Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“You don’t have to tell me everything that goes on in your life—I respect your boundaries,” Gio says quietly. “Just don’t disappear on me, ‘kay?”
God, I seriously am a garbage human.
“I won’t,” I manage even though I’ve broken like, ten of the rules we set for ourselves and crossed several of his boundaries while asking him to respect mine.
Guh!
Austin takes the baby’s hand and waves it toward me gently. “Say bye-bye Auntie Nova.”
I swear, my bottom lip quivers. “Bye-bye sweet little Vivi. Auntie loves you.”
The baby gurgles unintelligibly while gnawing on her fingers, completely unaware she’s just cracked my entire chest open with her toothless smile and chubby little wave.
Austin smiles gently. “We’ll call you later.”
Gio just gives me a long look—the kind of look that says he’s done pushing but he’s still there. Always.
“I mean it,” he says. “Don’t disappear.”
And then the screen goes black.
I stare at the reflection of myself for a long time in the glossy black rectangle of my phone.
But here’s the worst part: if I could rewind time and do this all again? I would.
I’d still climb into Luca’s big bed. Sink into his tub.
Still meet him at the grocery store. Make dinner with him.
Hide him at the end of the hallway in my bedroom.
And that’s the part that wrecks me most: I don’t regret it.
Not even a little.
24
luca
I’m supposed to be thinking about my stride. About my stick angle. About defensive coverage and closing gaps and staying light on my skates.
But instead, I’m thinking about Nova.
Duh—what else is new?
Ha.
Coach is barking drills, and I hear him—kind of—but it’s like his voice is underwater, distant and distorted. Like it’s competing with the replay in my head of her bare shoulders under the bathroom light and the sound she made when I kissed the inside of her knee.
I swear I’ve hit the boards three times today because I was zoned out.
“Babineaux!” Coach shouts, jolting me. “Wake up!”
“Yeah.” I give him a thumbs-up inside my glove. “All good.”
It’s not.
Because Nova left this morning without a goodbye.
No note. No text. No nothing.
And I can’t decide if that’s a bad sign—or just her way of protecting herself from whatever this thing is between us.
As hard as it is, I’m trying to give her space.
I swear I am.
Even though every cell in my body is itching to reach for my phone. Even though all I want to do is check if she made it home okay, if she slept at all, if she’s feeling as twisted up inside as I am.
“Luca!” That’s Horowitz, our team captain, skating up beside me and nudging my shoulder with the blade of his stick. He taps it on the side of my helmet. “You alive in there?”
“Barely.”
“You’re skating like your legs are filled with cement. Everything okay?”
“Yup,” I lie, glancing toward the other end of the ice where Gio is on his knees, blocking a slap shot during shooting drills. Our eyes catch for half a second—nothing more—but it still punches the air out of my lungs.
He doesn’t know. He can’t know.
But he’s watching me today for some reason.
Clocking something.
Horowitz follows my gaze and his brows raise inside his helmet. “There a problem?”
“Eh? No.” I shrug. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
Didn’t sleep because I was up most of the night fucking and spooning Montagalo’s sister, who I’m falling in love with but who keeps me her dirty little secret.
The deeper my feelings get, the heavier the secret weighs on my chest.
Pressing down like a stone sitting on me.
I’m used to playing with pressure. I thrive under pressure. Late-game minutes, overtime faceoffs, penalty kills with the game on the line—I can handle all that.
It’s beginning to feel messy. There’s too many feelings involved.
When I have nothing more to add, Horowitz skates off, unconvinced but done pushing. I focus on keeping my blades under me long enough to finish the next drill without collapsing under the weight of all the shit I’m not saying.
Across the ice, Gio drops into a butterfly, pads flaring wide as he tracks the puck with laser focus. He snatches it clean out of the air with his glove, like it was nothing. Everything comes easy to him.
He rises. Stretches. Skates by with a smirk, fist-bumping one of the rookies as he passes.
And I feel sick.
Eventually we have a break, and wouldn’t you know it, he skates over to stand next to me, flipping up the plastic of his mask to let in a rush of cold air and take a swig from a water bottle.
“You look like shit,” he tells me, something casual you say to jerk-around a teammate.
“Thanks,” I mutter, dragging my glove across my mouth, wiping sweat and drool from my mouth guard.
Fucking gross.
“No, seriously.” He squints at me. “Are you dying? Or just hungover?
If I give him nothing, maybe he’ll move on.