Page 45 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

FORTY-ONE

A virgin? That was her first time? And she didn’t tell me?

This can’t be right. Maybe I misunderstood.

I know how high Mia keeps her walls. I’ve seen how carefully she guards herself, but this? After everything we’ve shared? After the way she told me she wanted this, wanted us ? Surely she should’ve told me something like this. Should’ve trusted me.

“Wait, what?”

“That was my first time having sex,” she says plainly. “But I’ve done all the other stuff.”

She says it so matter-of-factly, like it doesn’t warrant a second thought. Like losing her virginity isn’t something to write home about.

Okay, bad analogy, but still.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, my voice low.

She shifts beside me, wriggling like she can’t get comfortable but refusing to meet my eyes. “It didn’t come up?”

“You don’t think… I don’t know? Maybe you should’ve brought it up?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s not?” Some of my feelings drip into my tone, and it’s sharper than I intended.

She pulls herself upright, leaning her back against the headboard, arms crossed tight over her chest. Pulling away from me even though we’re inches apart. “It’s just sex.”

The irony almost makes me laugh. How many times have I said those exact words?

Only for one night. I’m not looking for anything serious.

It’s just sex.

And now here I am. The woman I’ve fallen for throwing it back in my face.

Is this some kind of sick karma?

I take a breath, trying to slow my thoughts. This is Mia. This is different. She didn’t mean it like that.

“Is that really all it was?—”

“No, of course not!” she interrupts. “You know it wasn’t.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” I ask again. “Didn’t you trust me enough to be honest?”

She hesitates. And that deepens the ache in my gut.

“You know what I mean, Dom,” she whispers. But it’s not the reassurance I need.

She pulls the comforter over her lap, like her skin isn’t still damp from the out-of-this-world sex we just had.

I let out a breath that’s half-huff, half-disbelief. “No, I don’t think I do, Mia.”

“It’s not a big deal,” she repeats, this time with more bite. “Why are you making this into a thing? Do you care that I’m not experienced?”

“No.” I pause to gather my thoughts.

I try to see her side. I really try to. I know she’s scared, defensive. But all I can think is: she didn’t trust me enough to tell me something that mattered this much. She didn’t trust me to hold that part of her.

And that stings more than I want to admit.

I know she wanted to keep this casual at first, but things have changed. We’ve changed. Haven’t we?

“This isn’t about your experience,” I finally say, my voice quiet but steady. “It’s about you not telling me. About you not trusting me… still treating this like it’s some casual test run.”

I stand and pull on a clean pair of boxers, needing to move, to shake off the energy crawling under my skin. But I can tell almost immediately it was the wrong move.

She hops out of bed and grabs one of my T-shirts, tugging it on. It falls almost to her knees. She stands there for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed, knees bouncing restlessly.

I kneel in front of her and take her hands. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

She bites her lip. “I don’t know.”

“Give me something, Mia.”

C’mon, baby. Don’t push me away.

But instead, she stands abruptly. “I don’t know, Dominic. I don’t fucking know.”

I follow her, keeping close. “Tell me what you were thinking. Help me understand.”

“What difference does it make? I just didn’t. And now it’s over and done with. It doesn’t matter.” Her voice rises as she steps away. When she pivots, she nearly runs into my chest.

“It does?—”

“It doesn’t,” she snaps, then freezes. Her jaw drops as her eyes search mine. “Do you… regret it?”

“No, baby,” I reply quickly, shaking my head. “Of course I don’t regret it.”

Her arms tighten around her chest. “I didn’t think you’d care… I mean, how many women have you slept with?”

If she slapped me, I swear it would have hurt less.

“What does my past matter? I’m not holding yours against you,” she adds.

I exhale sharply. “Wow,” is all I manage at first. Then, steadier, “It’s not about your past or mine. It’s about you trusting me enough to let me in. Isn’t that what people do when they care about each other?”

“This isn’t like the movies, Dom.”

She starts gathering her damp clothes, her movements fast, messy.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice tight.

“I’m leaving.”

And I thought her previous words gutted me.

“I thought I could do this… but I’m not sure I can.” She presses a hand to her chest, like she’s trying to catch her breath. Center herself. I don’t know.

All I can think is: she’s leaving.

I’ve been here before. I know what happens when you run after someone who’s already walking away.

So, I make myself stay still.

“Fine,” I mutter, the word bitter on my tongue.

Her eyes widen, flicking to mine for just a second before darting to the floor.

Stop her, you idiot, my brain shouts.

But I don’t.

“Fine,” she echoes.

Her hand hesitates on the door handle. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, almost too quiet to hear.

Then she slips out. The door closes behind her with a loud click.

For ten minutes after Mia leaves, I pace around my hotel room. My heart’s racing, way too fast for how slow my feet are moving, and I have a tension headache starting to throb behind my eyes.

Why didn’t I ask her what she meant by not knowing if she could do this ? More importantly, why didn’t I stop her from leaving?

Mia is not my mother. She’s not choosing something over me. She’s not using me. She’s protecting herself. I’m as sure of that as I am of my own name.

What does my therapist always say? People revert to their old habits. And Mia’s default is to run when she’s scared.

The conversation wasn’t finished. Sure, it wasn’t going great, but we could’ve worked through it. I should’ve told her that.

I still can.

Mind made up, I slip on some clothes and slides, grabbing my room key. I swing open the door, ready to go after her.

But there’s someone on the other side.

Emma.

I plow right into her in my hurry, steadying her automatically. But when I try to pull back, she wraps her arms around my middle. It’s a friendly hug… but it’s contact I don’t want right now.

My eyes dart down the hall, searching for the inevitable camera. Sure enough, a cameraman is tucked into an alcove across from us, Bodhi standing beside him.

He’s kept up his end of our bargain, giving Mia and me more off-camera time than they’d normally allow. But I guess his goodwill only goes so far. As he’s reminded me a dozen times, they have a show to make, too.

“Can I come in?” Emma asks, as she eases back.

“No. Now isn’t a good time,” I reply, too fast. Then I soften it with an “I’m sorry.”

I know I have to talk to Emma. Sooner rather than later, but I can’t focus on ending things with her when Mia just left upset, unsure where she stands with me.

Maybe Mia misunderstood my intentions for the rest of the show. Maybe the stress of it all got tangled up in our fight. Maybe she thinks I wasn’t going to break up with Emma as soon as I had the opportunity.

Technically, I already did… but Mia doesn’t know that. Fuck . I never had the chance to tell her.

I know I told Mia I chose her , but she probably thinks we’re still playing out this stupid fucking production storyline.

And I don’t care what production says. I don’t care what fines I’ll have to pay for breaking my contract.

I’m done.

“It’ll only take a minute,” Emma says, wringing her hands.

This is my first real opening to cut ties with Emma, and if I do it now, before production catches on to my plan, they can’t stop me. Without a runner-up, their whole dragged-out, tension-filled arc falls apart.

Plus, I could go to Mia and tell her we have a clean—okay, clean ish —break.

“Come in.” I hold the door open for her.