Chapter 23
The towel slips from my hips as I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the bruise spreading across my side. Purple and ugly, a constant reminder of how fucking screwed I am. My ribs scream every time I move, but I deserve it. Should’ve seen the hit coming, should’ve been faster, should’ve—
“Fuck!” My fist slams into the mattress. That doesn’t help.
I stand and pace, hands in my hair, trying to shake off the anger clawing at my chest. But all I can see is her. Remy. Standing there in that trench coat, looking like every dirty dream I’ve ever had. Black lace, legs for days, that look in her eyes like she’d do anything for me to touch her.
And I didn’t. I couldn’t.
I grip the edge of the dresser, muscles straining as I hang my head. I didn’t push her away because I wanted to. God knows I didn’t.
But I’m no fucking good like this. Can’t even take a hit without breaking. Can’t skate without feeling like my chest is going to split open. What the hell am I supposed to do with her when I’m falling apart?
I glance at the mirror. My reflection stares back, all shadows and frustration. The bruise is worse now, darkening by the second. I press my fingers against it, testing, and the pain shoots through me so fast I nearly double over.
“Shit,” I gasp.
The bed’s right there, but I don’t want to sit. Don’t want to lie down. My body’s on fire, and my head’s spinning with all the things I should’ve done, should’ve said.
I shouldn’t have let her leave. That’s the first thing. Should’ve grabbed her, kissed her, stripped that fucking coat off her and—
My hand’s on my dick before I even realize what I’m doing. The memory of her, standing there, is so sharp it makes my chest tighten. I stroke slow, trying to focus.
But the pain flares again, right where my ribs are busted. My jaw clenches as I push through it, trying to block it out.
She’s in my head. The way her lips part when she’s surprised. The way her skin flushes when I touch her. The way she moaned my name last time I had her beneath me.
I grip tighter, moving faster. It hurts like hell, but I don’t care. I just need—
“Fuck!”
I stop, hand falling uselessly to my side. It’s no use. I can’t do this.
I drop to the floor, back against the bedframe, and let my head fall back. My ribs throb with every breath, and my chest feels hollow. Like something’s missing.
It’s her.
She’s the missing piece, and I pushed her away.
I rub a hand over my face, trying to swallow the lump forming in my throat. But it’s no good. For the first time in years, I let go.
The tears come slow at first, then faster. I’m shaking, and I hate it, hate myself.
But the tears don’t subside. They just keep fucking rolling down my cheek.
This is who I am now. A broken fucking mess. And I don’t deserve her.
I have never deserved her.
The rink buzzes with noise— sneakers squeak on the concrete floors, voices rise and fall, chants echo. The Blackridge Ravens are suited up, ready for war. I should be locked in, focused. I’m not. My eyes scan the crowd, darting past banners and faces. She’s not here.
Remy. My little slut. My fucking sanity, apparently.
I exhale sharply, pushing the thought aside as I adjust my helmet. Focus. One game, one win, one step closer to scouts.
“Coburn!” Coach yells. “You’re starting center. Let’s go!”
I nod, skating onto the ice. The opposing team, Eastbrook Falcons, is lined up. Big guys, fast skates. Doesn’t matter. We’ve crushed worse.
The puck drops, and the game blurs into checks, passes, and shouts. Adrenaline keeps me moving, hitting harder, skating faster. Every time I glance at the stands, I hate myself a little more. She’s not here, watching, but my dad is. His grin stretches wider than the damn banners hanging over the rink.
Third period. We’re up by two, and I’m gassed. I pull off my helmet during a timeout and lean against the boards. Caleb skates up, slapping my shoulder.
“Good shit out there,” he says, grinning.
I nod, barely hearing him. My eyes drift to Maya in the stands, standing up to hug Caleb when he skates off. I don’t know why it pisses me off, but it does. Remy should be there, wearing one of my hoodies, flipping me off when I mess up and grinning when I score.
Game ends. We win.
Locker room’s chaos— guys shouting, slapping backs, spraying water like it’s champagne. I sit on the bench, peeling off my gear. My dad’s waiting by the exit when I step out, still damp from the post-game shower.
“Good game,” he says, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. He claps me on the shoulder, but it’s not pride— it’s expectation. “Scouts will be here next game. Don’t fuck it up.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, my voice flat.
“You could’ve moved faster in the second period,” he adds, like I didn’t just help secure the win. “You’re holding back. Don’t let that tattoo of yours be a distraction.”
His eyes flick to my arm. The tattoo of Remy’s eyes, shaded and perfect. His fingers grip my bicep, hard. Too hard. I flinch before I can stop myself.
He smirks. “Thought so.”
I yank my arm back, flexing my jaw. “Eric’s waiting for our next session,” I say, keeping my tone calm. “You don’t want me late, right?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Smart boy. Dinner tonight.”
“Dinner?” I echo.
“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t make me wait.” He strides off, leaving me standing in the cold hallway.
I don’t go home. I drive aimlessly, ending up parked outside Hollister Hall, Remy’s dorm. Her lights are off. She’s probably out with friends, laughing, forgetting about me. My head pounds, a steady, nauseating throb. I can’t shake the self-loathing coiled in my gut.
By the time I get home, it’s late. The house is dark except for the faint glow under my dad’s office door. I ignore it, heading straight to my room. My body’s sore, my arm aches from his grip, and my brain won’t shut up.
I lie down, staring at the ceiling. Sleep doesn’t come. My mind replays her at my door, the hurt in her eyes when I sent her away. The fucking lingerie. She was perfect, and I couldn’t let her in because she would see the fucking bruise on my side. The pain– it’s consuming me. Every movement fucking hurts. I slam a fist into the mattress.
I can’t let her see me like this, so I fucked everything up instead.
Morning comes too fast. The headache’s still there, pulsing behind my eyes. I skip breakfast, avoiding my dad and his passive-aggressive remarks. Practice is a blur, just like the day before. No Remy, no texts, nothing.
By evening, the pain in my chest is unbearable. I collapse onto the floor of my bedroom, gripping my knees. My throat burns, and before I can stop it, tears spill over. I’m crying like a fucking loser. Not because we won, not because of my dad or the scouts. Because I might’ve lost her.
And I don’t know if I can get her back.