Page 115 of Burn

My pride won’t let me look. Not with him watching, so it’s another few seconds before I spin around, just catching a glimpse of my black hoodie on her perfect body, walking out of the arena. I drag my hand across my jaw, accepting that despite winning the game, I fucking lost the girl.

I watch until she’s out of view. I watch until I think I’m alone on the ice, and when I finally turn to skate off, I bump directly into my two best friends.

“Well,” I start. “It’s over.”

They both stare at me for a beat before looking at each other.

My skin crawls, and a chill runs through my body. “What? She left.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Ronan says.

At the same time, Cally says, “What the fuck are you waiting for? Chase her!”

Chase her.

Something twists deep in my chest — maybe some sick part of me thinks I deserve her. No. Not deserves. Need. And more than that — I fucking love this girl…

It’s the first time I’ve let myself think those words, and I look back toward the door she just exited through.

Fucking. Chase. Her.

For once, Ilisten.

Gravitational

Adrian

I’m barely off the ice when I realize how much going to the change room to ditch my skates will slow me down. I rush toward the front of the arena, skidding to a stop when I reach the end of the black rubber mats designed to protect the blades on skates.

My eyes drop to my brand-new boots.

Fuck it.

I press forward, pushing through the crowd. People try to stop me, offering congratulatory messages, asking for autographs, and generally getting in my way and slowing me down. The scrape of metal on cement is grating against my nerves. Hockey players are well conditioned not to do exactly what I’m doing. The sound draws more attention, and people stop and point at me as I make my way toward the exit.

I look insane.

The sliding doors part, and I stumble out of the arena and into the cool night air. The temperature has dropped considerably, and my breath fogs in front of me. I scan the parking lot, searching for her, but it’s too busy. There are cars everywhere, lined up to exit onto the street. Sweat trickles down my jaw, and I just need to pick a direction and move, but I can’t.

What if I pick the wrong way?

Instead, I allow myself to drop onto the steps leading out of the arena and try to catch my breath and compose my thoughts. I pull off my gloves and unsnap my helmet, letting itfall to the ground next to me. Every possibility runs through my mind, and I’m somewhere lost in the worst possible outcome, when a woman sits down next to me and holds a phone out.

“Can I get a photo?” she asks excitedly.

She doesn’t allow me to reply, snapping photo after photo until I force myself up and walk down the sidewalk, toward the rear of the building.

I fucking hate photos.

It takes me a few minutes, but I eventually accept she’s not here and head back to the entrance. Inside has mostly cleared out, and I lean into the wall.

She’s gone.

I fucked this up so bad from the very start. If I had been honest, up front, fucking vulnerable even once, maybe she’d still be here. I fucking hate what ifs, but what if I told her how I feel? What if it had made all the difference?

It’ll be what I regret most on my dying day — not telling her.

Players from the other team filter out, whispering to each other and shooting glances my way. I don’t care. They can think or say whatever they want. I push off the wall and slowly walk toward the change room. I should never have promised not to chase her, because now, I can’t. As I walk, I keep my head down, eyes on the floor, listening to my blades connecting with the concrete until I step back onto the rubber mats.

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