Page 69 of The Dating Coach
"You don't destroy things," Mia said fiercely. "You saved me. You protected me. You stood up to our parents for me."
"And look what it cost," I gestured broadly. "Everyone who gets close to me pays the price."
"The price of being loved?" Karen demanded. "Of being chosen? God, Gemma, you're so wrapped up in martyrdom you can't see what's right in front of you."
"I see clearly," I said. "That's the problem."
They argued with me for an hour, but I'd made my choice. San Diego by summer. Three thousand miles between us. Enough distance for him to rebuild without my shadow.
That night, I lay in bed scrolling through the UC San Diego website, trying to feel excited about palm trees and research opportunities. Instead, I felt hollow, carved out.
My phone buzzed. A text from Liam:I'm not taking Prague. I'm not taking anything that doesn't include you. Ball's in your court, Spears. Choose us or choose fear. But choose.
I turned off my phone without responding. Choose fear, apparently. Every time.
Chapter 30: Liam
I channeled heartbreak into hockey the only way I knew how – with brutal, punishing efficiency.
Every practice became a war against my own body. First on the ice, last off. Extra drills until my legs shook. Shots until my arms screamed. Coach finally had to physically remove me from the rink when I nearly collapsed from exhaustion.
"This isn't healthy," Henry said for the hundredth time, watching me tape my stick in the locker room. My hands were steady despite the exhaustion – muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed.
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"You're playing the best hockey of your career while looking like death," Frank observed. "That's not fine. That's a breakdown with good stats."
They weren't wrong. In the two weeks since Gemma and I had fought, I'd scored fifteen points in five games. Every scout who'd backed away was suddenly interested again. My father had left three voicemails about my "renewed focus" and "return to form."
The irony tasted like copper in my mouth. Gemma had walked away so I could focus on hockey, and now hockey felt like performing chest compressions on a corpse.
"Mia's coming to the game tonight," Henry said carefully. "Thought you should know."
My hands stilled on the tape. "Is she..."
"Gemma's not coming," he said gently. "Hasn't left the library in days, according to Karen. Living on coffee and determination to avoid anywhere you might be."
"Great," I muttered. "We're both handling this like mature adults."
"You're handling it like someone got their heart ripped out," Frank corrected. "Which, you know, is accurate."
The game that night was against Maine, a must-win for playoff positioning. I played with mechanical precision – faceoffs won, assists made, defensive responsibilities handled. But there was no joy in it, no fire. Just motion without meaning.
We won 4-1. I had three assists. The scouts were thrilled.
I felt nothing.
In the handshake line, Maine's captain – a guy I'd played with in juniors – pulled me close. "Heard about the girl, Delacroix. Sorry, man. But hey, you're playing unreal without the distraction."
I wanted to punch him. Instead, I smiled and moved on, performing the role of focused athlete everyone wanted to see.
Back in the locker room, Mia waited with Henry and Frank. She looked tired, stressed in ways that made my chest ache. This was supposed to be her safe space, but now it was complicated by the ghost of what her sister and I had broken.
"Good game," she said quietly.
"Thanks." I sat heavily, too exhausted for pretense. "How is she?"
"Drowning herself in work. Not sleeping. Not eating unless Karen forces her." Mia's voice turned fierce. "She'smiserable, you're miserable, and I'm sick of watching you both suffer for no reason."
