Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Noelle
The cursor blinks at me like it knows I’m lying.
I’ve been staring at the same line in this proposal for an hour, willing my brain to behave, to focus, to do something.
But the words just pool like water and drain through the cracks. Every time I try to reread the sentence, it slips out of reach again.
Like I’m chasing it underwater. Like I’m the one underwater.
The blanket around my shoulders is too warm. My coffee’s gone stone cold. My laptop feels like a brick on my thighs, heavy and useless, heat buzzing from the bottom like it might catch fire if I don’t close it soon.
I shift on the couch, my muscles stiff from staying in the same position too long. My calves ache, and my lower back twinges. I curl tighter into the throw blanket and stare at the screen again.
It wasn’t a breakup.
I keep telling myself that.
We weren’t a couple. We didn’t date. We didn’t promise anything. We just had earth shattering, mind-blowing sex.
But I miss him like it was more than just sex.
And I don’t know what that says about me—about how I let someone in that fast, that deep, without even noticing until it was too late to protect myself from the fallout.
It’s been a week since I stepped into the back of that car and didn’t look back.
Since I left his apartment without asking for his number.
Since I told myself I didn’t need more. That we were better as a one-time thing.
That I was better off not knowing what it might’ve turned into.
I chew my thumbnail until it aches. I haven’t worn makeup in days and barely brushed my hair. I haven’t stopped thinking about him for longer than a breath.
The worst part is, I did something stupid.
I went to the grocery store two days after I left him, wandering down the laundry aisle like a woman possessed. I stood there—middle of the aisle, blocking someone’s cart—sniffing every damn bottle of detergent until I found the one that came close to the way he smelled.
That warm cedar and skin and him smell I couldn’t shake from my memory.
I bought it.
Washed my towels in it.
Then stood in the middle of my bathroom with a fistful of terry cloth and realized just how far I’d gone off the rails.
I haven’t opened the bottle since.
I told myself I needed to stop. To cut it off. To move on.
But God, I miss him.
I miss the weight of his hand on my hip. The gravel in his voice when he said my name. The way he looked at me like I was more than a passing distraction.
I miss the space he carved into my life so quickly and without warning.
I haven’t been able to fill it back in.
Exhaling hard through my nose, I try to shake off the burn behind my eyes.
The silence in my apartment is loud—no music, no TV, no calls coming in. Just the low hum of the heater and the buzz of my laptop fan.
I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders, the knit catching on the dry skin at my elbow, and mutter, “Stupid heart,” like that’ll be enough to quiet it.
It isn’t.
I reach for my coffee, take a sip out of habit, and grimace. It’s cold and bitter, just like I’m beginning to feel like.
Maybe he’s already forgotten me.
Maybe he never thought about calling. Never wanted to.
I didn’t give him a way to reach me, and I didn’t ask for his. That was the deal I made with myself. No expectations. No vulnerability.
No risking the version of me I’ve worked so damn hard to protect.
Because wanting more means admitting I don’t have it all together.
And I don’t know how to want someone like him without breaking open the walls I’ve spent a decade building.
I close the laptop without saving. Curl into the corner of the couch and stare at the blank TV screen like it might give me an answer.
It doesn’t.
It just reflects my tired face back at me.
And still—still—I can’t stop wondering if he felt it, too.
The tug in his chest when I got in that car.
The ache I can’t shake now, no matter how many times I tell myself it wasn’t a breakup.
Because even if it wasn’t?
It hurts like one.
I must doze, because I’m jolted awake by my phone buzzing against the blanket draped across my lap.
It’s an unknown number with an Atlanta area code.
My heart pounds. Could it be Cal? Did he find a way to get my number?
I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
There’s a short pause. A flicker of breath on the other end. Just enough space for the tension to wind tighter around my ribs.
Then: “Noelle? This is Sloane Carrington.”
My stomach drops out, and my heart jerks like it just skipped a step.
I sit upright, the blanket sliding off my shoulders in a whisper of flannel and cotton. The chill in the air hits my skin like a slap, but I barely register it.
“Yes—hi,” I say, voice pitched high before I reel it in. I clear my throat, trying to sound composed. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon. Listen, I just wanted to thank you for how you handled the holiday event last week. I’ve received nothing but positive feedback—about the atmosphere, the pivot during the weather, the guest flow. You handled it all with professionalism and calm under pressure.”
A warm flush rises under my skin, crawling from my collarbone to my ears.
Her words shouldn’t affect me like this. Not after a decade of running point for high-level clients. But it’s been a long time since someone saw the full scope of what I do and didn’t just smile politely and ask me to “handle it.”
“That means a lot,” I say, my voice softer now.
“I was impressed. My team was impressed.”
I press my palm flat against my thigh, grounding myself. The worn cotton of my sleep pants catches under my skin. My pulse thuds under my ribs.
“We’re looking to make some changes this season,” she continues. “New energy. Fresh leadership in community engagement and in-arena fan experiences. We’re looking for someone who knows how to read a room and how to run one. You’ve got a talent for both.”
My fingers go a little numb around the phone.
The compliment is professional, measured. But something in it makes my chest expand like I’ve just stepped into clean air after holding my breath too long.
I nod before I remember she can’t see me. “That’s…wow. Thank you so much. I’m honored.”
“My team and I would love to talk more with you,” she says. “In person, if you’re open to it.”
I nod before I remember she can’t see me. “I’d love that,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out before my fear can catch up. “When would be a good time?”
“There’s a home game this Saturday,” Sloane says. “I’ll leave a pass for you at Will Call. Come as my guest. Watch the game. We can chat before the game.”
My heart gives a traitorous stutter.
A game.
He’ll be there.
Of course he will.
The Vipers are his team. His ice, his world.
And the moment she said next home game, I pictured him in that black jersey with the venom green trim, jaw set, eyes locked in that same don’t-look-away stare that made me feel bare and lit up all at once.
My fingers tighten around the phone. My skin prickles with memory—his hands, his voice, the way his mouth felt on mine like he’d memorized me already.
I feel it all like a match head strike in my bloodstream. A flare I wasn’t ready for.
“Absolutely,” I say, grateful for how steady I manage to sound. “I’ll be there.”
“Looking forward to it,” she says, and then she’s gone.
I set the phone down slowly, screen still glowing in my hand like an aftershock.
The room feels too quiet now. Nothing but the hum of the heater, the faint clink of wind against the window. My heartbeat thudding in my ears.
The edges of my blanket are bunched under my arms. My chest rises too fast and too shallow. The hum in my blood kicks up a notch, part adrenaline, part fear, part something I don’t have a name for yet.
I stare at the wall across from me. At the crooked little painting I bought last spring from a local artist’s market. The one I told myself made the apartment feel more like home.
“Well, Noelle, you wanted a sign,” I whisper to the room. My voice feels too big in the silence. “Guess this is it.”