Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Annabelle
I’m on the couch in pajamas that have seen better years, double-fisting a bowl of popcorn and a mug of tea like a woman trying to rebuild her life from the inside out.
Shari’s name flashes across the screen.
I answer with a sigh. “Please tell me you’re calling to say you found a way to delete the entire internet.”
She doesn’t even say hello. “TURN ON CHANNEL 7. NOW.”
I blink. “No. Hard pass. I’m not watching Mark cry his way through another publicity stunt.”
“It’s not about Mark. Well, it is. But also not. Annabelle, I swear on my Sephora points, you need to TURN. IT. ON.”
“Why?”
“I’m not allowed to say.”
“Shari.”
“Dex threatened me.”
I sit up. “What?”
She inhales sharply. “GIRL JUST DO IT.”
She hangs up.
Of course she does.
I stare at my blank TV.
I stare at my popcorn.
I stare at the ceiling like maybe God will send a memo.
Nothing.
So I grab the remote, muttering, “This better not ruin my night more than it already is.”
The screen flashes to life.
A packed plaza. A stage. Screaming fans.
And then…
Mark.
Of course.
I groan. “Shari, why would you…”
Then the camera pans.
And I see Dex.
Near the stage.
Followed by Colby. Eli. Gabriel.
My bowl hits the couch cushion.
“Oh no.”
Mark lifts the mic with tortured-artist seriousness.
He sings the first verse of his song with all the sincerity of a man auditioning for a lead role in Delusion: The Musical.
Then…
A whistle.
A loud, piercing Dex whistle.
Mark jumps. The band stops. The crowd gasps.
And my boys, MY boys, swarm the stage like unhinged backup dancers who escaped from a locker room.
Colby grabs the mic. “LISTEN UP, AMERICA!”
Eli harmonizes badly on purpose. “We got FACTS!”
Gabriel spins like a dramatic lighthouse and declares, “Truth incoming!”
Dex waves a folded paper. “Receipts, motherBLEEP!”
I choke on my tea.
The musical number that follows should be illegal. Actually, I’m pretty sure parts of it are.
Colby belts accusations like he’s performing at a diva showdown. Eli croons about cheating scandals. Dex does slam poetry that rhymes ‘victim’ with ‘kicked him.’ Gabriel performs an interpretive dance that looks vaguely spiritual.
I grab a pillow and scream into it.
They are exposing Mark on live television.
They are exposing Mark on live television FOR ME.
Mark sputters, panics, melts into a sweaty puddle of guilt.
And then…
The confession.
“FINE! I used it for publicity! Annabelle told me to stop! She doesn’t want me back! She wants your hockey idiot! It was ALL FAKE!”
I freeze.
My heart thunders.
“Your hockey idiot.”
Bryce.
The camera swings to Bryce for a second or two. I rewind. Watch Bryce’s face as those words hit him.
He looks cracked open. Like someone finally turned a light on inside him.
My eyes burn.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “He still… he still cares.”
The show dissolves into chaos. The guys pose for the cameras like criminals accepting Oscars. Fans scream. Someone in the crowd faints.
I cover my mouth and laugh until tears spill over.
I have absolutely no idea what to do with any of this.
My phone is already in my hand before my brain catches up. I jab Shari’s name.
She picks up on the first ring. “DID YOU SEE IT?!”
I’m half laughing, half shrieking. “WHAT DID THEY DO?!”
“They committed a felony-level Broadway number on live television!” she yells back. “Dex said he was going to keep it subtle! THAT WAS NOT SUBTLE!”
“I KNOW! THEY SANG. THEY DANCED. GAbrIEL DID… I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT HE DID!”
“Girl, he did a spiritual cleansing with jazz hands. My soul left my body.”
I drag a hand down my face. “Holy shit, can you believe this?”
Shari snorts loud enough to rattle my speaker. “Honestly? Yes. Alpha hockey dudes are a menace. They fight, they punch, they skate like gods, they screw like they invented it, and then they turn around and have the emotional range of golden retrievers with abandonment issues.”
I wheeze. “They’re like… violent teddy bears.”
“Exactly! Big hot idiots with protective instincts cranked to eleven. They see danger and go full superhero. They see you crying and suddenly they’re writing diss tracks on live TV.”
I flop back against the couch cushion. “Okay, but this was psychotic even for them.”
“Babe,” Shari says, “they love you. Hockey men don’t do subtle. They do dramatic gestures and property damage.”
I snort. “True that!"
Shari laughs. “Exactly. Now go hydrate. I bet you screamed through half that broadcast. I have to text Dex and tell him mission accomplished.”
***
Hours later, I’m pacing my apartment, wearing holes in my carpet. My heart keeps flaring with hope I refuse to trust.
There’s a knock.
My whole body goes still.
No. No way.
I open the door.
Bryce stands there.
Hair messy, chest rising fast, hoodie half-zipped, looking like he ran here straight from a bad decision.
He smells like lemon cleaner and… garlic?
I blink. “Did you eat an entire Italian restaurant?”
He winces. “We had Greek food. A lot of it. This wasn’t planned.”
“What wasn’t?”
He steps in. Not fully. Just enough that I can see the fear and determination warring in his eyes.
“Us,” he says. “This. I should’ve been here a week ago.”
My throat tightens. “Bryce…”
He lifts both hands. “Wait. No. Let me…”
“Let me explain…” I interrupt.
“You didn’t deserve…”
“I should’ve told you…”
We both stop.
We both exhale.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. You go.”
I swallow. “I didn’t tell you I was meeting Mark because I wasn’t even sure I could get through that conversation without crying or stabbing him with a butter knife. I didn’t want it to affect your game. And I didn’t think he’d dare try anything public again.”
Bryce mutters, “He dared.”
“I know.” My voice softens. “And I wasn’t getting back with him. Not ever. I just needed him to stop pretending we were some romantic tragedy.”
He nods. “I know that now.”
I look down. “When you pulled away… I thought I made everything worse. I thought you regretted me.”
Bryce steps closer. “Annabelle. I didn’t regret you for a second.”
His voice is quiet, rough. “I hated how much you mattered. Hated that one look from you could knock me sideways. It messed with my head. Made me think I wasn’t your first choice, that I’d get hurt, that you’d wake up one day and realize you deserved someone safer than me.”
I whisper, “Bryce…”
“And then I acted like a fucking coward. I ghosted you. I made you feel alone. I hurt you.”
My breath shakes. “You did.”
He nods, jaw tight. “I’m sorry. For all of it. For not trusting you. For disappearing. For letting my pride run the show. For not stepping up and fighting for us the way I fight everything else.”
I stare at him. Garlic breath and all.
He gives a weak laugh. “This is not how I imagined apologizing. I had a whole speech planned. Flowers. Candles. Minimal garlic.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “You really do smell like a Mediterranean food truck.”
He groans. “I know. The guys wouldn’t let me shower. They said I had to ‘strike while the emotions were hot.’ I’m pretty sure that was code for ‘let’s make Bryce suffer.’”
I press a hand to my mouth, smiling. “They love you.”
“They love you, too. They exposed a country music star in song form. For you.”
“For us,” I correct softly.
He goes still.
Something warm and bright flows between us.
He lifts a hand slowly, like he’s giving me time to stop him. He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, fingertips brushing my cheek.
My breath catches.
We lean closer. Not touching. Not kissing. Just breathing the same air.
It feels like a beginning.
“I want to kiss you so badly,” Bryce whispers. “But not until I get a toothbrush and enough mouthwash to fix whatever the hell that garlic massacre was.”
He steps back a little, like it physically hurts him.
“You'll be at the game tomorrow?” he asks. His voice is hope wrapped in nerves.
I nod. “Front row.”
His whole body relaxes. His shoulders drop. His mouth curves.
“Then I’m winning for you.” He hugs me, turns toward the door, pauses, looks back with that crooked smile that ruins me. “And after that… don’t make plans.”
He leaves.
My knees give out.
I sink onto the couch, clutching a pillow, smiling like an idiot.
And if Bryce Blackhorn thinks I’m surviving “don’t make plans” with my sanity intact, he’s out of his damn mind.
Still, I go to bed smiling like someone who absolutely is making plans. Hot, sexy plans. Even if I pretend I’m not.
Sanity didn’t just leave my brain, she muttered “good luck with that” on her way out the door.