Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“You… uh. How was the flight?” she asks.
“Fine,” I say. “Uneventful.”
“Good,” she says, nodding. “That’s… good. I’m sorry about the losses.”
“Yeah, well… that’s the game, right?”
Another pause. I shift my grip on the suitcase handle, suddenly very aware of how stupid I probably look standing there in team sweats at midnight, staring at the woman I walked away from. I’ve not talked to her since my blowup and I have no clue what to say now. But clearly, she’s here to talk and I know it’s only fair to give her that opportunity.
“Want to come up? It’s cold out here.”
She hesitates long enough for me to notice, then nods. “Okay.”
We walk toward the door side by side, close but not touching. The elevator ride up is worse—too quiet, too enclosed, every floor number lighting up.
Daisy clears her throat. “I watched the games. Both of them.”
I’m not surprised. I know she’s become a fan of the sport and the Vipers. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she continues carefully. “You had some really good chances. That one in the second period against Carolina—short side—if the puck didn’t bounce—”
“I didn’t finish,” I cut in. “That’s the only part that matters.”
She looks at me, then nods. “I know.”
“I just didn’t get the job done,” I say, staring straight ahead at the glowing numbers above the doors. “That’s on me. I’ve got to figure out how to get back on track so I can actually help this team win.”
The elevator hums. The doors slide open on my floor.
“So,” I say as we step out, my voice quieter now, more honest. “I know you didn’t just come here to tell me how to finish my scoring chances.”
She gives a small, almost sad smile. “No.”
We walk down the hall, my footsteps heavier than hers, until I unlock the door and step aside to let her in. The apartment feels the same—and completely different—with her standing in it again.
She doesn’t take off her coat but stands there, hands still tucked into her sleeves, eyes moving over the space like she’s grounding herself.
“I’ve been… doing some thinking,” she says.
I drop my bag by the door. “Me too.”
She looks up, surprised. “You have?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But—” I gesture lightly. “You go first.”
She exhales, slow and steady. Seems she’s been rehearsing this in her head and is finally committing to it. “When I first met you,” she says, “I thought working with you would be impossible.”
Everyone who works with me thinks that.
“I thought dating you would be even worse,” she adds. “You were volatile and defensive and so sure you didn’t need anyone. You represented everything I thought I couldn’t tolerate.” She takes a step closer. “And then I realized I was wrong. You weren’t everything I hated. You were everything I was afraid of.”
I don’t want to hear this because I’ve spent a lot of time the last few days putting my walls back in place. I am safe and secure once again. Untouchable, really. Except for her fucking words.
“You’re honest in a way that doesn’t hide behind a veneer,” she says, her eyes locked onto mine. “You feel things deeply and you don’t pretend you don’t. You don’t always handle them well—but you’re real. And somewhere along the way, I realized you’re exactly the kind of person I need.”
She swallows, eyes still fixed on mine.
“And I think,” she says quietly, “that I might be the person you need too.”
Her admission hangs between us, heavy and exposed.
I don’t move or speak.
I stand there, the apartment silent around us, my mind going completely, terrifyingly blank.
I finally nod.
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re right.”
Relief floods her face, immediate and unguarded. Hope flashes there—bright, reckless.
“I knew it,” she says softly. “I knew you’d see it.”
I shake my head. “No. Don’t do that.”
Her smile falters. “Do what?”
“Build a future off one word,” I snap. “You’re hearing what you want to hear.”
“I’m hearing you say you need me.”
I let out a breath through my nose. “I said I do. That doesn’t mean I can.”
She takes a step closer. “Why not?”
Because the truth is ugly. Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. “Because this—” I gesture between us. “It doesn’t end well.”
She frowns. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I say. Too fast. Too certain. “I always do.”
“That’s not fair,” she says. “You don’t get to decide the ending by yourself.”
I laugh once, humorless. “I absolutely do.”
“So what, that’s it? You walk away because things got hard?”
“No,” I bite out. “I walk away because this is how people get hurt.”
“I’m already hurt,” she fires back. “I’m standing here anyway.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” I say. “You shouldn’t be.”
She stares at me like she’s trying to see through a wall. “You don’t get to protect me from myself.”
“I’m not protecting you,” I say. “I’m stopping something before it gets worse.”
Her voice shakes. “You don’t believe that.”