Page 115 of Cross Check Hearts

“It’s not that,” I interrupt, my throat going tight. “It’s… complicated. Can we talk about it another time?”

“Okay,” he says slowly, although I can hear reluctance in his tone.

“I’d better go. I’m just about to drive home,” I tell him, although I leave out where I’m driving home from. “I’ll see you at the game tonight.”

“Right. See you then,” my dad says, sounding a bit distant, like he’s still trying to make sense of what I just told him. “Drive safe.”

“I will. Love you.”

I end the call, but instead of turning the key in the ignition, I sit staring down at my phone. The weight of all these secrets is crushing, and some part of me is desperate to call him back and come clean.

My thumb hovers over my father’s contact, trembling slightly.

It eats me up inside to hide the truth about where I’m at and what exactly happened with Declan from my father, especially because I could really use his comfort right now. But I don’t want any of my drama affecting him at the game tonight, so I sigh and drop my phone back in my purse before I get any other bright ideas.

I start the car and drive home in silence. I need the time to decompress and mentally brace myself a bit before I head to the arena. There’s no way I won’t cross paths with Declan tonight, and I don’t know what I’m going to do if he tries to talk to me.

Maybe seeing him will give me some closure.

Or maybe it will just rip open the wound I’ve been trying desperately to let heal.

I take a long, hot bath at home to help with my head, then drive to the arena a few hours later. I’m feeling a little more settled, although as I take my seat and watch the players fan out onto the ice for their warmup, my heart aches with pain at the sight of Declan.

God, he’s beautiful.The fluid way he moves on the ice, powerful and graceful all at once. His jersey stretches across his broad shoulders as he accelerates, that familiar number making my heart skip.

I’m not sure if he knew I was going to be here tonight, but he finds me in the crowd anyway, as if some invisible thread still connects us across the distance. The look of anguish that flashes across his face when his eyes meet mine makes me feel sick to my stomach.

He looks away as quickly as he found me, and pain lances through my heart.

It’s written all over his face—I hurt him. Deeply. The knowledge thatIcaused that pain, even if it was to spare him what could be a much worse pain later, makes it hard to breathe.

I don’t blame him for being hurt after the way I dumped him without explanation, but seeing how wrecked he looks only makes me feel worse about it.

Maybe coming tonight really was a bad idea.

It’s hard not to think that as the Aces finish their warmup and the game gets underway, but the intensity of the match makes sitting with it a little bit easier.

And my father must not have been kidding about the rest of the league gunning for the Aces, because the Falcons are playing a particularly aggressive game tonight. They’ve always been a tough, physical team, and tonight they’re taking it to a whole new level. Every time the Aces try to make a play, the Falcons are there with bone-crushing checks and aggressive stick work.

I find myself following Declan’s jersey number instinctively, my breath catching whenever he takes a hit or makes a spectacular play.

The puck passes back and forth in possession so often and so quickly that it would be impossible to keep up with if it weren’t for the commentators and the roar of the crowd every time it happens.

But even so, it’s all a bit too much for me right now. The lights, the noise, the stress—my nervous system is already frayed after everything I’ve been through today, and by the time the third period rolls around, I’m starting to feel like I’m actually going to be sick.

My head pounds in rhythm with the crowd’s cheers. Each flash of the arena lights sends a spike of pain through my skull.

But I don’t want to disappear this close to the end of the game, and I don’t want my dad asking any questions when he notices I’m gone, so I try to stick it out.

I press my fingers to my temples, trying to massage away the building pressure. The nausea rises in waves, making me swallow hard against it.

But my head is pounding, and despite massaging my temples to try to get things back into bearable territory, I panic when I glance back up at the ice and see those familiar halos dancing across it.

The same halos Dr. Singh had asked about. The same visual disturbance that sent me to the ER in the first place.

No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Not now.

I’ve got to get out of here.

---