Page 110 of Blindside Me
“That’s all you have to say?” I press, fighting to keep my voice level. “After three hours of radio silence?”
He glances at his knuckles and back at me. Guilt or maybe fear flashes in his eyes. Then he masks it with that frustrating control slipping back into place.
He jerks his head toward the door. “Outside.”
Up close, I can see the exhaustion etched into his face and the slight tremor in his hands. Whatever happened after he was taken off the ice has hollowed him out.
I nod once and follow, my legs moving even though my chest feels like it’s caving in.
He holds the door open this time. It’s a small thing. But I notice.
I follow him out into the darkness, not knowing what to expect. The words build in my throat, the pressure threatening to choke me if I don’t release them soon. Words like: Don’t you dare walk away. Don’t you dare be like everyone else. Don’t you dare make me care and then disappear.
But I swallow them down because Drew’s expression as he turns to face me in the harsh parking lot lights tells me he’s already gone. He’s already decided. And nothing I say might change that.
He shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets.
I cross my arms, feeling the late October weather settle in my bones. “Three hours, Drew. You couldn’t send one text?”
He shifts his weight, eyes flicking away from mine to study the ground. “I didn’t…”
“Didn’t what?” I press when he doesn’t continue. “Didn’t think I’d care? Didn’t think I’d notice?”
“I didn’t know what to say.” His voice is rough, like it hurts to speak.
I huff a bitter laugh despite wanting to hug away his pain. “An ‘I’m okay’ would’ve worked. Or ‘Talk later.’ Anything.”
“It wasn’t that simple.”
“It was exactly that simple.” My voice rises despite my efforts to keep it level.
He flinches, just barely.
“I waited outside the arena like a damn idiot. Then I found out you’re here?”
“You think I’m celebrating?”
I study him. The rigid posture, the haunted eyes, the way he holds himself like something might shatter if he moves wrong. No, he’s not celebrating. He’s drowning.
“What happened after they took you off the ice?”
He drags a hand down his face and stares past me toward the street. “Suspended until the NCAA decides.”
The sting of it flashes across his face, making my stomach twist. Suspended indefinitely for a guy whose identity is wrapped up in hockey is a nightmare. Despite my anger, despite the hurt still raw and pulsing, I ache for him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it.
His eyes widen before he recomposes himself. “You’re sorry? I’m the one who snapped.”
“Then why shut me out?” I take a step closer. He backs up. “Why ignore my texts?”
He suddenly finds his feet interesting. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like the guy who can’t control himself. The guy who wanted to hurt him and didn’t care who was watching.”
The words knock something loose in my chest. This isn’t about me at all. It’s about the fucking demons riding him since long before we met.
