Page 67 of Dirty Little Mistake

I caught a glimpse of myself in the gym mirror and quickly looked away, unable to meet my own eyes. The person staring back—flushed, disheveled, eyes rimmed red—was a stranger I couldn't recognize anymore.

My long-standing, naive infatuation with Trystan had not only clouded my judgment but had decimated my common sense—a mistake I vowed never to repeat.

I pounded the bag harder, my labored breathing competing with the hum of the air conditioning unit. My arms felt like spaghetti, and my abs ached as I pushed through the burn, grateful for the solitude of my aunt and uncle's home gym.

This hurt had consumed my life for the last week. I got sucker punched sparing in the ring by a newbie boxer, and I'd fallen doing a jump I'd done since I was seven and nearly ended my chances of performing at the end-of-year showcase. This was my final showcase, and that showcase was eighty percent of my grade.

Through the gym's high, dirty windows, I could see the sun setting, painting the sky in fiery colors that matched my mood.

I had to release my grip on this fantasy—the idea of him.

I have to let this go.

I have to let him go.

My phone buzzed against the scratched metal table, rattling next to a half-empty water bottle and a frayed jump rope. My lip curled into a snarl as I threw another punch, the impact reverberating through the walls.

I didn't need to look to see who it was. I already knew it was Trystan.

It buzzed again. My jaw clenched as I threw all of my strength into the bag, missing and nearly tumbling to the ground, but I managed to wrap my arms around the bag. My breaths came faster and harder as I couldn't fight the pain anymore.

A sob caught in my throat, surprising me. I tried to swallow it back, but it was like trying to stop a dam from breaking with my bare hands. My vision blurred as hot tears spilled over, leaving trails down my cheeks. I pressed my forehead against the coolleather of the punching bag, my shoulders shaking with each silent, heaving breath.

I'd never felt more alone in my life.

For the last week, I'd avoided everyone because I couldn't face any of them. I couldn't talk to Kaia about this. Trystan was her stepbrother, her best friend.

My phone buzzed a third time, and my chest heaved. I pushed off the bag, ripped off my gloves, and stormed to the table, jerking my phone up.

Trystan.

I hit the end call button and opened his contact. My finger hovered over the 'block' button, trembling slightly. I knew I would have to see him again someday. He was my best friend's stepbrother. It was going to happen, but right now, I needed to heal, and I couldn't do that seeing his name every three seconds. With a deep breath, I pressed it. The screen flashed confirmation, and suddenly, it was as if a weight had been lifted from my chest.

It was like an instant feeling of relief, like I'd just taken my power back.

My phone buzzed in my hand, and I half-heartedly smiled.

Owen.

Sighing, I slid right and hit the speakerphone button. "Hey." I'd been avoiding his call for over a week.

"I know you're home," he said into the phone. "Your car is outside. Please come open the front door."

"You're here?"

"You don't hear me banging on the door?"

"No." I shook my head like he could see me. "I'm out back in the gym."

"Stay there," he ordered. "I'm coming back." And he disconnected before I could protest.

I quickly wiped away my tears and patted my face, trying to hide the fact that I'd been crying. I was standing there second guessing my wardrobe choices of black leggings and a black sports bra when the door flew open, and the six-foot hockey player burst through wearing a pair of fitted faded jeans and a team shirt with a matching backward ball cap on.

"Wow, she lives," Owen said, a mix of relief and irritation in his voice. He ran a hand through his hair. "Kaia was about ready to file a missing person's report."

"I'm fine."

His gaze swept over me. "You are obviously not fine because people who are fine don't disappear from their friends and family."

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