Page 114 of Can't Always Get What You Want

“Yeah.” I give him a thumbs-up inside my glove. “All good.”

It’s not.

Because Nova left this morning without a goodbye.

No note. No text. Nonothing.

And I can’t decide if that’s a bad sign—or just her way of protecting herself from whatever this thing is between us.

As hard as it is, I’m trying to give her space.

IswearI am.

Even though every cell in my body is itching to reach for my phone. Even though all I want to do is check if she made it home okay, if she slept at all, if she’s feeling as twisted up inside as I am.

“Luca!” That’s Horowitz, our team captain, skating up beside me and nudging my shoulder with the blade of his stick. He taps it on the side of my helmet. “You alive in there?”

“Barely.”

“You’re skating like your legs are filled with cement. Everything okay?”

“Yup,” I lie, glancing toward the other end of the ice where Gio is on his knees, blocking a slap shot during shooting drills. Our eyes catch for half a second—nothing more—but it still punches the air out of my lungs.

He doesn’t know.He can’t know.

But he’s watching me today for some reason.

Clocking something.

Horowitz follows my gaze and his brows raise inside his helmet. “There a problem?”

“Eh? No.” I shrug. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

Didn’t sleep because I was up most of the night fucking and spooning Montagalo’s sister, who I’m falling in love with but who keeps me her dirty little secret.

The deeper my feelings get, the heavier the secret weighs on my chest.

Pressing down like a stone sitting on me.

I’m used to playing with pressure. Ithriveunder pressure. Late-game minutes, overtime faceoffs, penalty kills with the game on the line—I can handle all that.

It’s beginning to feel messy. There’s too many feelings involved.

When I have nothing more to add, Horowitz skates off, unconvinced but done pushing. I focus on keeping my bladesunder me long enough to finish the next drill without collapsing under the weight of all the shit I’m not saying.

Across the ice, Gio drops into a butterfly, pads flaring wide as he tracks the puck with laser focus. He snatches it clean out of the air with his glove, like it was nothing.Everythingcomes easy to him.

He rises. Stretches. Skates by with a smirk, fist-bumping one of the rookies as he passes.

And I feel sick.

Eventually we have a break, and wouldn’t you know it, he skates over to stand next to me, flipping up the plastic of his mask to let in a rush of cold air and take a swig from a water bottle.

“You look like shit,” he tells me, something casual you say to jerk-around a teammate.

“Thanks,” I mutter, dragging my glove across my mouth, wiping sweat and drool from my mouth guard.

Fucking gross.

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