2. Emma

Hours later, I still haven't reached any sort of decision. Packing up my bag for the day, I'm flip-flopping all over the place. Pausing to stare out over the city, I feel a pang. I love being in a big city. How can I leave all this to go back home, where the local town is a fraction of the size of this place?

Sighing, I turn back to my bag and pick it up. Reaching for my phone, I dial Carrick, but it goes to voicemail. He is a fashion photographer, so I understand the need to switch his phone off when he's on a job. I'm the opposite. My phone is my job. I get more done on the apps than I do on the desktop. It's just quicker and easier. Feeling deflated anyway because I wanted to talk this out with him and see what he has to say, I head out, taking the lift down to the ground floor and walking outside into the cacophony of city life. The streets are buzzing, and I feel a momentary sense of reassurance. This is my world - bright lights, busy pavements, the constant hum of progress.

I start walking towards the train, needing to clear my head. My mind is a whirlwind of emotions. On one hand, the thought of leaving all this behind makes me want to scream. On the other hand, Dad's pleading eyes are in my mind—an emotional tug-of-war that I can't seem to win.

As I stroll past a line of trendy cafés and boutiques, I sigh and try to push it from my mind.

But it doesn't seem to go very far.

When I board the train a few minutes later, just catching it in time, I don't bother sitting. I've only got a few stops to go before I reach my station. I live in a trendy and eye-wateringly expensive neighbourhood in a gorgeous flat that my dad pays for.

"Fuckity fuck."

There it is. The kicker. My dad, generous to a fault, who wanted me to have a nice place to live and not somewhere seedy and tiny in a shit neighbourhood, rented this place and lets me live in it.

"Fucking hell," I growl as I storm off the train and up the steps, seeing the lovely flowers that line the pavements.

My phone buzzes, jolting me from this moral dilemma. I frown at it as I hold it up. It's a text from my best friend, Anna.

Sorry, babes. Call me if you need to talk. xx

"Huh?" Another message pops up, a photo this time, and my heart plummets to my feet before shooting back up again. "You absolute fucker!"

My screen is filled with Carrick, my supposed boyfriend, walking hand-in-hand with a beautiful, skinny brunette, smiling down at her, looking all loved up. She is so pretty. She is the Anti-Emma. I should've known he was too good to be true.

My shoulders sag, my bag sliding off and hitting the ground, but I don't care as I drag it along the pavement. This has taken the wind out of my sails, and while it's not the first time it's happened, I thought Carrick was different.

More fool me.

I keep walking, anger and hurt swirling inside me like a whirlpool. I try calling Carrick again, because maybe this is a misunderstanding, but it goes straight to voicemail again. Of course. My thumb hovers over the screen, itching to leave a scathing message, but I chicken out. Maybe later, when I'm not fuming and have sunk a few glasses of vino to give me drunk courage.

I shuffle through the front door of my flat, kicking my shoes off with unnecessary force. The sleek, modern decor now feels cold and uninviting—just like Carrick's stupid smile in that stupid photo.

"Right, Ems," I mutter. "Get a grip."

Straightening my shoulders, I grab a bottle of wine from the kitchen and pour myself a hefty glass. As the first sip warms me, I hatch a plan. It's time to prove myself, not just to Dad, but to everyone who's ever doubted me—including that cheating bastard. I slump onto the couch and stare at the ceiling, my mind racing.

First things first: learn something—anything—about ice hockey.

"Okay, Google," I announce to my empty flat as I pick up my phone. "Tell me everything about ice hockey."

As if sensing my desperation, Google gives me a quick rundown.

By the end of it, I've grasped the basics: players skate around with sticks, trying to hit a puck into a net.

Simple enough in theory.

But let's not kid ourselves here. It's like saying I understand how to create haute couture because I can pronounce "Givenchy."

I finish my glass of wine and pour another, determined to make a proper dent in the bottle this evening. Armed with Google's toddler-level crash course on ice hockey, I decide to take things up a notch. I scour YouTube for match highlights, tutorials, hell, and even blooper reels. Anything that'll give me an edge.

Part of me wishes I had paid more attention when my Dad was yammering on about it when I was younger, but bor-the-fuck-ing. I don't like sport. Of any kind. You just have to look at how my thighs squish together in the middle to see how much exercise and sports and I don't get along. Why work up a sweat and have hunger issues, then all you can eat afterwards is celery that tastes like hairy water and a carrot stick? Maybe an apple. Oh, and a Diet Coke. Yeah, nope. Give me full-fat Coke with a greasy pizza any day of the week. My stomach growls loudly.

Where was I again?

Oh yeah. Ice hockey. Somehow, my train of thought ended up on food, but that's not hard.

Ditching my browser to ring the takeaway, I order a pepperoni pizza, fries and two Cokes just because I can and who cares if I eat the whole fucking lot.

Not Carrick, that's for sure.

"Arsehole," I grunt when I hang up the phone and lie down on the couch. Picking up my wine glass, I attempt to take a sip without sitting up, which goes about as well as you'd think.

Wine splashes across my face, trickling down my neck and into my ample cleavage. "Wonderful," I mutter, sitting up and wiping the wine off my face with my hand and then licking it.

Waste not, want not, my granny used to say.

The doorbell rings, and my stomach does a happy flip. The food is here in record time. Considering it's a Monday night right before payday and a stone's throw from my flat, it's not all that surprising. I scramble to the door and open it to find a young delivery guy with a bored expression holding my pizza, fries and cans of pop. "Cheers," I say, forcing a smile as I hand him a generous tip. His face lights up for maybe half a second before settling back into indifference.

With food in hand, I head back to my cosy spot on the couch and dig in. The first bite of greasy pizza almost makes me forget about Carrick and his treachery. Almost.

By the time I'm halfway through my meal, I've absorbed enough hockey knowledge to mildly impress a toddler—if that toddler happened to be very generous and forgiving about my lack of enthusiasm for the sport.

I'm guessing the dudes at the Nessie Warriors are going to need a bit more expertise.

Wait.

Did I just decide I was going?