22 - Avery #2
I motion around us, paying close attention to the people ensuring that we’re not truly alone. “You do know I’m here for a soccer game, right?”
“Don’t play dumb."
“You don’t own New York, Damon.” I laugh again, this time entirely without humor.
“Are you trying to make me look like an idiot?”
“You do that all on your own.”
His hand disappears into his suit jacket, pulling out his phone. When he shoves the screen toward me, understanding lands.
The photo is grainy and taken from a distance, but it’s unmistakably me.
I’m pressed against Grayson on the dance floor, his hands on my hips, my face tilted toward his while the crowd blurs around us. The sight of it sends a strange rush of heat through me. I hadn’t realized how obvious we’d looked.
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
“A teammate.”
I look back at the picture. At Grayson, and the way he’s looking at me. It’s like no one else even exists.
Then I force my attention back to Damon.
“So?”
His eyes flash. “Quit pretending to be dense, Avery.”
My patience evaporates. “I’m not pretending anything.”
“You wanted me to see this.”
“No.” My voice sharpens. “I didn’t.”
He scoffs. “As if you weren’t thinking about me.”
I just stare at him.
Six months ago, he would’ve been right. Back then, every decision I made somehow traced back to him. Every guy I met was compared to him. Every conversation eventually circled back to him.
Hell, when I first met Grayson, Damon lived in the back of my mind constantly.
Every time Grayson was kind, I wondered what the catch was because Damon had taught me that kindness always came with conditions.
Every time Grayson showed up for someone, I compared it to all the times Damon hadn’t shown up for me.
For months, being around Grayson was like a splinter keeping Damon’s wounds open just enough that I couldn’t truly heal.
But standing here now, looking at the two of them from opposite sides of my life, I realize that when I’m with Grayson, Damon doesn’t cross my mind at all anymore.
Not when Grayson makes me laugh. Not when he’s annoying the hell out of me. Not when he’s kissing me.
Somewhere along the way, Damon stopped being part of the equation. The realization settles into my chest with surprising clarity.
“I wasn’t thinking about you.”
Damon lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head as if I’ve just confirmed something he’d suspected all along.
“You’re exactly the same.”
I roll my eyes and move to step around him again. He reaches out to grab me, but then glances around, remembering we’re not alone. Instead, he keeps talking.
“Still dressing like a slut. Still spending your nights in clubs and chasing attention from whoever happens to be willing to give it to you.”
The words land exactly where he intends them to, but I’m too angry to let him see it.
“Fuck off, Damon.”
“No, seriously,” he says, looking me up and down with obvious disgust. “I almost forgot what you’re like. Some whore who wants to bag a hockey star.”
My jaw clenches. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“Why not?” he asks. “You’ve clearly got a type, Avery.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Am I?” His eyebrows lift. “Or am I just the only person willing to say it? Has no one else in your life told you that the only reason anyone wastes their time with you is because you walk around putting on one hell of a show? Tell me, did he fuck you as good as I used to?”
My stomach twists as his question lands.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
His mouth curves. “So you didn’t fuck him?”
The slight hesitation that follows betrays me. I’m furious that he still knows exactly how to catch me off guard. I’m pissed off with myself for letting him pull me over here to begin with.
Damon’s laugh is low and cruel. “That’s what I thought.”
My throat tightens despite myself.
“You think you’re different now?” he asks. “You think this one’s going to end any differently?”
“I was never the problem.”
“I would’ve warned him myself, but unfortunately, I was a little busy wiping the floor with his team and didn’t see the picture until after our game.”
The confidence in his voice settles like ice in my stomach.
“But don’t worry. We might see them in the playoffs. By then, he’ll be sick of dealing with you anyway. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to compare notes.”
“Grayson isn’t interested in hearing your bullshit.”
“No?” Damon asks. “You’re probably right. It won’t take him a month. He’ll figure it out before then. That being a good lay doesn’t make you special.”
I blink quickly, trying to force the moisture in my eyes back before I start crying. But my mind is somewhere else, remembering how I sat alone after our breakup, wondering if he was right about me all along.
Too much.
Too difficult.
Too everything.
I remember wondering if I should’ve stayed.
I hate that those thoughts still exist somewhere inside me.
Damon studies my face and immediately finds the crack. His voice softens, somehow becoming even crueler.
“When he gets tired of you, maybe go take the Philly captain for a spin. Should keep you occupied for a few weeks.”
“You’re a miserable asshole.”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
I want to believe he’s wrong. Grayson isn’t Damon. He never has been, but that almost makes it worse. Because if someone like Grayson eventually decides I’m not worth the effort, I don’t know if I’d have an excuse for it.
I force myself to fake a smile.
“Nice of you to come say hi. After all this time, you’re still just as much of a dick as I remember. At least you’re consistent.”
I step around him before he can respond, my face falling once he can’t see it.
This time, he doesn’t stop me.
But even as I walk away, his words follow me down the hallway, worming into places I don’t want them.
Damon doesn’t know anything about Grayson. But as much as I want to dismiss everything he said, one ugly thought keeps clawing its way back to the surface.
Grayson wants things from life that people like me eventually ruin.
Stability.
Commitment.
Forever.
And maybe Damon is wrong about almost everything, but when Grayson eventually realizes I can’t give him those things, the ending won’t look all that different. The only real difference is that Grayson will be kinder when he leaves.
As I climb onto the bus, I pull out my phone, sending the message I should’ve sent all along.
Me: There is nothing to talk about.