Page 102 of Cold Feet
"Have you asked him what he wants?" Coco challenged.
"Not in so many words," I admitted. "But – "
"But you assumed," she finished. "Just like you've been assuming all along that what was between you wasn't real."
The observation stung. "I'm being realistic."
Coco laughed, the sound warm but exasperated. "Realistic? Lana, you've been in love with this man for ten years. There's nothing realistic about any of this. It's messy and complicated and painful – but that doesn't mean it's not real."
I opened my mouth to protest, but the words stuck in my throat. Had I? Been in love with him all this time?
My emotions hit me with such force that I had to grip the railing. All those years of keeping my distance, of telling myself I was over him – and here I was, still falling apart at the thought of losing him. Again.
Coco's expression softened. "Talk to him. Listen to him. Give him a chance to tell you whathewants before you decide it's not you."
I turned to face her, not bothering to hide the tears that had gathered in my eyes. "I don't know if I can. What if I open up and he still leaves? Or what if he stays and then resents me later because he turned down the opportunity of a lifetime?"
She wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "I know it's scary. But for what it's worth? That man is crazy about you. And I think you're crazy about him too."
"It's not that simple," I whispered.
"It never is," she agreed. "But sometimes, the messy, hard, complicated stuff? That's the stuff worth fighting for."
She hugged me tightly and I sank into her embrace, letting her comfort me as the walls I'd so carefully constructed around my heart continued to crumble, leaving me more exposed than I'd allowed myself in years.
I just didn't know if I had any fight left in me.
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed with a text from Marcus.
MARCUS: Need statement for Redline delay ASAP. Meet now?
ME: On my way.
"I have to go," I said, grateful for the excuse. "Media stuff."
I pulled away, my professional mask firmly in place like armor. Coco gave me a look that said she knew exactly what I was doing, but she didn't call me out. Instead, she squeezed my arm again.
"Just... don't make any decisions you can't take back, okay?"
TheSports Illustratedphotographers arrived twenty minutes later, setting up along the glass, checking angles and light.
I nodded to them, keeping my expression neutral as I scanned the ice. The players had transitioned to scrimmage, and I couldn't help but notice that Logan kept putting himself between Cam and the other players, as if he was worried about what Cam might do. I'd never seen him play with such reckless aggression before.
"Miss Decker," one of the photographers called, breaking my trance, "where would you like us to set up for the team photo later?"
I forced my attention away from the ice. "The center logo would be best. I'll coordinate with Coach when they're done with drills."
As I spoke, I felt eyes on me. Looking up, I caught Cam watching me from the ice, his helmet under his arm, sweat glistening on his forehead. Our gazes locked for a moment, something unreadable passing across his face before I deliberately turned away, focusing on my tablet and pretending to check something important.
My heart hammered painfully against my ribs. This was ridiculous. I'd spent years maintaining professional distance from Cam. I could certainly do it again now.While simultaneously pretending to be engaged to him. Sure. Not a problem.
"Everything good?" Logan skated over to the boards near me, his captain's jersey standing out against the practice jerseys of the other players. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes, dark and perceptive, showed concern.
"Perfectly fine," I answered briskly, not meeting his gaze. "Looking forward to seeing the SI feature."
Logan glanced over his shoulder to where Cam was now taking shots on goal, his slap shots noticeably harder than usual. One ricocheted off the post with a metal clang that made several people jump. "Uh-huh," he said, unconvinced. "You know, if you two need to talk… "
"We don't," I cut him off, more sharply than I'd intended. I softened my tone. "It's being handled professionally."
