Page 55

Chapter thirty-six

When my center of gravity’s not in the room

Zoe

I haven’t left my apartment in seventy-two hours.

I called in sick Monday morning and haven’t stopped lying since.

Told Charlie the truth, then told everyone else at Pulse and the Storm it was the flu.

Told myself that if I could just go a full twenty-four hours without crying or checking my phone or replaying Chase’s kiss in my head like it’s the last one I’ll ever get, I’d be fine.

So far, I’m 0 for 3.

Four bouquets sit in various vases around my apartment. All carnations, all oranges and pinks and peaches.

Fascination. Admiration. Affection.

There’s no red and certainly no white, so he’s toeing the line.

I haven’t thrown them away, either, which says something. I also haven’t replied to most of his texts.

He sends them anyway. Morning check-ins. Game day updates. The occasional bad meme that doesn’t make me laugh but still makes my chest ache.

And every time I see his name light up my screen, I think about the look on his face when I walked out. The way I twisted the knife with words I didn’t mean.

I told him I regretted us, and I haven’t stopped regretting that since.

Sometimes, when I think he’s close to losing it, I’ll respond. One word, just enough to ensure he knows I’m okay.

Still here.

I’m safe.

Don’t worry.

But I am worried.

About the elevator footage, about the fallout. About how much I miss him, and how much worse it feels knowing he’s probably blaming himself.

He shouldn’t. He tried to hold all of it—me, the fallout, the fear—and I was the one who dropped it.

So this morning, after three days of immense wallowing, I made a list.

First item: Get the goddamn footage and destroy it.

I’ve already spoken to someone from building management at Chase’s condo twice. They keep punting me to legal, who hasn’t returned my call. I left another voicemail this afternoon, promising cupcakes and my soul if someone just calls me the fuck back.

Nothing yet.

Now I’m curled up on the couch in a hoodie that might still smell like Chase, watching his game on mute. It’s a home game, which means I could be there. Should be there.

But I’m not, and tonight’s game is no different to the last one I missed.

He looks like hell, and he’s not skating well. His passes are wild, his shifts are short, and when some poor guy from the Thunder gets in his space, Chase doesn’t chirp, he drops gloves.

He gets in three separate fights before the third period ends. Two clean ones and one near-ejection. He’s all shoulders and fury, slamming guys into the boards like he’s trying to make his own pain loud enough to echo.

He gets sent to the box twice, then spends the last four minutes of the game glued to the bench, chewing his mouthguard arrogantly for the cameras.

The Storm lose again. Not by too much, but it’s ugly.

I sit there in silence, holding my breath, waiting to see if he does press.

He does.

They cut to the tunnel, and he’s flushed and damp and still half-feral looking, jersey askew and towel slung around his neck. His eyes look empty, and I want to reach through the damn screen and shake his shoulders.

Reporters throw out the usual questions—chippy game, rough chemistry, playoff pressure—and he dodges like he always does.

Until someone asks something personal.

“Your girlfriend’s been pretty visible this season. Noticed she wasn’t in the box tonight. Think that had anything to do with your performance?”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t laugh it off or smirk or play it cute like he normally would. Instead, he stares straight down the camera lens with sweat dripping from his brow.

“Yeah. She wasn’t there.” He exhales, voice steady. “Guess I’m still figuring out how to play when my center of gravity’s not in the room.”

And that’s it. They move on, and he walks off.

But I sit frozen, heart cracking open in my ribs, because he knows. He knows I’m watching, and he was talking to me.

My phone buzzes in my hand before I even have time to process the ache.

I answer, distracted.

“Hello?”

“Zoe?” It’s a guy’s voice, friendly and familiar. “Hey, it’s Nate. From Denver Towers security.”

Right. The tall one with the buzz cut. He used to say hi to me every morning on my way to Pulse. I think he’s a Storm fan from what he’s said to Chase, too. Always polite, always smiling.

“Oh, hey. Hi.”

“I, uh… pulled a few strings. Got eyes on the footage you’ve been asking about.”

My stomach dips.

“You did?”

“Yeah. Figured you had enough on your plate, and wasn’t sure if anyone had followed up. I’ve got it stored off-network now.”

Relief floods me. Real, bone-deep relief.

“That’s amazing, thank you so much. Seriously, I’ve been going in circles trying to get someone to help.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, the system sucks. Anyway, if I’m gonna get it to you, we need to be careful, because I kinda went against protocol. I could drop it at your place—unless that’s weird. We could meet somewhere quieter.”

I don’t even hesitate.

“Yeah. Let’s meet at The Matchstick—it’s in a part of RiNo that used to be super cool, but it’s not as well-known now.”

“That sounds perfect, Zoe. Meet you there tomorrow at seven?”

“Perfect—and Nate? Thank you. Seriously.”

The line goes dead, and I stand there with my phone still pressed to my ear, taking a second to catch up.

He has the footage. The whole thing, offline and untouched. Untangled from the HOA or legal or any of the other red-tape nightmares I’ve been spinning in all week.

I might be able to fix this without needing Chase to burn down the entire condo board, or without him having to take another PR hit, like he keeps suggesting he should do to move the narrative.

For the first time in three days, I breathe.

It’s not over, but it’s something. And right now, that feels like a miracle.

I glance back at the TV. The game’s over and the interviews are done. But I can still visualize Chase’s face—flushed and tired and so damn open in that one vulnerable second when he looked right into the camera and said his center of gravity wasn’t in the room.

I don’t think. I just grab my phone and type.

Me: I saw the game.

I hover for a second, then hit send. It delivers, and two blue ticks appear immediately.

Chase: You watched?

Me: Yeah, I always watch

The reply comes so fast it lights up my screen before I’ve even locked it.

Chase: Are you okay?

Zoe : I’m okay

It’s not a lie, not exactly. It’s the first time I’ve said it and mostly meant it in days.

There’s a pause, and the dots move up and down, making it seem like he’s typing, then re-typing what he wants to say next.

Chase: You texting me first is the best thing that’s happened to me in three days. And I dropped gloves tonight twice, so that’s saying something.

I smile before I can stop it.

Me: Three. You dropped them three times.

Chase: You were watching.

Chase: Tell me you missed me so I can die happy.

I huff a laugh, and my thumbs hesitate over the keys.

Me : You looked tired

Me: And mad

Me: And sweaty.

Chase: You like me sweaty.

Me : Not when you’re sad sweaty

There’s another pause, longer this time.

Chase: I’m sad all over, sweetheart. Wanna come fix it?

God, I want to, more than anything.

But I don’t answer, not yet. I can’t walk back in and pretend like I didn’t try to throw it all away.

Chase sees me, all of me. Even the parts I keep buried under charm and polish and punchlines. He’s seen the cracks and the grief I never talk about. The fears I don’t let anyone else carry.

And when everything came crashing down, I looked him in the eye and told him I regretted it. I didn’t even fucking mean it, but I said it.

Because my job, my image, the perfectly controlled life I’ve built—those are the things I know how to hold. When everything else spirals, I fall back on the mask. I spin it. Manage it. Smile through it. That’s how I survive.

But Chase has never bowed to the mask. He lifted it and didn’t care what he found underneath.

And instead of holding onto him, I pushed him away and ran straight back to the version of me that felt safe. The one with clean lines and career goals and a no-mess strategy to handle the fallout.

I’ve been sitting in the wreckage of my own words, hearing them over and over again. Watching the moment his face changed and the way he looked at me.

So if tomorrow goes the way I hope it will, the footage will be gone. And when it is, when the noise quiets and I can finally look him in the eye again, I’ll tell him the truth.

I’m sorry.

I never once regretted him.

That he’s the first thing I’ve ever chosen without a plan, just instinct.

And that I love him so much it terrifies me, and I was stupid enough to try and outrun it.