Page 29 of What If I Hate You
And now all I see is her face when my mouth said the words and it’s fucking crushing me.
I march down the hallway back into the bar in search of her but there’s no sign. Not at our table, not at the bar, not even on the second floor where the pool tables are.
Shit.
Where did she go?
The guys are still posted up at the big booth, faces lit by the glow of the neon sign over the bar. There’s a fresh pitcher of domestic on the table, and the mood, at first glance, looks unchanged, raucous and loud, like nothing’s happened at all. But I know my team by now, and every seasoned player knows when the energy in the room takes a hit. Even the rookies can spot blood in the water.
Harrison glances up at me, one brow arched, beer hovering halfway to his mouth. “She gone?” he asks, like he was expecting this exact outcome.
I shrug, roll my jaw, and try to keep my hands from shaking. “No idea.”
“She texted me and said she wasn’t feeling good,” Marlee states, her eyes tracking me with a hawk’s predatory interest. ”Said she was walking back to the hotel.” Her arms fold tight. “So, what the hell did you do, Bear?”
“Nothing. We just…we had an argument. That’s all.”
Yeah right.
That’s all.
I mean I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to slay her with my words or turn her around and fuck her up against the goddamn sink but it’s fine. We’re fine. Everything is fine.
Griffin gives me a look that’s two parts pity and one part pure you’re-a-goddamn-idiot. “You good?” he asks, voice low so the girls at the other end of the booth won’t hear. “You don’t look good, Bear.”
“Yeah,” I snap, but it comes out too sharp, then softer, “I’m fine.” I gulp down my beer draining half of it, wishing it would do something to the raw, live wire feeling buzzing between my ribs.
It doesn’t.
Not even close.
For a minute nobody says much, which is a miracle with this crew. August, for all his shit-stirring, is studying me like he’s waiting to see if I’m going to tip the table or just implode. Maybe there’s a pool going. Wouldn’t put it past them. Griffin, for once, minds his own business, but even he’s got a wary eye on me. Like he can sense my every emotion and is just waiting for me to snap.
Then Ledger, quietly running point as always, picks up the slack. “Want to talk about it?” he asks, voice as neutral as a Swiss bank.
“No,” I say, but it’s a lie so obvious Oliver snorts into his drink.
“Maybe let him finish his beer before you make him relive the carnage,” Bodhi murmurs, but he’s not the kind to let a story die, either.
I reset my jaw and look at my hands. “I said something I shouldn’t have,” I admit, and my voice cuts through the table before I can rein it in.
Ledger nods, like this is the answer he expected, but waits. So does everyone else. Harrison cocks his head, like I’m a particularly tricky crossword clue.
I catch Marlee’s glare, razor sharp even over her half-empty sangria. “Whatever it was, you should apologize,” she says, simple as Sunday school.
Except I never went to Sunday school.
I take a long drag of my beer, considering Marlee’s suggestion. I know she’s right. I also know that if I try to talk to Blakely now, while I’m still burning hot with embarrassment and regret, I’ll just make it worse. I sit in the goddamn booth and let the churn of guilt eat at me until it’s just another scar with her fingertips on it. The voices blur together, the bar crowd fading in and out around me, and I wonder how the fuck anyone ever fixes a thing they’re born to ruin. It’s not like there’s a protocol for this, no goddamn goalie drill that teaches you how to handle the aftermath of your own stupidity. You just eat it and pray you don’t make it worse next time.
Around midnight, the team starts peeling off in pairs, walking back to the hotel, or heading down the block for late-night tacos. Only Harrison and I remain, two wolves too stubborn to call it. He props his feet on a nearby stool and stares at me over a glass of something brown and expensive.
“You’re not as big of a dumbass as you pretend, Bear,” he says, eyes calculating, voice flat. “So, what gives with the Rivers thing? You both clearly want to kill each other, but you keep gravitating back. Something is there between the two of you, so what is it?”
I resist the urge to check my phone, to see if maybe she’s texted.
Like that would ever happen.
Does she even have my number?
