Page 65 of Faking It with my Hockey Crush

“Emma—”

We both speak at the same time, and then I close my mouth, waiting for Ryan to continue. But he doesn’t, and there’s another awkward moment of silence between us.

“You start,” I say eventually.

He looks nervous and a little edgy, with a side of “not sure what to do next” thrown in for good measure. In fact, he’s standing there looking terrified that I might spin on my heels and run from the room at any second. Lifting a hand, he takes tentative steps, like he’s approaching a scared animal.

“I was going to ask you to come in and sit down,” he says, gesturing to the other chair beside the fire. “You want a drink?”

I nod as I make my way across the room. “Sure. Thanks.”

He waits until I’ve passed him before he makes a move, as though he’s scared of getting too close to me in case he spooks me or something.

“I see you’ve started without me,” I say, looking at the decanter on the table beside him.

It’s partly to lighten the dense tension between us, but it’s partly to try and put him at ease. I didn’t make this trip just to turn around and walk out again. I’m here to talk.

He looks at the decanter and then looks embarrassed. I’m waiting for him to give me some lame excuse. When backed into a corner, Ryan usually makes light of things. But when he returns with a glass, he looks me dead in the eye and takes a deep breath in.

“Yes. I was drowning my sorrows.”

He gazes at me with that same intensity he always has, and I feel a lump rise in my throat. I don’t reply, scared he’ll hear my voice crack as my eyes glisten, and instead, I try to swallow my pain.

“I’m so sorry, Emma,” he whispers, not taking his eyes off mine as a tear escapes down my cheek. “You cannot know how sorry I am.”

I nod. “I can,” I croak. “Because I’m sorry, too.”

He hands me the glass and wraps his fingers around mine when I take hold of it. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Course I have,” I blurt, swiping my face with my free hand. Ryan reaches and brushes my cheek, tenderly wiping the next tear that falls. “I was an idiot. I should have given you a chance to explain yourself.”

He shrugs, and his eyes soften as they never leave mine. “It’s hard to know if a leopard can truly change its spots, right?” he says tenderly.

But I shake my head. “No. Not with you. I knew last night, and I knew this morning, before I saw that picture. It’s just…” But I trail off because I’m not really sure how to explain myself.

“It’s just the wound hasn’t yet had time to heal,” he says. “It’s been ten years, but let’s be honest, the pain has been there for a long time.”

He is making sense. It probably isn’t how I would put it, but I know what he’s trying to say. But even at that, it doesn’t excuse how I reacted this morning. Instead of trusting him when he told me it wasn’t real, I decided to believe something that, deep down, I knew couldn’t be true.

“I didn’t trust you,” I say.

Ryan shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s that. You were scared; that’s all. I mean, this is new to both of us, right? Megan had already rattled our cage, showing up when she did. She knew what she was doing. In fact, it’s clear to me now that she planned this all along.”

I nod. “Yes. I figured that, too. The woman needs serious therapy.”

Ryan bursts into laughter. “That’s for darn sure.”

And then we’re both smiling.

With his eyebrows hitched, he says, “Are you going to sit with me, or are you still deciding whether to run or not?”

I sidestep to the chair and lower myself down, the heat of the fire already licking through my denim. When he’s lowered into his chair, we both sit there for a few moments, neither of us speaking. Our eyes never leave each other’s gaze, though, like we don’t need words to communicate.

“Thomas came to see me and explained everything,” I say eventually. “It didn’t even occur to me that the photograph could be fake. Even after you and Sharon told me it was. And then, when Thomas was talking, I remembered the picture Phil took of us. Do you remember?”

Ryan nods. “Sure, I do. The one he took in the office. The one that, when he finished, looked like we were walking down a street in the city.”

I nod. “That one. Thomas is convinced thatshe”—I hiss the word—“isn’t that talented, and that she likely got someone to fix it up for her.”

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