CHAPTER FIFTEEN

E van

I am officially mortified.

I’m not sure what Stella could have said that would have been worse.

Vinnie is regarding me in a stricken manner.

Shit.

I move my gaze around. Isaiah and Jasmine are gazing at the parking lot pavement. Since it’s dark, and they can’t see anything there, even squished up gum or candy wrappers, I don’t buy their sudden concentration.

“Let’s go,” Jasmine says finally. “Sorry, Evan.”

Jasmine leads Stella away.

Isaiah is beside me, strangely. Somehow, I thought that he would scamper to the bus.

Instead, I think he’s casting a furious glance at Vinnie.

“I wasn’t crying that much,” I say.

“I know,” Isaiah says.

“She was exaggerating.”

“I know.”

“And I was injured. Probably does something to my tear ducts or something.”

“Yeah, probably.”

We’re closer to the bus.

“But, um...” Isaiah rakes a hand through his hair. “Just know I wouldn’t mind if you were...crying.”

I’m silent, but then he brushes his shoulder against mine, and a swell of relief moves through me.

“Thank you.”

“Always knew you had horrible taste, though.”

I elbow him.

We get on the bus, and I put my AirPods in and close my eyes and pretend everything is normal.

I feel gazes on me, and my skin prickles.

VINNIE

I stare at the back of Evan’s head, at the short hair I’ve felt in my hands, at his neck that I had the privilege of kissing.

My organs mush together, as if colliding from the force of my heartbeat, the zing of my nerves.

Leaving Evan wasn’t supposed to hurt him. Wasn’t supposed to hurt Stella.

I squirm. This bus might cost over half a million dollars, but now it feels hard and uncomfortable.

I’m not meant to be here.

Shame floods my body, traveling on each cell, until every single part of me feels miserable. Everything aches, and I can’t blame tonight’s opposing team.

Evan moves his head, and I notice.

Evan scratches his ear, and I notice.

Evan says something to Isaiah in that low raspy voice, and I notice.

Have I made a mistake?

Because if I’ve hurt Evan, hurt Stella, is there any way that this could not be a mistake?

Am I like the villain faced down by a superhero, shocked when I’m told that all my destruction is not good?

Stella isn’t Batman, and I’m not the Joker. Except...

I remove my phone. I’ve resisted going on social media sites, preferring pretending that those days with Evan never happened. Now I go to them.

It’s easy to find what I’m searching for. I click on the images of Evan and me on the porch, and my heart flutters when I look at Evan’s gaze on me, when I see how close our fingers are, how close our bodies are.

Then I scroll down. I read the comments.

There’s a more generous amount of vomit emojis than I’m used to on comments, but also more hearts, also more starry eyes.

Some people say we’re cute together, others say they knew it all along, and still others say that they hope it won’t throw us off our game.

It’s not the hate fest I imagined. It seems ridiculous to change my life for the people who commented negatively. I don’t know them. I’ll probably never meet them. They don’t matter, and Evan, God, Evan does matter.

I close my eyes.

So maybe I need to talk with Evan.

But maybe I’ll be too late. Maybe his eyes, once kind, once warm, will be rigid, like actual steel. Maybe his features will harden, and I’ll have to listen to him explain how he doesn’t want anything to do with me ever again.

I would deserve any awkwardness.

I tap my fingers against my seat.

I resist the temptation to trade seats with Isaiah. I want to talk with Evan right now. But if this goes the way I want, there will be kissing involved.

That’s how I find myself knocking on Evan’s bedroom door once we get to Hartford.

“I know you’re in there,” I say finally.

Then I stop because I totally sound creepy, and that’s not what I’m going for.

Evan swings the door open. “We don’t need to do this.”

I slip into the room, conscious of how unsteady I feel in his presence. Every fiber of my being wants to brush against him.

Instead, I brush against the wall and try to keep my eyes level. I didn’t come here to have my gaze linger on the planes of his beautiful face, as if they’re not already etched into my soul.

“We need to talk.”

Evan flinches, and I curse myself for starting the conversation with those words, as if I’m initiating a breakup.

“It’s really not necessary,” he says, this time desperately.

His gaze doesn’t find mine. His view is focused on the floor. And sure, this might be a four-star hotel, Hartford’s best, but that just means there’s no chance of insects crawling over grimy carpet pile.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” I say.

He swallows hard. He squares his shoulders, as if prepared to take a hit.

“I shouldn’t have left,” I say finally.

“Okay,” he says, his voice careful.

“I don’t want to make you unhappy.”

He flinches. “Don’t pay attention to Stella. I get it. I really do. We’re athletes. It would be a story if we got together. Maybe it’s not worth it.”

It would be easy to nod and agree that the air has been cleared. I can stretch out my hand for a fist bump, and that will be that. Maybe the next time we see each other will be slightly less awkward.

“I think I might have been wrong,” I say.

His eyes flick up toward me. “About what?”

“Probably about a lot of things. But I shouldn’t have left without talking to you.”

“I called.”

“And I didn’t answer. I really like you,” I blurt.

His eyes soften. “We used to be best friends.”

“Do you think...” I hesitate, overwhelmed by the frantic beating of my heart.

There’s a chance that things will go just how I want them to go, but there’s another, bigger chance that this will be the other sort of pivotal moment. The sort of pivotal moment that ends up with me in my hotel room, clutching tissues and not sleeping.

Half of songs seem to be about the wonders of love, but the other half seems to be about heartbreak. I don’t want that.

But I go through physical pain all the time in my job. I consider myself strong. Why should I not be here too? Why should I act like a weakling at this time?

Evan is still. Even his breaths are quiet, as if worried he could destroy the equilibrium in the room.

“Do you think we could actually have a relationship?” The words tumble out, but Evan’s face remains placid, like he’s playing poker.

I suddenly wish he weren’t quite so good at that. Maybe we visit Vegas too often for our hockey games.

“I’m not going to stop speaking to you,” he says finally.

I tense, aware I did stop speaking to him. I did act like he was a helmet or hockey stick—something around, but not to have a conversation with.

“That’s not the kind of relationship I mean.”

His eyes slide to me. His eyes are wider now, his skin pinker.

He’s the kind of careful people get when they don’t want to hope too much.

At least, I hope that’s the kind of careful he is.

I hope he’s not wondering how he can tell me that things really are for the best if we don’t have much to do with each other. I hope the pinkening of his skin isn’t due to awkwardness and unease about how he will explain that he doesn’t want me in his room. I hope he’s not worrying about gossip or rogue paparazzi wandering the hotel floors or looking at camera feeds.