Page 60 of Cold Front
I huffed a laugh but stopped short when I took in Asher’s work. Two large canvases dominated the wall, one with bold red and black streaks slashing through it, raw and unfiltered, like emotion frozen in paint. The other was softer, blues and grays blending together like a storm settling into quiet.
“These are intense,” I said after a beat. “What were you thinking about when you painted them?”
Asher rocked back on his heels. “First one? Anger, frustration, chaos. The second? Regret. The way things linger even after the storm passes.”
Something about that second piece twisted in my chest. Regret. I knew the feeling too well. I thought about Niall again; about the way we left things. Was Niall thinking about me right now? Maybe lying in his hotel bed, scrolling through his phone, debating whether to text? Or was he too focused on the game, on leading the team to a win?
I exhaled. “Damn, dude. You got me all in my feelings.”
Asher laughed, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “That’s the power of art, my friend.”
We spent the rest of the evening wandering through the gallery, stopping to check out other students’ work, critiquing things we didn’t fully understand, and making each other laugh with our ridiculous interpretations. By the time I stepped out of the gallery, the night air cool against my skin, I felt lighter. I was glad I came.
The moment I walked into the apartment, the silence wrapped around me. For once, it didn’t press in on me the way it had the past couple of nights. I set the keys down, grabbed a glass of water, and leaned against the counter.
Niall would be back tomorrow. I mentally crossed my fingers that he would come back in a good mood. And maybe we’d finally talk about everything hanging between us.
* * *
Settling onto my bed, I flipped open my textbook, highlighter in hand, determined to knock out at least a few readings before class on Monday. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater. I adjusted the pillow behind my back, scanning the first paragraph.
Two lines in, my focus wavered. My mind drifted back to Niall. By now, he was probably on the ice, maybe in the middle of a shift. Was he locked in, focused, barely thinking about anything but the game? Or did his mind wander, just for a second, the way mine kept drifting to him?
I dragged a hand down my face.
No. Not going there. I’d made a promise to myself. No scouring the internet for game updates, no stalking Niall’s social media. I’d held strong on Thursday. Friday too. But tonight? Tonight, the urge clawed at me.
I grabbed my phone before I could talk myself out of it. One quick check wouldn’t hurt, right? Just to see if Niall had posted anything.
Pulling up Instagram, I searched for Niall’s profile.
Same as always. No updates.
I huffed a quiet laugh. Of course. Niall wasn’t exactly the type to share random thoughts or post locker room selfies.
Still, my fingers hovered over the screen before flicking to Micah’s profile. Micah wasn’t shy about posting. A few taps later, I scrolled through photos of the team practicing, stretching on the ice, and then the game from last night.
Lost by five goals.
A flicker of disappointment curled in my chest. I hated that for them, hated that for Niall. Shaking my head, I moved to Hunter’s page. More of the same—shots from the arena, a photo of the guys joking around in a hallway.
I noticed a couple of notifications at the top of my screen.
New DMs.
My stomach dipped. I clicked the message tab.
Chase.
A whole string of messages, sent over the past few days. I stared at the name in bold, an old tension settling into my shoulders. I could ignore them. Delete them. Pretend I never saw them.
Instead, my thumb moved on its own.
Miss talking to you. Hope you’re doing well.
Remember that time we stayed up all night before finals? Wild. Miss those days.
I don’t understand why you’re still mad at me. Can we just talk?
