Page 77 of From Wink to Kink

"And what could we be?" I challenge. "The hockey star and the bookworm? It's a cliché, Chuck. It's not real life."

"Stop saying that!" he snaps, his voice rising. "Stop trying to reduce what we have to some... some stereotype. You're more than just a 'bookworm,' Ruby. You're passionate, and funny, and brilliant. And yeah, maybe I am just a hockey player. But when I'm with you, I feel like, I don’t know, I feel like more.

His words hit me like a physical blow. I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. But the voice in my head, the one that's always kept me safe, keeps whispering its doubts.

"What happens when the season starts?" I ask, my voice small. "When you're on the road for weeks at a time? When you're surrounded by groupies and fame and everything that comes with your world? Where do I fit into that?"

He sits back down, his head in his hands. "You fit wherever you want to, Ruby. We’ll figure it out. I'm not saying it'll be easy, but... don't we want to try?"

For a moment, I let myself imagine it. Dates at hole-in-the-wall bookstores. Chuck surprising me at the library with lunch. Cheering him on at games. Lazy Sundays spent reading together. Discovering San Francisco’s nooks and crannies. It's a beautiful picture.

But reality smacks me back down like a relentless bully. The media scrutiny. The long separations. The fundamental differences in our lifestyles and interests.

"I… don’t know, Chuck," I admit. "I just don’t know.”

"I'm I get it. It’s all... it's overwhelming. But that doesn’t sendmerunning."

I look into his eyes, seeing his sincerity. And I realize, with a clarity that takes my breath away, I have a choice to make. I can take a leap of faith, risk my heart for a chance at something extraordinary. Or I can play it safe, stick to what I know, and always wonder what might have been.

In the end, fear wins.

"I'm sorry, Chuck," I say quietly, like the chicken shit that I am. "I just... I don't think I can do this. We're too different. It's... it's better if we end this now, before we get in too deep."

The light in his eyes dims, like something died, and I have to look away, unable to witness the pain I’m causing.

He stands up, grabbing his suitcase. "If that's what you want," he says, his voice flat. "I can’t force you into something you're not ready for. I'll be waiting in the lobby. Give you some space."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As he moves toward the door, he pauses, turning back to me.

"For what it's worth, Ruby," he says, "you're selling yourself short. And us. But I respect your decision.”

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a quiet click that screams finality.

I curl up on the bed, clutching my book to my chest as the tears finally come. This is what I want, isn't it? To end things before they got complicated? To protect myself?

So why does it feel like my heart is cracking wide open?

As I lie there, surrounded by the wreckage of what could have been, I can't help but think of Elizabeth Bennet, turning down Mr. Darcy's first proposal. She thought she was protecting herself too. She thought she knew better.

But unlike Elizabeth, I don't get a second chance. This isn't a novel. There's no guarantee of a happy ending.

This is real life. Sometimes, you have to let go of the fantasy and face reality.

Even if it breaks your heart in the process.

39

RUBY

I tryto shake off my misery, focusing on zipping up my overstuffed suitcase. It's time to go home, back to reality, back to my life of books and quiet evenings and definitely no professional hockey players. As I make my way to the lobby, the morning is bright and humid, the air thick with the scent of tropical flowers and... is that regret?

Chuck and I are checking out when I notice a flash out of the corner of my eye. At first, I think it's just the sun glinting off something, but then I see him tense.

"Seriously?" he mutters, his jaw clenching. Before I can ask what's wrong, he’s striding toward a cluster of palm trees just outside the lobby. "Hey! Yeah, you with the camera. Come on out."

A sheepish-looking man emerges, a professional-grade camera hanging around his neck. "Mr. Newcomb, I'm sorry, I just?—”

"You just thought you'd sneak some photos instead of, I don't know, asking like a normal person?" Chuck's voice is controlled, but I can hear the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

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