Page 25 of Famous Last Words (New York Thunder #1)

CHAPTER 25

FRAN

Me: Good luck with the game tonight.

I stare down at the last message I sent Robbie. The message I sent three hours ago. The message that has not only gone unanswered but has been left on read .

I mean, I can’t say I’m shocked. It’s been like this for the last few days. Me sending messages, only for him to either send a blunt, one-word response or leave me on read. At first, I was hurt. Confused. Racking my brain over what the hell I did wrong. Now, I’m just pissed.

I thought things between us were good. After Monday night at the bar, and the kiss—oh, Lord, the kiss —I thought we were better than good. Apparently, I was wrong. And despite being the best kiss of my entire life, that damned life altering kiss seemed to ruin everything.

On Tuesday morning, I woke up slightly hungover but brimming with excitement to speak to him. I was sure that after that kiss, and the way we’d been so touchy-feely afterwards, things had shifted between us. But I also knew I had to play it cool. You know? Just in case.

Me: Hey, how are you?

No response came through, so an hour later I tried again, keeping it strictly business while hoping for an opening.

Me: I was just checking in to make sure everything is good with the apartment. Let me know.

Obviously, the apartment was the last thing on my mind, but I figured that might get him talking since escrow closed on Monday and I knew he was in possession of the keys. Instead, all I got two hours later was a simple…

Robbie: Yep. All good.

Confusing, for sure. A little concerning, definitely. But I put it down to the stress of hockey practice and the chaos of moving into his new place, so I let it slide. But then I didn’t hear from him again all day.

The following day, Wednesday, the Thunder were due to play another home game at Madison Square Garden. But I couldn’t go because I had a shift at the bar, and I couldn’t ask Vera to cover for me because she’d been shooting all day and was due back on location early Thursday.

Me: Hey, sorry. I can’t make the game tonight. I have a shift at the bar. I hope you win!

I expected something—anything—but all I got was a thumbs up emoji. I knew then that something was seriously wrong, and all I could put it down to was the kiss.

Now, here I am on Friday, and Robbie is playing across the river in Jersey. I could have gone to watch him. But I didn’t go because… well, because I was n’t fucking invited. And now he’s leaving me on read. Well, you know what? Fuck you, Robbie Mason.

Me: If you’re going to ignore me, the least you could do is turn off your goddamn read receipts!

I’ve barely touched the shrimp noodles I ordered in from my favorite Chinese place. I haven’t even finished the glass of wine I poured, unable to tear my eyes from the television.

It’s sixteen minutes into the first period and Jersey is already up 2-0. But it’s not just the score that’s got my stomach in knots. It’s Robbie. He isn’t playing like I’ve ever seen him play. In fact, he’s hardly been playing at all. Of the sixteen minutes so far, he’s already spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice. Two minutes for boarding, another two minutes for tripping, and five minutes for getting up in the ref’s face for which he was almost ejected from the game entirely.

It’s almost as if he’s choosing violence over the puck. I don’t know much about hockey, and I’m not ashamed to admit that Robbie Mason looks damn good when he’s all aggressive on the ice, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the way to win a game.

When the camera zooms in to a close-up of Robbie in the box, knee bouncing, eyes blazing, mouthguard clamped between his teeth. It’s hot but there’s something else there. Something unfamiliar. Something I’m wondering if only I can see. And, despite how pissed I am at him for blatantly ignoring me these last few days like a jerk, I don’t miss the way my heart lurches in my chest at the thought that maybe there’s more to this.

Now, it's almost two a.m., and I’m wide awake.

Even after forcing myself to drink my glass of wine, sleep evades me, and I lie here, sta ring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows cast from outside as they dance across the room.

With a resigned sigh, I grab my phone from the nightstand, checking the screen to make sure there’s no new message from Robbie, like I might have possibly missed it; I’ve always been a sucker for punishment. Of course, there’s no message. Idiot .

I re-read the last few texts I sent to him.

Me: I saw the game. Are you okay?

Me: I just want to check you’re okay?

Me: Can you at least let me know you’re okay?

Nothing. Not even a fucking thumbs up.

Dragging a hand over my face, I rub my tired eyes, my mind flashing back to the last view of Robbie from tonight’s game as he was being escorted from the rink with blood streaming from his nose, another rivulet of crimson pouring from a split in his lip. Sure he was grinning, but there was no hint of humor in his gaze. His eyes were dark, empty and hollow, and that smirk he wore was pure malevolence.

Jersey led the whole game. They were going to win. With only three minutes left in the final period, they were ahead 4-1. After their fourth goal, the puck was taken back to the center and everyone was lined up waiting for the drop, which is when the camera panned in on Robbie and his opponent clearly goading one another. But then, the second the puck dropped, the game was all but forgotten.

Robbie threw his stick, shucked his gloves and, with fists up, he and his opponent circled each other like apex predators, ready for battle.

The crowd was going wild, chanting at the two to fight, and all the while I just sat there on the sofa, chewing on my nail, staring at the man wearing the number nine New York jersey. He looked like Robbie Mason. But he was a far cry from the Robbie I’d gotten to know over the last few weeks. It seemed the sweet man who had groceries delivered to my door was all but gone.

I forced myself to turn away after the first blow, and I didn’t look back until the fight was over and Robbie was being dragged off the ice by two officials. Face covered in blood, he waved at the other team as he skated past their bench, all of them standing, yelling at him, ready for round two.

Tonight’s game was too much. If I’m being honest, it hurt my heart.

With a nervous breath, I unlock my phone and scroll to my messages, trying one last time.

Me: Robbie, I’m genuinely worried about you. I need to know that you’re okay. Please.

I stare at the screen until it goes dark, and every last ounce of my hope goes dark with it. But then suddenly I’m startled as my phone shudders against my chest. I swear, I’m not even breathing as I check the screen, relief flooding through me when I see a new message notification from Robbie. I’m almost frantic as I open it, but I’m quickly snapped back to reality when, instead of a reply, I see nothing more than another goddamn thumbs up.

Robbie: ??

I glare at the otherwise innocuous emoji as it mocks me from the screen.

I tell him I’m genuinely worried about him, and he sends me a thumbs-up?

My eyes narrow to slits, teeth gritted, my body seething, and it takes all I have not to call the bastard and give him a piece of my mind. But I won’t. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I switch my phone off entirely, shove it into the drawer in my nightstand, and scowl up at th e ceiling.

“Fucking asshole.”