Page 96 of Goalie Secrets

Sabrina doesn’t look convinced, but she relents. “OK, but when he finds out we didn’t tell him immediately, he’s going to be furious.”

I turn away from them, letting the conversation fade. The effort of speaking drained me. When they both leave somberly, I let my pathetic tears fall, indulging in one last cry.

***

When I next look at the clock, a few hours have passed. I dreamt about our fight.You’re firedreplayed over and over again while Jeremy’s face was branded with disdain.

The ache in my chest has nothing to do with cracked ribs. It’s a deeper kind of agony that festers. Jeremy didn’t merely reject my advice as his doctor, he rejectedme.

And yet, I miss him.

I miss the way he teases me, the way his face lights up when he laughs. I miss the quiet moments, curled up on the couch, sharing the meal he cooked. I miss the way he gazed at me, like I was precious. I can still feel the ghost of his kiss on my lips, the warmth of his hand holding mine. I let myself believe—stupidly, recklessly—that maybe that meant something to him.

But now? If I saw him, if I heard his voice, I’d fall apart. I’d give in. I’d let him lie to me again, tell me he’s fine when I know he’s not. Or worse, I’d beg. Like some pathetic, lovesick fool who can’t admit she’s in love with a man who doesn’t love her back.

Jeremy is too stubborn to listen to me, too stubborn to admit when he’s wrong. He’d skate until his body gave out, and he’d hate me for trying to stop him.

Maybe this accident is the universe’s way of telling me to stop fighting. To stop chasing after a man who doesn’t want what I have to give. Maybe it’s a sign that I need to go back home, where I belong.

Boston will fix me. My body, my pride, and perhaps even my heart.

Her house looks too quiet from across the street. I pace in front of my window and wait for movement, a light flickering on, some sign that she’s there. But the curtains stay drawn and the lights off.

I rub a hand over my jaw, debating my next move. The rational part of me knows I should respect her need for space. Maybe Vanya is right to give us both time to think. Unfortunately, the stress cramp in my stomach doesn’t give a damn about thinking.

I pull out my phone and text:Vanya text me back please. I’m so sorry about yesterday. Please, we need to talk.

I hit send and drop the phone on my couch. I stare across the street again. Nothing. My fingers drum against my thigh, each second stretching longer than the last.

My shoes are on before I can second-guess myself. I cross the street, guilt stalling me for a split second before I put in her garage door code. It creaks as it rises, the sound echoing too loudly in the still morning. My pulse kicks up as I step inside. No car. She always parks backed in so she can make a quick getaway in the morning. The bare concrete feels wrong, like a book missing its final chapter.

I send another text, more urgent in tone.Vanya, seriously. Call me.

I stayed up last night and woke up early today, hoping I’d catch her at some point before she had to go to work. But what if she never came home last night? Where would she have stayed?

A horrible thought floats into my consciousness. There isn’t abed in this town that wouldn’t welcome a gorgeous woman like her. Jealousy tightens like a vise around my chest.

No, that’s impossible. I dismiss any suspicion of her being with someone else. Vanya can have any man she wants, and she wants me.

The silence from my phone feels heavier now, pressing down on my chest. I glance at the door leading into the house.

I shouldn’t trespass, but I do.

The house smells like her. Herbal and sweet and familiar. It smells like home. I move through the rooms slowly, every step bringing up memories. The fuzzy blanket on the couch that she wrapped around us during a late-night movie. The chipped mug on the counter, her favorite, because “it holds exactly the right amount of coffee.”

When I reach her bedroom, I pause at the doorway. The bed’s unmade sheets are tangled like she got up in a hurry. Her book is on the nightstand, open and face down. I sit on the edge of the bed, dropping my head into my hands. I’ve never felt this kind of worry before. Every nerve in my body is a raw wire primed to spark.

Me:I’m getting worried. Please call. If you don’t answer in the next five minutes, we’re having this conversation in your office.

The sound of the front door unlocking pulls me out of my spiral. My heart leaps, relief flooding my chest. Then I hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps. My pulse stutters. The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I rush to the front room. She never uses the front door. She always comes in through the garage.

My heart jumps then freezes mid-beat as a man crosses the threshold. We look at each other in surprise and blurt, “Who the hell are you?”

The man steps inside like he belongs here. I’m rooted to the spot, trying to process the fact that it’s not Vanya. He turns to me, expression shifting from surprise to recognition.

“I know you. Jeremy Lopez, right?”

I cross my arms and widen my stance. “Yeah, and you?”