Page 26 of Switching Skates
He wants to flirt and talk and pretend that this would ever work. As if he’s not going to play pro hockey after this year, all the way on the other side of the country. I’m not setting myself up just to get hurt all over again. I don’t think I could bear it a second time.
Protecting myself with an emotional wall, I straighten my spine and open the board. “Thanks for checking on me. But next time, please don’t. And stop toying with me, Mason. It’s exhausting. This isn’t going to work—ever.” I gesture back and forth between us. “You’re going pro in months, moving awayagain. I’m not repeating history just for the fun of it.”
He opens his mouth to say something, yearning and longing in his gaze, but I stop him with my hand in the space between us.
“Justdon’t, okay? Not tonight. I’m exhausted. I’m going home, and that’s that.” I turn and skate away from him, leaving him at center ice. “Good night, Mason.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I step off the ice and quickly change shoes, getting out of the building as fast as possible.
Locked-up emotions I thought I had moved on from resurface, and the pain in my chest tears me apart all over again.
My eyes burn as I unlock my Jeep and hop inside, not hesitating to peel out of the parking lot.
“Dammit,” I mutter to myself as tears trail down my cheeks. “I’m over him. I’m over him. I don’t care about him anymore.”
After tonight, I’m done—officially done—with Mason Holt.
I turn up the radio and scream-sing the song that comes on, pouring all of my frustration and built-up tension into my performance on the short drive home. Thankfully, Maeve is home alone when I arrive, and she greets me when I come in the front door.
“Hey, I was wondering what took you so long.” She notices the redness I’m sure is all over my face and my teary eyes. “Oh my God. What’s wrong?”
I sigh obnoxiously loud and stomp into the living room, dropping to the couch beside her. “Mason.”
Her jaw clenches, and she throws her arms around me, pulling me into a tight side hug. “I’ll kill him. I swear to God, I’ll kill him.”
I chuckle at her immediate shift to murder. “It’s okay. I think we came to an understanding to keep a bit of distance from one another.”
She studies me carefully. “And that’s what you want?”
“Yeah.” I kick my shoes off and hear them fall to the floor. “That’s what I want.”
Right?
Oh my God, I’m exhausted, and my muscles are unusually sore.
Jesus. I feel like I got hit by a train in my sleep.
I usually have a decently hard time waking up, snoozing my alarms and procrastinating until the very last second. But this morning is harder than most.
Rolling over in bed, I force my eyes open, a small task that feels heavy and impossible as I search for my phone.
What the hell?
I blink the sleepiness out of my eyes, wondering if I’m still dreaming.
Rubbing my eyes, I open them again and stare at my nightstand. Oh my God, I think I’m hallucinating. Or I somehow teleported somewhere in the middle of the night. Because that dark-stained wooden dresser I’m staring at is not mine.
What happened last night? Did I end up in someone else’s bed somehow? Did someone drug me? Why the hell don’t I remember anything else?
The last thing I remember is falling asleep on the couch, next to Maeve, watching a movie. And then? That’s it. I should’ve woken up on the couch.
Nervously, I stretch my arm behind me, hesitantly patting the comforter to feel for someone else in the bed. But I exhale at the relief that it’s only me here.
Sitting up slowly, I take in the room, one that I haveneverbeen in.
Lackluster decorations and a navy-blue bed set. A desk cluttered with cologne, lotion, textbooks, and water bottles. It’s definitely a guy’s room.
Something in the corner catches my eye, and I turn, spotting two hockey sticks leaning against the wall, next to the wooden dresser and an overflowing basket of laundry.
