Page 24 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

TWENTY-THREE

“Mia?” Dominic’s voice cuts through what was shaping up to be an epic nap.

I try to keep my breathing deep and steady, pretending to sleep, but I can practically feel his gaze burning a hole through the covers. Sure enough, when I crack one eye open, then reluctantly the other, there he is. Hovering at the side of my bed like some overprotective mother goose.

I don’t even have the energy to be embarrassed about him seeing me like this.

Or to hold on to the anger from the other night. The little anger I can muster is currently fully reserved for my brain, for the way I’m feeling.

“Hi.” My voice comes out small, even to me.

“Hey.” His tone is quiet, like he’s trying not to disturb the air around me. “I was worried.”

He doesn’t mention the no-show to our morning walks, but I know that’s what this is about.

He’s probably playing it safe with what he says, even though I’m pretty sure the mics in the bedrooms aren’t live when the crew’s around.

I ran into them this morning when I braved the kitchen for a glass of water.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t want you to worry… I just couldn’t ?—”

Couldn’t meet you. Couldn’t get out of bed. Couldn’t shower. Couldn’t bring myself to even care about not functioning like normal.

My hair’s oily, and I probably don’t smell all that great. But when the dark cloud rolls in like this, even basic life feels like too much.

He sits gently on the edge of the bed, close to my waist.

“It’s okay. I just needed to see you… that you were okay.” A beat passes before he adds, “Summer said you weren’t feeling well. What’s going on?”

“I’m fine .”

His brow furrows. “Then why haven’t I seen you in two days?”

I gesture to myself, frustration bubbling.

Here he is—perfectly messy hair, perfect face, perfectly happy. Of course he is. He’s probably on his way to a date with one of the perfect women he sees potential with .

And here I am, stuck in bed because my brain has decided everything is too hard to deal with right now.

Okay . So, maybe some bitterness has worked its way through my melancholy.

He hands me two drinks and a white paper bag. “Breakfast.”

“Thanks.” I take them and set everything on the nightstand. I don’t have much of an appetite.

“No problem. Do you want some company?”

“You want to hang out with me in bed? Like this?”

He shrugs, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

Something twists in my chest. He’s still smiling . Still acting like everything’s normal, and I just…

I can’t.

“That’s okay,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Don’t you have a date?”

But that’s what I do, isn’t it? Push people away.

Dominic doesn’t flinch. He just reaches out slowly, like he’s testing the waters, and rests the back of his hand against my forehead.

“You’re a little warm,” he murmurs. Probably from the sweatshirt and the mountain of blankets I’m buried under, but I don’t bother correcting him. “Has anyone sent a doctor to see you?”

“Yeah. Probably just a little bug,” I lie. “I wouldn’t want you to catch it, but thanks for checking in.”

“You’re worried about my health? You really must be sick.” His lips curl into the faintest smirk, and mine twitch in response.

“I’m fine. Just… I didn’t realize how much of a crutch mindless scrolling and trash TV was. Or music. God, if I could have one thing here, it’d be my headphones. But without my phone, they’re useless.”

I let out a breath, fingers tugging at the edge of the blanket.

“When I’m feeling like this—” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve said too much.

He tilts his head. “You’re sick like this a lot?”

I can see it in his eyes: he’s not going to drop it.

He inches closer. “You can tell me.”

“You wouldn’t understand. Mental health stuff.”

“Try me.”

Lying here with him studying me makes me feel too exposed. I sit up, leaning back against the headboard and crossing my arms. This feels better. Safer.

“I don’t really like talking about it. I don’t talk about it.”

“That’s okay,” he offers gently. “But you can. With me. You know that, right?”

He opened up to me, didn’t he? About his mom. About wanting a real home. Not the West Elm version, but one filled with love.

Just the thought of talking about this makes me squirm. I’ve never really had to push past the discomfort. I’ve avoided it. Not only the conversations, but the feelings.

Everyone but my family has taken one look at the mess in my mind and run in the other direction.

What’s that saying? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

I’ve learned that if I don’t push people away first, they decide I’m not worth the hassle.

That I’m more trouble than I’m worth. When it became a pattern, it was easier to be the one to leave.

I’ve never been one to settle, but not for the reasons my family assumes.

It’s not about fear of commitment, not really.

In theory, I don’t mind committing. But right around the three-month mark, when the high wears off and anxiety creeps in, that’s when I fall apart.

The restlessness starts to spill over. Into jobs. Cities. People .

I guess this schedule has accelerated my usual timeline.

When I give myself a moment to consider it, I realize I don’t want to do that with Dominic. Not yet. And maybe not ever.

I like being his friend.

If things were different… I might even like him as something more .

So, I tell him.

“I have anxiety. Like, a lot of the time. Mostly health anxiety, which, if you ask me, is the most irrational kind. And sometimes, when I can’t manage to keep it away, it sends me into these depressive episodes.”

He nods, but I can’t read his expression. “And how does that feel? I mean, I obviously know about anxiety, but specific to you. How do you feel?”

I’m not sure anyone has actually asked me that question outside of my therapist’s office—and by office, I mean on my computer screen during teletherapy.

And why the hell is that damn beehive the first thing that pops into my mind again?

“You know those bees that burrow underground? Not the ones hanging from trees. The ones buried deep, where no one can see them. But they’re down there. Buzzing.”

He somehow finds my legs under the pile of blankets and rubs them encouragingly.

“That’s what it’s like. A swarm. One wrong move and they’re attacking from the inside.” I exhale. “I might be allergic to them. Because when they sting, my body gets so heavy. Stuck. Surrounded by something hard to pull myself out of. Thick like honey.

“My doctor says it’s depression. But I never really feel all that sad, you know?

“I don’t want to cry; I just don’t want to move. That’s why I keep busy as much as I can. If I keep moving, it’s usually harder to get stuck. I thought there’d be more moving here, but it mostly feels like I’m trapped in this house.”

His hand tightens on my hip. He looks down, almost surprised to see it there, and clears his throat before retreating and folding both hands neatly in his lap.

“What brings it on?” he asks, voice low. “The anxiety. How does the health part come into it?”

“The stagnation… That’s usually how it starts,” I say. “You know how we all distract ourselves from our own thoughts? Some people drink. Others eat, scroll mindlessly through social media. Anything to not think too much.”

I pause, eyes on the edge of the blanket between us. “Well, when I sit with the thoughts for too long, my brain starts playing tricks on me. That’s the best way I can describe it.”

I consider stopping there. Because what comes next is the part I hate the most. My rational self knows it’s crazy… and I’m scared others will think so, too. But something about the way Dom’s looking at me makes me believe he won’t.

“You know how sometimes you feel something’s off? Like your leg cramps, so you drink more water. I spiral, and think I have a blood clot. Or you get heartburn, so you pop a Tums. I think: what if it’s a heart attack?”

I look up at him, my voice quieter now.

“It’s always the worst-case scenario. Always life or death. And you can probably guess… that’s its own kind of hell.”

He nods, and I’m relieved when his eyes don’t carry any pity.

“Thanks for sharing that,” he says finally. “I feel kind of helpless. I wish there were something I could do.”

Everyone always wants to help, and I wish they could.

But… he did, didn’t he? I’ve never had someone to confide in. Never let people see the part of me I usually keep locked up. It’s a little terrifying, but also kind of freeing.

“You checking up on me… and listening? That means more than you realize,” I tell him.

“Yeah?” His worry lines ease, just a little.

I nod.

“I’m glad. Can we seal it with a hug?” he asks, grinning.

“I’m kinda gross,” I warn, though I’m sure he’s already picked up on that.

“Never, la mia fiamma . Don’t make excuses. C’mere.”

I drop my head back against the headboard with a groan. “Not that name again.”

He chuckles. “You love it. It’s okay to admit it.”

When I glance back at him, he’s scooted up the bed, arms open wide, eyes full of exaggerated pleading. Stupid puppy dog eyes.

I sigh, push onto my knees, and wrap my arms around his neck.

He hugs me so tightly I let out an oomph , pressed flush against his chest. But I don’t hate the feeling. Not even a little.

I sink into the comfort of being surrounded by him, breathing in his masculine scent, letting his warmth settle into me.

Exhaling, I release some of the weight that’s been heavy on my shoulders.

It’s strangely freeing to share a bit of my truth.

My heartbeat slows, and without thinking, I squeeze him a little tighter, whispering, “Thank you,” into his neck where my head is buried.

His lips brush my hairline before he pulls back, just enough to see my face. Our gazes lock—his deep blue meeting my lighter shade—but neither of us fills the silence. I’m not sure what I would say, even if I could form the words.

“Mia—” he starts, but a knock sounds on the door. We both scramble apart like guilty teenagers.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” Victoria says, peeking in, “but Bodhi’s looking for you, Dominic.”

“Okay, thanks, Victoria,” Dom replies, but doesn’t look her way, his eyes locked on me.

I glance at her, but she still doesn’t leave.

“I’ll be right there. Can you give us a minute?” Dom adds.

“Oh, sure. I’ll see you downstairs.” She gives me a tight smile before closing the door behind her.

I’m quietly relieved the one-on-one today is with Summer and not her. I get the feeling Victoria’s patience with the “kissing curse” is wearing thin. And the idea of her trying to break it?—

Nope. Not going there.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Dom draws my attention back. “Unless you’re not feeling up for it… That’s fine, too. I just wish I could come here and get you. Honestly, I’d piggyback you along the beach if that’d help. But seriously, no pressure.” The words leave him in a rush.

“Take a breath.” I laugh, and he does, taking a deep inhale followed by a quick exhale.

Tomorrow’s elimination day, and our last morning in California. After that, we head to Chicago for the week.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” I promise. “I can’t miss our last beach day, right?”

“Right,” he echoes, and his smile lingers.

He hugs me once more before making his way to the door, hand resting on the handle. But just before he opens it, he turns back to me.

“I know I can’t exterminate the hive… but maybe I could put on one of those silly beekeeper suits. Use some of that smoke that calms them. I still don’t know why that works.” He shakes his head. “But that’s not the point. The point is that you wouldn’t be alone.”

A lump forms in my throat, and I’m grateful for the low lighting preventing him from seeing the moisture in my eyes. I nod, because it’s all I can manage.

He opens the door, steps out, then turns one last time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he confirms.

I nod again, and the door clinks shut behind him.