Page 46 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

FORTY-TWO

My suitcase is ninety percent packed when the truth hits me: I shouldn’t have left.

Why did I run? Oh right, because that’s what I do.

I haven’t cried yet, but I’ve been fighting that sting behind my nose, that watery burn in my eyes, and the lump in my throat ever since I got back to my room.

Like most things in my life, I have no one to blame but myself.

I should’ve told Dom before we had sex.

I should’ve told him I was terrified when he asked me why I didn’t.

And when he inevitably asked why I was scared, I should’ve told him because I always am .

The worst-case scenario is my constant companion.

But now I can’t think of anything worse than losing him.

A little over a month ago, I called him the worst.

God, how wrong I was.

He’s the best .

The best thing that’s ever happened to me.

As scared as I am of losing him, he’s shown me so much patience and kindness. More than I deserve. But a person can only take so much of being pushed away before they need reassurance, and I failed miserably at giving him that.

I step into the elevator and press the button for his floor. All I can do now is hope I haven’t destroyed us beyond repair. That he’ll open the door. That we can finish talking, or fighting, or whatever it takes for him to pull me into his arms and tell me one more time that it will be okay .

My pace is clipped as I turn right off the elevator, but when I round the next corner, I freeze. Then take quick steps backward, ensuring I’m not seen. I press myself flat against the wall and peek carefully around, needing to be sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me.

Dom isn’t in his room.

He’s in the hallway.

Embracing Emma.

It could be nothing. It should be nothing. But why is she even here? Her date isn’t supposed to be until tomorrow.

Their voices are quiet, just murmurs I can’t make out. I lean against the wall, my hand over my chest, trying to catch my breath.

Thump-thump-thump…

Thump…

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

I try to soothe myself. To think logically. To put the pieces together. But they just won’t fit. The hive is swarming. Too loud for me to hear my own thoughts.

I check again.

They’re still looking at each other, too intently to notice me. And I don’t have to worry about being caught much longer because Emma steps into his room.

My legs give out, and I crumple to the floor. I stand no chance of holding the tears back now. My breaths turn choppy and shallow.

I try to focus—cool air in through my nose, warm breath out against my palm—but it’s impossible. I can’t get enough air in or out.

Like a goldfish out of water.

Drowning.

A sensation I relished only an hour ago.

Despite the wave of lightheadedness, I push to stand, bracing a hand on the wall for support.

I count down.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6…

Instinct takes over before I reach one.

I do what I always do.

I run.