Page 113 of Rinkmates

“Lia…what happened back there?” I ask gently, hoping she will finally open up.

Her body tenses once more, her breaths becoming short and shallow as she seems to search for the right words.

“I’m sorry, Riley,” she says with a sigh. “There are just…some things I can’t tell.”

My heart sinks at her words. “Why not?”

Liora pulls away from my embrace, wrapping her arms around herself. Tears still glisten in her eyes, and I feel a pang of anger toward whoever or whatever is causing her pain like this.

“Because…because I’m afraid,” she admits. “Afraid of what people will think. Afraid of what your father might alreadyknow.” A wave of emotion washes over me as I realize the gravity of her words. When he asked about her coach earlier, it had seemed like an innocent question—but now, it feels like a loaded one. “I-I can’t talk about it,” Liora chokes out before falling into silence once again.

I can see the fear and vulnerability in her eyes as she looks up at me for reassurance. I want to protect her, to keep her safe from whatever is causing her pain. But how can I do that when I have no idea what’s going on? I’m torn between wanting to shield her from everything and needing to step back to let her cope with it at her own pace. I don’t want to do the wrong thing, but then it just spills out of me. “Did your coach hurt you?” I brush back some baby hairs that have fallen onto her forehead.

Within seconds, her face is a whirlwind of emotions.

My mind races.

“I know what you’re assuming,” she finally speaks. “But it wasn’t a sexual assault.”

The conflicting thoughts in my head only intensify as I try to process her words.

Something lightens in my chest but the knot in my throat just won’t loosen up. I want to shake her, scream at her to just tell me, to let me help. But I don’t. Instead, I say as calm as I can. “I understand that you don’t want the media to know. But I thought we trust each other now, since we are…we are—” Fuck. Something gets stuck in my throat.

Her eyes flicker, a glimmer of hope sparking to life. “Yes, what are we, Riley?” she asks, her voice soft, almost fragile, like she’s holding her breath, waiting for me to say the words she’s been wanting to hear. But before I can even process what I feel, what I really want, the stupidest word slips out of my mouth. “Friends?”

The hope in her eyes dims instantly, like I just snuffed out a candle.

Her shoulders drop a fraction, and I can see it—she was waiting for more, hoping for more. And I let her down. I let myself down.

My stomach sinks.

And she freezes.

Fuckfriendsis the wrong word. We’re more than friends.

Why did I have to ruin it? Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut?

“Friends,” she says, with a forced smile and a nod. “That’s what we are. Friends who fake dated.”

We both know it’s not true.

We’ve been pretending for so long now. I’m so fucking sick of pretending. But we’ve never talked about what we want. What do we want? What do I want? Fuck.

She wipes away another tear and gets up to leave.

My heart races as I watch her go, leaving tiny footprints in the sand, her red shoes in her hand.

Seconds turn to minutes.

And a sudden gust of chilly wind snaps me out of my daze, hitting my cheek like a slap that jolts me back to reality.

No.

Wait.

I won’t ever let her go.

I’ve done stupid things in my past, but I will never make this mistake.

---