Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 90364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“Coming out, Palaszczuk?” Kosik asks.
“Nope, I’m heading home. Alone.” Ezra stands abruptly and storms away without another word. I watch his retreating back, feeling sick.
“What about you, Hayes?” Kosik asks, and it’s only now I remember they’re even in the room.
Instead of answering them, I numbly grab my bag from my cubby and leave.
Screw the suit. I’ll take the fine.
Maybe Ezra and I never got along in the past, but this is our first real fight. Our first real moment where I’m actually worried we could lose everything. I’m determined to talk to him in the morning, hopefully once he’s calmed down, but that doesn’t help the gut-clenching anxiety that won’t go away.
I shove through the arena doors to the parking lot and thank goddamn Gretzky that I left my car here before our practice skate.
There’s a hollow feeling deep in my chest that won’t go away.
I shower at home, and by the time I’m done, I’ve calmed down a fraction.
Only a fraction.
I can’t stop pacing. I can’t stop stewing over that fight.
Leaving things so open-ended doesn’t sit right with me. Is he so superstitious he’d throw everything between us away?
Does he even feel the same connection I do? Ezra is used to casual sex, but I’m not. Is this me building things up to more than it is?
Yeah, there’s no way I’m sleeping tonight. Not until I have some answers.
I try his phone, but he doesn’t answer. Ignoring the pit in my gut, I grab my keys and head out. I know the smarter option is to leave this conversation until morning, but I can’t do it. If there’s a chance Ezra feels even a fraction of what I’m feeling right now, I need to do whatever I can to fix it.
The faster I can get to Ezra, the faster we can get this conversation over with. Starting it in the locker room of all places was a dumb move, but I’m not someone who can sit around overthinking things. There’s still a lot of traffic out for how late it is, and by the time I pull up at a red light down from Ezra’s apartment, I’m clenching the steering wheel hard. I still have no idea what I’m going to say, but I have to try.
I glance toward his apartment block and see two figures approaching. When they step into the light from the foyer, I pick out Ezra immediately and with him … Ayri Quinn from Buffalo.
They’re chatting, and even from this distance, I pick out Ezra’s easy charisma out in full force. Something about how close they’re walking, how Ezra holds the door for him to pass and gives him the same cocky grin that never fails to get me into bed—
Beeeep.
I swear and almost jump out of my skin, noticing way too late the light has turned green. I step on the gas, glancing back in my rearview mirror in an attempt to spot them, but I can’t.
My heart is pounding as I try to convince myself I didn’t see what I thought I saw.
We’ve had one fight.
One.
Going home alone, my ass.
I try to tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.
So what if Ezra took Ayri home? After telling me he was going home alone. And ignoring my call.
I’m completely torn over what my next move should be.
What I want to do is go to Ezra’s apartment and demand answers.
But what if this is exactly what it looks like?
My gut rolls.
I can’t see that.
I can’t.
So instead of driving to Ezra’s, I head back home, trying to convince myself that tonight never happened.
Twenty-Nine
EZRA
My head feels like it has its very own drumbeat going on inside. It goes hand in hand with the ache in my back and neck from passing out on my couch last night. The last thing I remember was taking Ayri Quinn back to my apartment to drown our sorrows but for very different reasons. Or maybe they were the same.
Me, over the loss of the game, my phone call with Dad, and Anton not picking up that I wanted him to fight for us, to give me a hint of something real. Him, because the poor kid is experiencing his first setback as an NHL player. The twenty-two-year-old’s boyfriend broke up with him because a couple of months of long-distance was too tough to handle.
Ayri being gay was news to me, and I don’t think he would have turned to me for advice if he had the choice, but I was the only out player there last night. I bet he wishes he’d been playing New York or Vegas instead. I kind of do too. I was far from being in a comforting mood.
But then Ayri Quinn cornered me on my way out of the arena and very awkwardly asked if he could pick my brain about something. I could tell by his demeanor I couldn’t say no. Just like those kids who have come out to me, I got a sense of what he wanted to say before he said it.