Page 48 of Not a Perfect Save

Self-loathing engulfs me at the hurt that sparks in his eyes. But the emotion there quickly fades and his features harden. “You say it wasn’t you last night. Newsflash, Miss Dixon. It was. Because guess what? Not everyone fits a mold. You like to put labels on everything, everyone—Ken, Barbie, Boy Scout, Soldier, Victim, Badass. People can be more than just one thing. And that includes you. For fuck’s sake, just be you. Just Ella. That’s it. That’s enough.” Connor takes a deep breath, and his voice softens. “And let me be me, just Connor Hall.“

But I’m too angry now. “Oh, I know that. Mr. Perfect Connor Hall.” I jeer.

“You are so hung up on that word.” A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Perfect? Yeah, perfectly stupid because guess what? I love you!”

“You don’t know me!” bursts from me even as I grapple with his words, unable to make sense of them.

He snorts, derisive now. “Are you kidding? I know you, maybe even better than you know yourself. But you keep hiding. Even from the ones who want the best for you!”

Shock at his earlier declaration subsides and a mix of outrage and hurt fills me instead. “I’m not hiding. It’s called being independent!”

“On your own and away from the people who care about you?”

“On my own and away from thepeople,”I snarl,“who keep telling me what’s good for me and what I should do!”

“No one’s telling you what to do. You’re just using that as an excuse to run away to your Manhattan apartment, saying you want to be independent. Being independent doesn’t mean you can’t accept a little help now and then.” He scoffs. “I think you’re just afraid because you think that if people get to see who you really are, they’ll walk away. So you push them away first.”

I can’t think of anything to say, and the silence between us stretches.

A mask descends over Connor’s face like a shutter. I’ve seen him upset, concerned, angry, lustful, laughing. But never this… blasé, bored, cold character. Now he really does resemble a plastic-faced action figure. “Tell you what, let me save you the trouble of sending me off this time around. I’m leaving.”

Chapter Thirty-One

CONNOR

Blood poundsin my ears and every muscle screams. My arms quiver for a couple more seconds before I grunt and lower the weight-laden bar. The clang reverberates through the space.

Swiping the damp hair off my forehead, I make myself take deep, heaving breaths to regulate my breathing, slow my heart rate. My arms and pecs burn. I’ve been in the weight room forever, but fuck it. What’s an extra set of reps if the rest of me is already hurting? It’s not like I have anywhere better to be.

I squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth, and get ready to go again. I wrap my fingers around the bar, count to three and lift.

But I can’t raise it. My lids pop open. Jake and Logan are stationed on both ends of the bench press station and push down, adding their combined bulk to the bar already holding plates of a hundred and fifty pounds on each side.

“Talk,” Logan commands in full team captain mode.

I scowl. “Fuck off.”

Bracing myself, I try to lift again, my upper body arching and straining with the effort. All that does is make the fuckers force it down harder. I collapse back on the padded headrest and shut my lids in defeat.

“You sucked out there today. Lucky it wasn’t a real game,” Logan starts.

Jake chimes in, “You damned near killed Milo. You realize it was practice, and that he’s on our team,andwe’re not going to win any more games if you’ve crushed him into a tin can, right?” His tone is slow, as if trying to reason with a toddler.

I press my lips tight and say nothing.

Logan tries again. “Well? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine.” I focus on the square ceiling tiles, hoping to hell they get the hint and scram. But their eyes are like ants crawling along my skin.

“Fuck, I knew it,” Jake says in disgust.

“What?” Logan asks.

“He’s got girl problems.” Out of the periphery of my vision, I see Jake back away, hands stretched out in front of him as if I’m infectious.

I snort and slide out from underneath the bar. Heaving myself up, I sit up on the edge of the bench before grabbing a towel and running it over my face. I leave it draped there.

“Ella?” Logan questions.

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