Page 30

Chapter Thirty

"With the smell of fresh ice and the sound of skates hitting the rink, Renegades training camp is officially underway! It's time for players to lace up, coaches to strategize, and fans to get ready for an exciting season ahead. Let the games begin! #RenegadesTrainingCamp #HockeySeason” Renegades Rinkside Report

Novy

My apartment felt foreign. Cold. Uncomfortable.

I shuffled from the narrow counter to the cupboard, pulling down two ceramic mugs. I was preparing mug muffins for post workout sweet cravings for my followers. And I’d give about anything to wallow in a bowl of chocolate right about now.

As I measured out the ingredients and popped them in the microwave to cook, I watched the mugs spin on the little carousel like I was watching the most fascinating movie of all time. Like Boh watching Black Knight and the lead character was building up to a fight scene.

By the time I’d left, he’d stopped hiding the foreign dramas everytime I walked into the room. The memory nearly brought a smile to my face.

But two minutes later, my mug muffin looked disgusting and tasted even worse. Definitely not Insta-ready.

Third try. Third bomb.

My head—my heart—wasn’t in it today.

I didn’t just want to wallow in a bowl of chocolate. I wanted to wallow in thoughts of a rude, insufferable, stupid hockey player.

I needed to call Scout and talk out my feelings with my best friend. I needed to let it all go and move on. But instead, I played his words over and over in my head.

It wasn’t that I was unsympathetic to his concerns. I was just infuriated at his lack of sense, his lack of respect for me and my choices in all this. What kind of adult relationship could I hope to have if he thought he had the right to make every decision? If he thought so little of my place in the equation?

My doorbell rang. After a quick check through the peephole, I opened the door to Scout. “Speak of the devil,” I said with a half-hearted grin.

“Were you talking about me again?”

“Thinking about calling you.”

She held up a bag that clanked. “This is better.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Two bottles of your favorite moscato.” She hustled past me to plop onto the floor between the couch and the coffee table. When she pulled two bright blue bottles out of the bag, I couldn’t hold back my grin. “Grab two glasses,” she said with an answering smile. “We’re indulging.”

Thirty minutes later, I’d spilled the deal with Boh. She wagged her head and adjusted the volume of the television showing repeats of an old hospital drama. “What a shocker,” she said. “He’s so much dumber than he looks.”

“He’s not dumb—” I cut myself off.

“You better stop right there, Novaline Dalton. You are not defending him to me. Nope. Won’t hear it.” She topped off my glass again. I know I’d emptied it at least once, but with the way she kept topping it off, there was no telling how much I’d actually imbibed.

“You were one hundred percent right to toss him out of here. What is this, 1959? Is this how they treat women where he’s from? I can’t imagine. I think it’s just him. He’s a Neanderthal.”

He wasn’t, though. My heart knew as much. My head, too, but my head also knew we wouldn’t stand a chance if we didn’t have trust. He’d lied to the doctors once. He’d made decisions for me.

Before I’d told him I loved him, I’d thought we should have a conversation. I’d been a coward. Scared of rocking the boat. Risking losing the little headway I’d made in the puzzle of Bohdan Zacha.

I should have. I should have demanded a conversation. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty, yada yada yada. Would it have made a difference? Would he have come clean?

Maybe he would have this time. But what about the next? Because if he didn’t understand that he couldn’t make decisions for me, no more than I would make decisions for him, then we were already dead in the water, conversation or no conversation.