The crowd applauds, and Coach takes the mic. My vision is temporarily blinded from the spotlight and everything is still pitch black, so I have to feel my way through the crowd gathered on the sidelines.
As soon as I reach the hall, I can see again.
I can also breathe again.
With my back against a cool brick wall, I peer down the hallway, half expecting to see Rhett. Half expecting him to come barreling toward me in full gear with angry eyes and an unforgiving sneer.
But there’s no one.
They’re all inside, watching the skate-a-thon begin.
The sound of cheesy sports music pumps from speakers by the rink, wafting down the corridors and echoing off the walls.
Coach said this could last for hours. The last one they did went until one o’clock in the morning. It all depends on the guys, and since this is the off-season, their individual stamina will vary.
Drawing in a lungful of refrigerated air, I head back in.
If Rhett’s in there, and if he heard my speech, there’s no going back now.
What’s been done is done.
It’s a quarter past midnight by the time the ice arena empties. With heavy lids and tired eyes, I tell the guys to take care, and Coach Harris tells me he’ll be in touch with me with the final numbers soon.
Standing outside the rink, I order an Uber because it’s much too late to be walking through the city by myself, and I stand beneath the neon sign, waiting.
The little green icon on my phone tells me I have several unread texts from tonight. Most of them are from my mom, two are from Bostyn, one is from my roommate back in LA, and the other is from Rhett.
My heart stops.
And then I tap his name.
Relief washes over me in tidal waves. It’s an image of his bed, empty, and captioned with, “IT’S NOT TOO LATE FOR ME IF IT’S NOT TOO LATE FOR YOU.”
I check the timestamp. He sent it twenty minutes ago.
So he wasn’t here tonight.
Which means he still doesn’t know.
My shoulders feel a hundred times lighter, but I still think I should end this.
I don’t want to feel the way I felt tonight—ever again.
I get a push notification that my ride is a minute away, so I quickly compose a text telling Rhett I’m going home and going to bed. Three dots bounce on the screen almost immediately.
Rhett: IF YOU DON’T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE, JUST SAY SO.
Me: I’M TIRED. CAN WE TALK IN THE MORNING?
Rhett: NO. I DON’T DO TALKS. THERE’S NOTHING TO TALK ABOUT. IF YOU DON’T WANT TO FUCK, YOU DON’T WANT TO FUCK.
Me: IT’S NOT THAT I DON’T WANT TO FUCK YOU.
Rhett: THEN GET YOUR HOT LITTLE ASS OVER HERE RIGHT NOW AND PROVE IT.
I roll my eyes just as my ride pulls up, and then I concede. I tell him I’ll come over, but that I’m not going to fuck him.
This ends tonight.
It’s the right thing to do.
15
Ayla
“Knew you’d come around,” he says as he answers the door in nothing but sweats. His tan, muscled torso is going to be a huge distraction tonight, and I wish he’d cover it up because now all I want to do is climb all over him and go to town.
He reaches for my arm, pulling me in and slamming the door behind me, and then he backs me against the wall, his lips crashing against mine as his hand crawls up my shirt.
I swat him away. “Stop.”
He freezes, confused.
“I told you, we’re not doing this tonight.”
“Then why the hell’d you come over?”
“To talk to you in person.” I tug my shirt into place, and my heart beats a hundred times per second.
“Seriously?” he scoffs, dragging his hand through his messy, sandy hair.
“Seriously what?”
“You’re breaking up with me and we’re not even dating.”
“I just don’t think I can continue this arrangement. I’m not the fuck buddy type. I’m sorry. I thought I could do it, but I can’t.” I clear my throat, daring myself to look him in the eye.
“What changed?”
His question catches me off guard. I expected him to give me a manly huff and show me the door.
“Is there someone else?” he asks. “Are you already with someone else?”
“No,” I say, slashing my hand through the air. “There’s no one else.”
“Then how is this all of a sudden not working for you?”
The truth burns inside me, trickling up my throat and dancing on the tip of my tongue, but when I look at him and linger on his stormy gaze, the gaze that still drinks me in and wants me despite the fact that I’m pulling away right now ... I don’t have the heart—not after everything he’s been through. I can’t drop the bomb on him just yet. If I can sidestep my way out of this, maybe I can avoid hurting him altogether.
“I need a connection,” I say, opting to play the part of a future-needy-girlfriend. That should be enough to drive him away. “It’s weird screwing a total stranger. You can’t take your hands off me, but you don’t even know me. That’s not weird to you?”
His lips press flat and his brows merge.
“So that’s it?” He folds his arms.
I pause for a second. “In a nutshell.”
“Then no. It’s not weird to me,” he says, reaching for me and pulling my body against his. “Now get over here because you’re right, I can’t keep my hands off you.”
I press my hands flat against his chest.
“I want something deeper. Something you can’t give me,” I add, because the more impossible tasks I give him, the easier it’ll be for him to walk away. And he needs to walk away from me. It’s for his own good. I’m doing this for him.
“Deeper isn’t always better.” His lips smirk. “I mean, sometimes it is.”
“I disagree. Deep is the only way to go. Sometimes you have to go so deep, it hurts,” I say. “That’s where the good stuff is.”
“God, you’re making me want you so bad right now.” He cups my chin in his hand, bringing his mouth down on mine.
“Deep, Rhett,” I remind him. I refuse to be distracted by a kiss. “If you can’t go deep with me, I can’t do this with you.”
“See, you’re wrong about the deep stuff.” He pulls me closer against him, his hands hooking my waist tight. “The good stuff is at surface level, where everything’s perfect. When you go deeper, that’s when you realize everything you thought you had was a fucking illusion. That’s when you realize there’s nothing beyond the surface and there never was.”
I glance away.
“The trick,” he says, “is never to go below the surface.”
“I have to go.” I pull away from him, but he reels me back.
“Why are you doing this? What are you not telling me?”
“If I tell you,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat and letting a bit of reality slip through. “I’ll be going beneath surface level, and I don’t think you want that.”
He’s quiet now, contemplative.
“I don’t,” he says. “I don’t want that. But I still want you. I want you in my bed. I want your smart-mouthed text messages blowing up my phone. I want your company. Surely we can find some common ground. I don’t think you’d keep coming back if you weren’t enjoying yourself.”
God, he’s right. It’s exactly the reason I keep coming back. I like being with him.
Our eyes catch, and his hand lifts to my cheek.
“I don’t want to date you, Ayla. I don’t want to be your boyfriend,” he says. “All I want is something so physical, so amazing, that nothing we’ll ever have with anyone else will ever come close. And the beauty of it will be that we can both walk away unscathed because we never went deep. We knew when to throw in the towel—before things got tired and boring and ugly.”
“So you want all the benefits of dating me ... without actually having to date me.”
He laughs, his mood lighter, like he got it all off his chest. “Yeah.”
“Sounds great,” I say. “For you.”
His arms fall to his side, and he exhales. “Okay, then what do you need from me?”
“I need you to tone it down.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“You’re so intense,” I say, getting back on track. I think I can still convince him I want more. “You need to slow down. Enjoy this with me. And talk to me more. Even if you don’t care how my day went, at least ask. I’m a writer. I’m alone all day long. By the end of the day, I’m desperate for human interaction—real conversation. And moans and sighs aren’t quite the same.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll ask you about your day.” He blows a swift breath past his lips. He’s annoyed by this, I can tell. Maybe it’s working?
“And I’m going to ask about yours too. This needs to go both ways.”
He doesn’t seem too excited, but he gives me a nod. “Fine.”
I yawn, cupping my hand over my mouth. His bed calls to me, and it’s so damn comfortable. It’s a million times softer than the guest room at Bryce’s, which I’ve now concluded is the cheapest queen-sized mattress he could find.
“Anyway, I’m exhausted.” I push past him, helping myself to his surroundings like I own the place.
“Where are you going?”
“To your bed. You dragged me over here, at least show a little hospitality.”
I hear him chuckle, and then he turns out the lights. By the time he crawls into bed, I’m halfway to dreamland but awake enough to feel the bed shift and the warmth of his body as he inches closer to me. The last thing I feel before I’m completely out is the weight of his arm draping over my side.
Mission unaccomplished.
16
Rhett
It’s three AM when I find myself alone in a cold bed, my arm stretched to the place where Ayla should be. There’s a glow around the door frame leading to the hallway, and I climb out of bed to see what she’s doing.
Stepping lightly down the hall, I stop when I see her in the living room, seated on the sofa beside a dim-lit lamp, flipping through a photo album I’d forgotten to destroy.
For our one-year anniversary, Damiana took every photo she could find of our relationship and had them professionally printed in chronological order in a commemorative photo album.
“What the hell are you doing?” My voice startles her, and she drops the book to the floor, eyes wide.
“Rhett.”
“What are you doing, Ayla?” I ask louder this time, words gritty in my mouth and voice booming.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you just come out here and go through my shit?” I storm toward her, ripping the album out of her hands.
“It was on the coffee table. I wasn’t snooping.” She stands, looking uneasy. “I was wide awake, and I didn’t want to wake you, so I came out here. It was just sitting there. I thought they were family photos.”
“Even if they were family photos, they’re none of your fucking business,” I say, chest rising and falling.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She holds her hands out, steady, like I’m some crazy person she has to try to escape from. And, shit, maybe I do look crazy right now. Sure as hell feels that way. Her eyes water slightly, I think. I’m not sure. My vision is shaking right now.
Ayla rifling through my things, my personal belongings, my past, fills me with a quiet rage. I don’t want my past to intersect with my present. I need things to be the way they are right now. Separate. If they intertwine, I have a feeling I’ll come undone. This—Ayla … that’s all that’s keeping me together right now.
“I should go,” she says, averting her gaze. She won’t look at me.
“It’s three AM.”
“I’ve upset you.” Ayla’s hands rub at her sides.
“Of course you’ve upset me,” I say, sighing and rubbing my eyes. “But I’m not kicking you out. Just don’t do that shit again, you understand?”
She’s quiet, studying me. And then she licks her lips and exhales.
“I promise,” she says.
A moment later, we return to my bed, where we both proceed to lie awake, staring at the ceiling fan. Seeing her with Damiana’s photos in her lap was like a shot of adrenaline straight through my chest. I won’t be sleeping the rest of the night. It’s not the same now. Something has shifted between us.
“You’re breathing hard,” she says after a bout of silence. Reaching over, she places her hand on the burning flesh below my collarbone. “And your heart. It’s beating so fast.”
I roll to my side, my back toward her.
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. Again. “Please don’t be mad. I can’t go to bed if you’re mad at me. Just, try to let it go. Please. I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, and go back to sleep.”
I listen as her breaths slow and her body relaxes against the mattress, and then I attempt to do the same, only I fail.
I’m wide awake, replaying my reaction, the shock on her face, the cold, hard fear in her eyes.
I shouldn’t have snapped like that, but at the time my vision went red, then black, and every repressed sensation was bubbling to the surface all at once.
“Ayla,” I whisper, but I get no response. She’s out. Rolling to my side, I move closer to her, placing my hand on her arm and preparing to utter the words I rarely say to anyone. “I’m sorry too.”
But I’m not just sorry for the way I reacted.
I’m sorry for all of this—for convincing her that a no-strings arrangement with me was a good idea because I know, in my heart of hearts, eventually I’m going to break her.
Judging by the physical reaction I had when I saw her rifling through those photos, I know now that I can’t go deep. Not with her.
17
Ayla
I leave Rhett’s in the morning, when the sun is barely over the tops of the skyscrapers. He appeared to be sleeping when I woke, and I didn’t want to disturb him because I know he tossed and turned most of the night.
So did I.
When I grabbed the book off the coffee table, I had no idea it was an album filled with photos of Damiana, but once I started paging through, I couldn’t stop. She was so beautiful. They looked so happy together, so perfect.
What she saw in my brother, I’ll never understand. Maybe she was one of those girls who liked the asshole guys because they’re convinced they can change them? It’s like a game. I knew girls like that in college. The bigger the asshole, the bigger the challenge. The bigger the challenge, the greater the reward. They never even liked the guys, it was all about scaling that impossible mountain and making the heartless playboy fall in love long enough for them to give them a taste of their own medicine.
Plus, what girl doesn’t want to be the one that got away? The girl he thinks about when he’s with the next girl and the next?
I suppose some of us just have a little more restraint than others.
Anyway, I hope Rhett forgives me for looking through his photos.
It was an honest mistake.
I stop and grab coffee on the way home, using the Dean and Deluca gift card Rhett got me, and as soon as I step out of the store, my mother calls.
“It’s four AM there, what are you doing up?” I ask when I answer.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she says. “Sitting down for some coffee before I take the dog for a walk.”
“Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“Just one of those nights,” she says with a sigh. “I miss you. When are you coming home? It gets lonely without you around here, telling me what to read every day.”
“I still forward you articles to read,” I say. “Only difference is I’m three thousand miles away, not thirteen miles across town.”
“Well your absence is certainly noticeable,” she says. “Even the dog misses you. She’s been carrying around one of your old t-s
hirts lately.”
“I’ll come home soon,” I promise. “Tell Daisy I miss her too. I’ll check flights when I get back to the apartment. I’ll book the first reasonably priced one I can find. Who knows, maybe I’ll be home in a couple of days?”
“Everything going well out there?”
“Yeah,” I say, sipping my cooling coffee. “We had a charity skate-a-thon thing last night at the rink. Had a pretty good turn out. I’m meeting with Bryce’s attorney on Monday to go over his last will and testament.”
“Oh, you haven’t done that yet?”
“Nope. Been finishing my book and setting up this hockey foundation. I figure whatever’s in his will is going to add onto my massive to-do list, so I’ve been putting it off.”
“Do you need me to come out there, help you with some things?” she offers.
“I’ll be okay, Mom.”
“You know I will if you need me to.”
“I know.”
She’s silent on the other end for a beat or two, like there’s something she needs to get off her chest.
“You sound sad,” she says, exhaling.
“I’m not sad.”
“Oh, sweetheart, of course you are. You never got to meet your brother. That’s enough to make anyone sad. I know how much he meant to you.”
“He only meant something to me because at the time, I was a geeky thirteen-year-old with braces and frizzy hair and no friends, and the only thing I wanted in the whole entire world was a cool older brother because I was convinced it would solve all my problems.”
Cold Hearted Page 9