Page 60 of The Pucking Fake Boyfriend

But not anymore, I realize, looking up at her apartment complex. I’m going to put an end to this. Tonight.

I turn off the ignition and get out of my car. After three weeks of no contact, I thought I’d feel excitement or at least relief at the prospect of finally seeing her.

But I’m just exhausted.

This is the first time I’m here without Blake. He didn’t say a word to me back in the changing rooms, and I was grateful for that. There’s absolutely no need to pile on to what Coach Tanner had said.

Because I heard him loud and clear. Fix the part of my life that needs fixing.

And Brit is that part.

I knock a few times, but there is no response, and I wonder if she’s going to ask who’s out there before opening the door. She might not open it if she realizes it’s me.

“Coming, Blake!”

I freeze at the sound of Brit’s voice. My heart is pinging with a hollow sound. The fact that she’s here, alive and well, and had intentionally kept her distance from me all these weeks hurts.

The door flies open a second later. Britney is standing in front of me, wearing a huge T-shirt and nothing else. Her eyes go round when she sees me.

I push past her and walk into her apartment before she can try to slam the door shut. She turns around, her lips parted in surprise as she closes the door.

“What are you doing?” she whispers. “You shouldn’t be here, especially without Blake.”

“Shouldn’t?” Her choice of words strips me of whatever calm I feel, and all of a sudden, all I know how to do is express my frustration. Grabbing her, I push her up against the door, ignoring her feeble sound of protest.

“Really, Brit? I shouldn’t be here? I didn’t get that memo when you showed up at my house and begged me to fuck you. Was that what that was? One last hurrah, so you could put it behind you and carry on with your picture-perfect-pretend life?”

She stares at me for a beat. Her eyes pool with tears.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I shouldn’t have . . .”

I back away, torn. I want to throttle myself for scaring her and making her cry. But a part of me is still hanging on to the hurt she’s caused me for the past twenty-one days.

“I’m sorry,” Brit gasps again. “I should have reached out to you. I wanted to. I just . . .”

“What?” I’m no longer angry. I’m . . . desperate. I know what it is like to live in a Britney-less world, and I can’t bear the thought of going through that ever again.

And the fact that I am that dependent on her scares me more.

I sigh, staring at her as she cuts herself off and dabs at her eyes with the top of her shirt. I want to wrap her in my arms and force her to promise never to do what she just did.

But this is the second epiphany I’m having about Britney in less than a month.

The first time I admitted to myself that I love her was the scariest moment of my life. I’ve been with dozens of women, and it has always been with the same rule: get out quickly.

But Britney is different. As I continue to watch her regain control of her emotions, my brain seems to recalibrate until I admit a simple truth to myself.

Britney is going to be the end of me. The next time she goes AWOL, or when she decides she’s had enough of Philly and me, I’m going to go batshit crazy. And maybe then, I’ll play so badly, I’ll get kicked off the team.

“Things have been such a mess,” she whispers, looking up at me with dry, red-rimmed eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She takes a few short steps to me, wrapping her arms around my midriff.

In that moment, I lose the capability to think and hug her back, pushing everything else to the background, including my recent thoughts. Right now, the only thing that matters is that Britney is in my arms again.

I bend my head over hers, frantic to get a taste of her. She meets my lips, leaning into me. She seems hesitant at first, but the first brush of our tongues is enough to unfurl the passion I have suppressed for the past weeks.

My kiss is fervent and needy. Brit instantly matches the intensity, and before I can stop myself, I’m crushing her up against the wall.

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