling atme. But I don’t mind. It feels good to move. To breathe. To chase something.
