Page 30 of Don't Let Me Go (Don't Let Me 2)

Pulling out my cell, I send a quick message to Colt.

Me: Going home. Headache. We’ll talk later.

His response is almost instant.

Colt: Way to piss her off, then ditch her. She’s gonna kill you.

Without bothering to reply, I slide into my car, toss my phone onto the passenger seat, and rest my head against the headrest, defeated.

Colt’s right. She’s gonna be the death of me. But what he doesn’t know is she’s been killing me for years.

Long before tonight.

Why would my future be any different?

10

THEO

“Dude, what the hell?” Burrows demands as he stalks into the weight room. It’s late morning, and most of the team hasn’t arrived at the rink yet. But I got here early and have been kicking my own ass in here for the past twenty minutes.

When the angry words echo through the otherwise silent gym, I set the weights back into their place and sit up on the bench press, stretching my already tired muscles over my head as I watch Burrows’ approach.

Apparently, the last twelve hours wasn’t enough time to calm him down after the shitstorm at SeaBird.

Twisting my baseball hat backwards, I stare at Burrows with a bored expression. “There a problem, man?”

“Why’d you have Blake and me thrown out of SeaBird?”

I laugh, dryly. “I didn’t get you thrown out––”

“I invited Blake. You really think I was just gonna let her catch a ride home with a stranger or something?”

My annoyance spikes. I don’t know if it’s because I feel guilty that it wasn’t me who drove her home, or if it’s because he was a nice enough guy to make sure she got home safely, or if it’s because he got some extra time with her when I didn’t. None of it even matters. I don’t want time with her. What I want is distance. But the girl won’t go away.

“You in on the bet, Burrows?” I blurt out, my voice sharp and unyielding as I voice the question that’s been on a constant loop since I saw them at SeaBird last night.

He pulls back, and his eyebrows pinch. “Excuse me?”

“I wanna know. Are you in on the bet with Austin, Tukani, and everyone else?”

“I liked Blake before––”

“So you are,” I surmise, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. If anything, it only frustrates me more.

At least the bastard has the decency to look sheepish as he squeezes the back of his neck and mutters, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he argues. “I liked her before. And if I was pursuing her anyway, what’s the harm in cashing in on it? Besides, I’m here on scholarship, and after my knee injury––”

“Tell me, Burrows,” I interrupt. “How much money is Blake’s virginity worth?”

His jaw flexes. “I don’t care about––”

“You had to have put something on the line to participate, didn’t you?”

The silence is tense and heavy, but the bastard stays quiet, his posture stiff.

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