Page 25 of Revolve
Dylan’s gaze drops to where my hand clutches the fabric of my half-zip. His fingers hover near the zipper, asking for permission. I nod. Slowly, he slides it down, then helps me pull the sweater off, revealing the low-cut tank top beneath.
“Thanks.” It comes out breathless.
His lips quirk. “Didn’t think that word existed in your vocabulary.”
I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”
This time, his laugh booms, nearly making me smile. “There she is.”
When I go to smack his chest, he catches my wrist, his grip gentle. Dylan’s expression shifts, the teasing warmth replaced by something heavier.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asks, his voice low.
There’s something so vulnerable about the question that it falls heavily on my chest. Heavily enough that I can’t swallow the ball that forms in my throat. I drop my gaze because it’s only a matter of time before I see that look in his eyes. Pity.
He’s never looked at me like that, and maybe that’s why, no matter how much I’ve trained myself to shrink, I can never to do thatwith him. I give in to his words every time. So now, when he’s probably looking at me like everyone else, I know I won’t be able to handle it.
I try to stop it, but the roughness escapes me. “I’m fine. You didn’t have to do that.”
Three beats of silence pass, long and awkward. I still don’t look at him.
“Are you serious? You looked like you were in pain.”
I still am. “I’m not your responsibility, Dylan.”
“I never said you were.” His voice is low, edged with something I can’t quite place. Then voices echoing through the arena pull our attention, and Dylan steps back. “I should go.”
He disappears down the hall. I sink back to the floor, feeling like absolute crap. And this time, it’s not because of the panic attack.
ELEVEN
DYLAN
SUMMER PRESTON MIGHTbe the grim reaper disguised as a sports psychology student.
“It’s not that bad. Quit whining,” Summer scolds.
Theitshe’s referring to is the six-mile Metacomet hike she dragged me on this uncharacteristically cold September morning at the crack of dawn. Ever since she found out about the suspension, she’s been hell-bent on getting me to do an activity every day. Something to do with never becoming complacent with my current situation. It’s been pretty damn hard not to be, since the only thing I’ve ever been talented at slipped through my fingers because of one bad decision. It’s exhausting trying to juggle my new lifestyle and having to pay attention in class.
Yesterday, Summer tricked me into Aiden’s truck claiming there was an emergency. But when she parked outside Dalton Aquatic Center, I refused to go inside. She had to drag me through the automatic glass doors and into a water aerobics class she signed us up for. She must think we’re fucking geriatric. The older women were highly appreciative of my attendance but despite my past, the Stifler’s mom—orgrandma—thing isn’t really my style. Since then, I’ve beenavoiding Summer, but she barged in my room this morning with her eyes covered, then guilt-tripped me into this hike. I still think she’s getting me back for not telling her I’m Turkish.
“I think you’re a sadist,” I say.
“I’m flattered,” Summer says, almost twisting her ankle on a jagged rock before I steady her. “Now, stop complaining. I’ll treat you to Lola’s after this.”
“You can’t bribe me with food, Sunny. I’m not Kian,” I retort.
“I know you’re not. Kian doesn’t complain when he hikes with me.”
I laugh. “That’s because the guy is incapable of saying no.”
“It has nothing to do with his savior complex. He enjoys the outdoors.”
The only positive to this hike is that I’m not hungover this time. But even the box-breathing exercises and the stretches we do aren’t enough to distract me from the empty pit.
If I’m not playing, then what the hell am I doing? The campus playboy and party animal badge of “honor” lost its luster pretty quickly. Now that I don’t have hockey, it’s like a curtain has been lifted. I’m not Dylan the left-winger who guarantees a good time, I’m the guy they pity.
What do you do when you lose the one thing you’ve always loved?
