Page 125 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
"Well," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "That went well."
I'm across the room before I consciously decide to move, slamming him against the wall, forearm pressed to his throat.
"You did this on purpose," I growl. "You came here knowing exactly what would happen."
He doesn't fight back, just looks at me with those cold eyes. "Someone had to tell her the truth."
"The truth? You twisted everything to make it sound like—"
"Like what, Cole? Like we used to fuck the same girls together? Because that's exactly what we did."
"Not with her. I never wanted that with her."
"But I did." His smile is vicious. "And you know what? I think she's considering it. I saw it in her eyes when she looked at me."
I press harder against his throat, and he chokes slightly. "You're out of your fucking mind!"
"Am I? Or are you just scared that maybe, deep down, she's curious? That maybe the good girl wants to be a little bad?"
I release him with a shove and step back before I do something I'll regret. "Get out of my house."
"Gladly." He adjusts his shirt, still smirking. "But just so you know, when she comes to me—and she will—I'm not going to turn her away."
"She's not coming to you."
"We'll see." He heads for the door, then pauses. "You know what your problem is, Cole? You think just because you love her, she's yours forever. But people change. Feelings change. And maybe what she needs isn't your safe, boring relationship. Maybe she needs something wild. Something dangerous."
"Get the fuck out."
He leaves, and I'm alone with my pounding headache and racing heart. I sink onto the couch, head in my hands, trying to breathe through the panic constricting my chest.
Rex pads over and puts his head on my knee, whining softly.
"I fucked up, buddy," I tell him. "I fucked up so bad."
My phone buzzes. For a second, my heart leaps, thinking it's Harper. But it's just a message from Coach in the team group chat about practice tomorrow.
Practice. Hockey. The team. All of it feels completely meaningless right now.
I look around at the apartment—at the blanket Harper used this morning still draped over the couch, at her coffee mug still sitting on the counter, at Rex's bowl that she filled before her shower.
She's everywhere in this place. And now she's gone. Again.
I don't know how many times I can watch her walk away before one of these times becomes permanent.
My phone is in my hand before I realize what I'm doing. I pull up her contact, thumb hovering over the call button.
But she asked for space. And after everything I've put her through, the least I can do is give her what she asked for.
I set the phone down and lean back against the couch, closing my eyes.
The apartment is too quiet. Too empty. Too full of the ghost of her.
And I have no idea how to fix this.
47
Breaking Point
