Page 27

SIXTEEN

SHANE

I stood in the middle of my dorm room, staring at the scattered belongings across my bed.

My textbooks, pens, my favorite hoodie, and the glaring absence of my blue notebook.

My heartbeat quickened into an uncomfortable staccato rhythm.

Panic spiked in my chest, sharp and undeniable. It wasn’t here.

I’d turned my backpack inside out, my entire desk had been meticulously excavated, and I’d even dropped to my knees and searched under the bed twice. It was no use. The sinking sensation in my stomach told me exactly where I’d left it.

Patrick’s dorm.

I could picture it now, resting on his desk, a silent grenade just waiting to explode.

A thousand humiliating scenarios raced through my mind.

How many times had I opened that notebook and scribbled something down?

How many times had I tracked Patrick’s moods, his self-critical remarks, his fleeting insecurities?

How many notes had I scrawled without thinking, without censoring?

“Fuck,” I muttered to myself. My palms were clammy and shaking, but I forced myself to draw a deep breath and exhale slowly. I had to face him.

Outside, it was drizzling, the cold November air seeping into my bones despite my coat.

My steps were heavy and reluctant as I crossed the campus, each footfall echoing in my ears like a countdown to disaster.

Patrick’s dorm loomed ahead, and for a moment, I hesitated.

Turning back now would spare me an awful confrontation—but only temporarily. There was no way around it.

I knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, as if Patrick had been waiting on the other side, tension tightly coiled in his frame. My eyes fell instantly to the desk behind him, and my breath caught. There it was, my blue notebook, neatly closed, perfectly still. The sight of it confirmed everything.

“Come in,” Patrick said, his voice flat and cold. There was a sharpness to him tonight, a troubled edge beneath the carefully maintained exterior.

“Hey,” I mumbled, stepping inside and awkwardly hovering near the door. His room felt colder than usual, despite the warm yellow glow from his desk lamp. “Sorry I’m late.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he just stood there, silently watching me, his icy blue eyes unreadable. I felt dissected beneath his gaze, and I shuffled awkwardly, unable to meet his stare directly.

“Is something wrong?” I asked finally, breaking under the heavy silence.

Patrick shook his head slightly, but his expression darkened, the muscles in his jaw visibly tightening.

He was never good at controlling his emotions.

Only, I’d never played against him on the ice.

I’d never had a chance to see something other than his uncontrolled lust and desire. “Wrong? Why would something be wrong?”

I swallowed thickly. “You just seem?—”

“Seem what, Shane?” Patrick interrupted sharply. He turned away, busying himself unnecessarily by moving things around on his desk. His movements were quick and agitated. “I seem upset? Or maybe just insecure?”

I froze. He had definitely read the notebook. My heart hammered painfully against my ribs.

“No,” I lied, barely audible. “You just seem…off.”

Patrick’s anger simmered dangerously close to the surface now, and when he faced me again, it was clear he wasn’t going to let it go. His eyes glittered with barely restrained fury, but there was something else there, too—raw, unguarded sadness.

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” he snapped suddenly, so unexpectedly that I nearly stumbled backward. “You think I’m worthless, incompetent, insecure, and good for absolutely nothing except hockey.”

“What?” I stammered, blindsided by his intensity. “I never…”

“You didn’t have to say it out loud!” Patrick said.

“Oh, come on,” I snapped back, my voice rising defensively. “Now you’re twisting this into something it isn’t. You’re just looking for things to be mad about!”

“You’ve been doing that all along,” Patrick said, taking a step closer. “You’re always scheduling around your time, your availability, and never mine. I’m supposed to drop everything when you suddenly decide you need more data?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” I said, heat rushing into my cheeks. “I’ve been nothing but accommodating. I’m the one skipping classes, rearranging my meetings, bending backward so I don’t inconvenience your hockey practice.”

Patrick scoffed bitterly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, Shane, because we all know I’m so precious and special. God forbid you interrupt my workouts—but hey, feel free to barge into my life every other moment of the day, right?”

“I don’t barge in,” I snapped, frustration and defensiveness warring in my voice. “You agreed to this schedule. You signed off on everything.”

“Oh, did I?” Patrick threw his hands up, incredulous. “When did I agree to you shadowing my every move? When did I say you could invade every goddamn second of my life, writing shit about me whenever you feel like it? Even when we’re not supposed to be working. When we are together, Shane.”

My jaw clenched tight. “If you had a problem, maybe you should’ve said something sooner instead of acting like everything’s fine and then exploding on me out of nowhere.”

“Maybe you should’ve noticed,” Patrick shot back, eyes blazing with frustration. “If you’re such a brilliant fucking observer, how come you missed that?”

“Patrick, this is ridiculous!” I finally exclaimed, exasperation flooding through me. “We’re fighting over nothing.”

“No,” he growled, voice rough with hurt. “We’re fighting because you wrote down everything you think is wrong with me, like I’m some fucking lab rat for you to dissect.”

My heart plunged. I stared helplessly, unable to find words. He was right, of course, but the truth felt brutal, too exposed. “You’re taking it out of context,” I managed weakly, voice shaking.

He laughed bitterly. “Oh, really? So when you wrote down ‘worthless,’ you meant that kindly? Or was ‘insecure’ a compliment? I trusted you.”

I pressed my lips together, suddenly angry, too, because this was unfair. “You wanna talk about trust? You read my notes.”

He took a huge step forward, growing taller and broader as he neared me. “You read my heartbeat, my thoughts, everything!”

The air grew heavier between us, an electric charge crackling. Patrick was silent. And so was I, stunned for the first time.

His eyes narrowed, lips parting as though to argue, but nothing came out.

“I did,” I admitted. “I read your heartbeat. I didn’t believe my eyes. I didn’t even believe the watch measuring your pulse until the end. I didn’t believe you’d ever be attracted to me.”

His lips quivered, and then anger buried whatever emotion had almost surfaced. “You used me. And now I know what you think of me.”

“Everything in there, Patrick—it’s just quotes. You said these things to me.” I said, my voice pleading more than flinging the truth at him vindictively.

Disbelief flashed across his face. He shook his head slowly. “You’re lying.”

Anger and hurt made my fingers clumsy as I snatched up the notebook, flipping through pages until I found the entry I remembered vividly.

“October thirteenth, five in the afternoon,” I said, my voice tight, strained.

“You were getting ready for your workout, and we talked about your diet. You told me that at sixteen, you ate raw oats because you didn’t realize they needed cooking.

You laughed about it. And then you said, ‘I’m really no good for anything other than hockey.

’” I slapped the notebook closed, the sound harsh and abrupt.

“I wrote down only what I needed. It was insightful.”

His expression crumbled slightly, just enough to show vulnerability. Yet, pride surged forward, shielding him quickly. “Fine. But the rest…you chose the worst parts, Shane. That notebook makes me look like a self-hating disaster.”

I exhaled sharply, flipping the notebook open again. “Here. October twenty-ninth. ‘Incompetent.’ Just that one word, underlined. You called yourself that after a bad game. I noted it down because I was studying how harshly you talk to yourself. Not because I agree with you.”

He faltered, the anger fading from his face, replaced by embarrassment. His teeth dug into his lower lip, eyes flickering away. I waited, needing an apology I knew he wouldn’t give.

“You’re not going to say sorry, are you?” I asked quietly.

He glared, the tension rising again. “For what?”

My heart sank. “For reading my notes. For assuming the worst about me. For anything.”

Patrick’s jaw tightened stubbornly. “Maybe you shouldn’t have written those things.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have read them. You’re insecure enough not to be able to handle it,” I shot back, voice thick with hurt.

The silence expanded painfully between us until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

I regretted saying that, but I couldn’t swallow my pride, either.

“Forget it,” I finally said, turning away. “I’m leaving.”

Suddenly, panic flashed in Patrick’s eyes. “Why? Hold on. We’re not done yet.”

I hesitated, the pain in my chest nearly unbearable. “Aren’t we?” My voice cracked. It was all I could manage before turning my back on him.

“Shane.”

But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Walking out of that room felt like ripping myself away from the only genuine connection I’d ever had, knowing I’d likely severed it forever. My footsteps echoed dully down the hall, each one dragging me further from Patrick, further from reconciliation.

Outside, the drizzle had turned into a steady rain, cold drops soaking through my coat, numbing my skin. My fingers tightened around the notebook, and my chest squeezed painfully. Had I really gone too far at the end? Had I let pride ruin everything we’d built?

My dorm loomed ahead, dark and lifeless. By the time I climbed the stairs and fumbled open the door to my room, tears were burning fiercely behind my eyes. I stumbled inside, closed the door, and leaned heavily against it. My head fell back, hitting the wood with a dull thump.

Then, finally, in the safety of my solitude, the tears escaped.

My throat closed around a strangled sob as the weight of everything crashed down on me.

My knees shook, my entire body trembling.

Patrick was right, in some ways. I’d used his vulnerabilities, even if unintentionally.

But he’d breached my trust just as deeply.

And yet, standing there alone, miserable, I didn’t care who was more wrong. I only knew the unbearable pain of walking away from him, the sickening feeling of having ruined something precious, something rare and true.

My notebook slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor softly, insignificant now. It was just words on paper, meaningless without context, meaningless without him.

In that moment, standing alone, broken by a loss I’d brought upon myself, I wondered bitterly if this was exactly what I’d feared from the start—this painful consequence of getting too close, too attached, too vulnerable.

I sank slowly to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. As the room blurred with tears, I realized I’d learned something vital and horrible all at once:

The cost of caring this deeply was losing everything.