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twenty-one

Elsy

Why does Wyatt keep pulling this shit the night before he goes on a road trip? It’s like he’s confusing me on purpose, like he enjoys pulling the rug out from beneath me and then scurrying away to avoid the fallout.

Logically, I know he’s at the mercy of the league’s schedule. He probably isn’t trying to do this on purpose.

Maybe.

Waking up with a Whitney sibling in bed beside me, but not the sibling I want, is a reminder of why this can’t happen. I can’t sacrifice my friendship with Bex.

We have time for another leisurely brunch—this time, no mimosas—before she has to leave for the airport and I have to head to rehearsal. There’s a performance tonight and I’m not feeling confident with the piece. I’ve been practicing all week, but there’s a bit of tricky fingering I haven’t quite been able to nail. I know I’ll get it eventually, but it’s going to take some work.

Anastasia is already in her seat in the rehearsal hall, her hair done up in curlers. I love that she has no shame about being authentically herself.

It also makes me glad that my go-to performance hairstyle is a sleek ponytail braid. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve been doing my hair this way for years at this point.

“You okay?” she asks as I pull my violin from the case.

“Not really,” I admit.

She clucks her tongue. “I’m sorry. Want to talk about it?”

Exhaling, I release some of the tension in my shoulders. “Not right now. Still trying to wrap my head around it.”

“Well, if you want to chat, you know where to find me.” She gives me a tight smile.

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” A glimmer of happiness bubbles within me. I made a friend—an actual friend. It was so much easier in kindergarten. These days, it’s hard work; still, I did it.

On instinct, I reach for my phone. I need to tell Wyatt.

But I can’t.

I don’t know where we stand.

We hooked up a week and a half ago. He made me feel beautiful. Seen .

And then he went away for a week and didn’t call me.

The first time I saw him again, I was so wasted, I could barely see straight. But he took care of me, then gave me his puck. He called me babe and cuddled me in public.

It’s like he’s decided that I’m into him, so of course I’d want to be in a relationship with him.

And I’m not saying that’s not what I want. What I object to is that he’s decided all of this for me. I’ve had enough of the patronizing infantilization. I don’t need another man making decisions for me without my consent. Been there, done that, lost my job and had to flee the city because of it.

Never again. I’m not going there again.

If Wyatt had just asked me out… well, I don’t know that I’d have said yes, especially not right away. But he would have had a fair better shot of getting me to go along with this newly amped-up display of affection.

He remembers. All this time, he’s known we slept together thirteen years ago. So why did he let me think he didn’t remember who I was? Why did he let me hate him?

That’s what’s bothering me the most. He’s never apologized. If he acknowledges that we’ve hooked up, why did it take him thirteen fucking years to apologize for being an asshole in front of all his friends?

At least she put out.

If that’s what he’s saying in public, I can hardly imagine what he says in the privacy of the locker room. I’m not a timid wallflower, I’m not afraid to stand up for myself, but it’s a lot different when he’s saying the same things every other guy I’ve dated has said.

I’m boring. An easy lay. A sure thing. Not memorable. Not good in bed.

As much as I don’t want to believe them, the fact of the matter is, multiple men have said this to me now. Surely, if three separate guys think so, there must be a shred of truth to the matter.

We run through rehearsal, and I do my job on autopilot. Most days, I’m able to lose myself in the music, but tonight, my head is in the clouds. The performance goes off without a hitch, and even though I mess up some chords, nobody in the audience seems to notice.

The conductor does, though. Some people around me do too. And Anastasia raises her eyebrows at me during the break.

I shake my head. I’m not here, not tonight.

Heading home, I pick up cheap, greasy, drive-thru tacos and a milkshake. I’m in the mood to comfort eat my feelings.

But on my doorstep is a to-go bag from the deli. When I open it, I find a tuna salad sandwich on a croissant with a tub of potato salad.

Fuck him. Just… fuck him.

He said he’d give me space. Buying me food is not giving me space. He can’t do nice things like look out for me when I’m pissed at him. How dare he?

Pulling out my phone, I’m about to give him a piece of my mind. Instead, I find a text message that must have come in while I was driving.

I miss you, he’s texted.

Fuck.

How am I supposed to respond to this?

I click on his contact on my phone, but my finger slips, and I start a video call instead.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The tone rings loudly in the room’s emptiness. I should hang up. That’s the smart thing to do, right? Pretend it was an accident?

The call connects. The screen goes black as it loads his image.

My heart rate climbs to a thousand.

And I hang up.

Exhaling slowly, I press my hand over my chest, like that will make my heart rate slow down.

The stupid phone rings.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

Swallowing my fears, I accept the call.

Wyatt’s tired face fills the screen. His expression clears when we make eye contact.

“Hey, Els,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. The timbre makes my stomach swoop.

“Hi.”

“You called me?”

“It was an accident.”

He snorts. “Yeah, okay.”

“Thanks. For the food.”

“Any time.” His face softens. “I know you had a performance tonight. Bex says you don’t eat before the show.”

“I get too nervous,” I admit. No matter how many times I do it, getting up on stage and bearing my heart and soul never gets any easier.

“Me, too. Before big games,” he says. “Before dates, too.”

My stomach swoops. “Are—are you dating?”

His lips press into a thin line, and his eyes are sad. “Not currently.”

“Oh.” Why does that disappoint me?

“But I’d like to,” he says.

Fuck, can I get off this roller-coaster ride? It’s like every other thing he says sends me over the moon and then plunges me off a cliff.

“You should do that, then. Anyone in mind?”

A burning sensation ripples through my chest as I hold my breath. I can’t believe I asked him that.

Wyatt shifts on the other end of the line, bringing the phone in closer so all I can see is his face.

“Elsy,” he barks. The authority in his voice makes my pulse throb. “I’m not interested in playing games. If you have something to ask me, do it.”

I swallow and take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. “Who is it you want to date?”

“You. Elsy, it’s always been you.” His eyes pin mine. “What do you think about that?”

“I think… you could have told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That you remembered.” My voice breaks. “Our night together.”

He chuckles. “Els, if you think I’ve forgotten one second of that night in the last thirteen years…”

“But… the last few years… you let me hate you.”

“ I hated myself.” The words come out so softly, I lean closer to the phone to try to hear him better. “I hate that I hurt you.”

“So why did you do it? Why’d you say it?” I can’t hide the hurt in my voice—or the tears in my eyes.

Damn it. It’s been over a decade. I thought I’d come to terms with it.

“Because I was an insecure kid who thought it would get me in cool with the guys,” Wyatt admits. “I was a fucking idiot. You should have walked right up to me and slapped me across the face.”

I huff a breath of laughter, though it’s not funny.

“Your friend did, by the way,” he adds.

“What are you talking about?”

“Mitchell broke my nose.” He’s matter of fact about it, and then his face creases with hurt. “I deserved it, that and ten more. I was such a dick to you. I’m sorry, Elsy. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I wish you weren’t on a road trip.” I need to see him face-to-face.

“We get home tomorrow midday. Can I come see you?”

Poring over his face, I don’t see any ulterior motives, only earnestness.

“I have lessons until four.”

“No performance?”

I shake my head. “Not tomorrow.”

“Can I take you out?” Wyatt asks. “Just us, no interfering teammates?”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“That depends,” he says, a hint of a smile on his face.

“Oh?”

“Would you say yes?”

Considering, I bite my lip. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Then yes, Elsy,” Wyatt says, warmth in his voice. “I’m asking.”