Page 48 of Rules of Play

I didn’t want to name it. I didn’t want to jinx it.

But I was starting to know what it felt like to want someone in your life for longer than just right now.

That weekend, he stayed over. We didn’t have sex—not that night. We just lay there, tangled together, sharing old stories and dumb theories about why professors always used blue pens. He asked me if I remembered my first goal in high school hockey. I told him, then asked what music he listened to when he was sad. We drifted to sleep in the middle of a debate about the best bagel place in Chicago.

And when I woke up to find him still there, still wrapped around me, I smiled like a fucking idiot.

This wasn’t a game anymore. Not to me.

Not when he made me want to stay in bed all day.

Not when he made the world feel like it had slowed down just enough for me to breathe.

The windows began to frost during the night around the same time Shane began writing his thesis. My anxiety skyrocketed for no apparent reason. He’d promised to remove all actual references to my identity and protect me from detection, except that I knew it was me. I knew he was digging through everything I had ever said, through all my wandering glances, my flourishes on the ice, and my behaviors, good or bad.

Even so, I wondered what the final result would be. Had I opened a wound with this project that wouldn’t close? Had I carved my heart out by accident? Had I given more of myself than I had thought?

The answer, of course, came in the worst way possible.

It came in a little blue notebook that Shane hadn’t let me look at. He hadn’t, except that he had left it in my room, sneaking out after sleeping in. And I knew it was wrong, but dammit, it was my life he was writing about. Didn’t I have the right to know?

Later, I wished to gods that lightning had struck me before I opened the blue cover of Shane’s notebook. I wished I hadn’t looked.

SIXTEEN

SHANE

I stoodin the middle of my dorm room, staring at the scattered belongings across my bed. My textbooks, pens, my favorite hoodie, and the glaring absence of my blue notebook. My heartbeat quickened into an uncomfortable staccato rhythm. Panic spiked in my chest, sharp and undeniable. It wasn’t here.

I’d turned my backpack inside out, my entire desk had been meticulously excavated, and I’d even dropped to my knees and searched under the bed twice. It was no use. The sinking sensation in my stomach told me exactly where I’d left it.

Patrick’s dorm.

I could picture it now, resting on his desk, a silent grenade just waiting to explode. A thousand humiliating scenarios raced through my mind. How many times had I opened that notebook and scribbled something down? How many times had I tracked Patrick’s moods, his self-critical remarks, his fleeting insecurities? How many notes had I scrawled without thinking, without censoring?

“Fuck,” I muttered to myself. My palms were clammy and shaking, but I forced myself to draw a deep breath and exhale slowly. I had to face him.

Outside, it was drizzling, the cold November air seeping into my bones despite my coat. My steps were heavy and reluctant as I crossed the campus, each footfall echoing in my ears like a countdown to disaster. Patrick’s dorm loomed ahead, and for a moment, I hesitated. Turning back now would spare me an awful confrontation—but only temporarily. There was no way around it.

I knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, as if Patrick had been waiting on the other side, tension tightly coiled in his frame. My eyes fell instantly to the desk behind him, and my breath caught. There it was, my blue notebook, neatly closed, perfectly still. The sight of it confirmed everything.

“Come in,” Patrick said, his voice flat and cold. There was a sharpness to him tonight, a troubled edge beneath the carefully maintained exterior.

“Hey,” I mumbled, stepping inside and awkwardly hovering near the door. His room felt colder than usual, despite the warm yellow glow from his desk lamp. “Sorry I’m late.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he just stood there, silently watching me, his icy blue eyes unreadable. I felt dissected beneath his gaze, and I shuffled awkwardly, unable to meet his stare directly.

“Is something wrong?” I asked finally, breaking under the heavy silence.

Patrick shook his head slightly, but his expression darkened, the muscles in his jaw visibly tightening. He was never good at controlling his emotions. Only, I’d never played against him on the ice. I’d never had a chance to see something other than his uncontrolled lust and desire. “Wrong? Why would something be wrong?”

I swallowed thickly. “You just seem?—”

“Seem what, Shane?” Patrick interrupted sharply. He turned away, busying himself unnecessarily by moving things around on his desk. His movements were quick and agitated. “I seem upset? Or maybe just insecure?”

I froze. He had definitely read the notebook. My heart hammered painfully against my ribs.

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