Page 64 of Faking It with my Hockey Crush

“Where are you going?” Thomas frowns as I pass him.

“I need to think,” I hiss as I carry on.

Five minutes later, I’m trudging across the gardens and heading to the lake. Weirdly, I was only out here an hour ago, but my thoughts were far different than they are now. I yank my skates on and glide out onto the ice. Sitting around and moping won’t help. I need to be doing something. Besides, I’m angry. I need to get rid of some of this rage before it explodes out of me. And with that, I push off from the edge and set off into rounds of speed skating.

Sometime later, I float around the lake in a daze, my mind flooded with memories of the time Emma and I have spent together. The weekend away with Madame Amour, the drives into the city, the interviews, the dinners, the laughter and the fun we’ve had. The memories are like bombs going off in my brain, each one crashing into me as they explode.

There has never been a time before Emma when I’ve felt so happy. That sounds like an exaggeration, but it’s true. I meant every word I said last night when I told her she’s made me a better man. Now, I regret not coming home sooner. All the time I’ve wasted playing the bad boy, hooking up with girls that were nothing more than arm ornaments. This whole time, I could have had someone like Emma by my side.

And now, thanks to that vindictive little psycho, I might just have lost the best thing that has ever happened to me. Or could ever happen to me.

It’s getting dark when I finally make it back into the house. I’m freezing, but I don’t feel it. I’m aware of it, but I’m too numb to care. In fact, I can’t care about anything right now. Nothing matters. Only Emma.

Making my way into the living room, I pass Beatrice in the hallway.

“Mr. Steele?” she says tentatively.

“I’m sorry about earlier, Beatrice,” I sigh.

She shakes her head. “Please. Don’t worry about it. How about some dinner?”

“Not hungry,” I reply as I carry on walking.

In the living room, I close the door and head to the drink cabinet. Taking a short glass and a decanter, I drop into the leather chair beside the roaring fire. With a glass of amber liquid in one hand and my phone in the other, I sit there for ages, wondering if I should call her.

There are no texts or messages from her. Clearly, she’s still mad at me. But I have to fight for her. I can’t let this go.

Finding Emma’s number in my contacts, I press the green button. With my phone to my ear, I hear the call go straight to voicemail. I sit listening to her soft voice, telling me that she can’t take my call right now, but if I leave a message, she’ll get right back to me. Funnily enough, I doubt that’s going to happen, so I hang up. But then I call again. Not because I think she’ll magically have turned her phone on in those few seconds. I just want to hear her voice.

I don’t know how many times I call. The time seems to slip by as her soothing tones dance in my mind. Staring into the fire, I eventually stop and put the phone on the table beside me. The flames lick upwards, trying to escape up the chimney, only to fall again like something is dragging them back.

The fire mesmerizes me, and I feel myself slipping into some numbed-out, trance-like state, where time stands still, the world stops spinning, and nothing even matters anymore. And maybe it doesn’t.

The door opening behind me pulls me out of it, though I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting here. I turn my head and see Thomas standing in the doorway. He’s wearing a coat, and I frown.

“You heading out? I ask, hardly caring one way or another.

“Just back, actually.”

“Oh. Where did you go?”

Thomas holds my gaze for a long second, and then he steps to the side. My eyes pop out of my head when I see Emma standing there. Clearly, she was behind my brother’s broad frame, and now, I nearly fall over the chair trying to scramble to stand.

“I’m going to leave you two alone,” Thomas says, turning towards the door.

A second later, the door closes, and it’s just me and Emma. She’s standing across the room, looking a little timid, and I’m gazing at her, thinking I might be hallucinating.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she says,

If I’m hallucinating, it’s pretty darned real, and so, maybe I’m not. Maybe Emma Carter, the love of my life, the woman I’ve been worrying I’ve lost, is actually standing in the living room of the mansion, looking at me like she’s waiting for me to say something.

24

Emma

“Ryan—”

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