Chapter 16 #2
We move together with an ease that shouldn’t exist after so much time apart. My hands remember the curve of her waist, the way she fits against me like she was designed for this exact space. Her fingers tangle in my hair, and the slight tug sends heat racing through my veins.
The kiss intensifies, transforms from reunion to something hungrier.
I spin her, pressing her back against the brick wall, and she makes a small sound that nearly undoes me.
Our tongues meet, dance, explore with increasing desperation.
Years of wondering, of remembering, of regretting pour into this moment.
My hand finds her thigh, the fabric of her dress smooth under my palm.
She tilts her hips forward, an invitation I’m powerless to refuse.
My fingers slide along her stockings, the silky material a delicious contrast to the heat of her skin underneath.
She gasps against my mouth, the sound spurring me on as my hand travels higher, seeking, reaching—
She tears her mouth from mine, both hands flat against my chest, pushing.
“What?” My hands fly up instantly, palms out in surrender. Did the rough brick hurt her back? Did I grip too hard? Is she dizzy—the POTS thing she mentioned?
She presses her fingertips to her lips. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, but her eyes—wide and dark in the golden light—tell me this isn’t about anything physical.
“This is too fast.”
The words land like a bucket of ice water. My hands drop to my sides, shame flooding through me with nauseating intensity. What was I thinking? That we could just pick up where we left off? That I had any right to touch her like that after everything?
“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out, desperate to fix this before it completely falls apart. “You’re right. That was too fast. Let’s slow it down.”
But she’s already shaking her head, gaze fixed somewhere past my shoulder. “I don’t—I don’t know what I’m doing here. What we’re doing.”
Panic claws at my throat. “I’m attracted to you, Devin. I want to see where things can go. I’ve missed you.”
The words hang in the cold air between us, but she’s not listening. She’s already backing away, her heels clicking against the pavement in rapid staccato. By the time I process what’s happening, she’s halfway down the alley.
“Devin!” The shout tears from my throat, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow. Her figure disappears around the corner, swallowed by the night. “Shit.”
Rage rushes through me, hot and sudden. My fists clench so tight my knuckles crack.
I spin, looking for something—anything—to release this pressure building in my chest. A garbage can to kick, a wall to punch, but there’s nothing.
Just that bench, bolted down and immovable, mocking me with its permanence.
The anger drains as quickly as it came, leaving only self-disgust in its wake.
Of course this is my fault. Of course she’d be hesitant about starting something with me again.
Why wouldn’t she be? I abandoned her when she needed me most, chose hockey over her health, her needs, her everything.
And tonight, what do I do? Jump her in an alley like some hormone-driven teenager, like I have any right to her body just because she kissed me.
Another roar erupts from inside the bar. The game continues, oblivious to my personal catastrophe. Jeff and my friends are in there waiting for me, but walking back into the crowded restaurant is the last thing I want to do. Unfortunately, the first thing I want is also off the list.
I pull out my phone, my fingers clumsy on the screen as I type out messages to Jeff and Niall. Splitting headache. Had to bail. Sorry.
Almost immediately, Niall responds with a string of eggplant and peach emojis followed by a winking face. Jeff adds his own laughing emoji. They think I left with Devin for an entirely different reason. The irony tastes bitter.
I shove the phone back in my pocket without correcting them and stumble out of the alley. The main street is busier than expected tonight. Couples hand in hand enjoying the night, groups of friends laugh as they walk by. Everyone else’s life continuing normally while mine implodes.
My eyes scan everywhere for any sign of Devin, but she’s vanished.
The walk to my car feels endless. Each step replays the disaster in my head.
The way her body felt pressed against mine.
The desperation in my touch. Her face when she pulled away—not angry, but something worse. Disappointed? Afraid?
I fumble with my keys, drop them, curse as I bend to retrieve them from a puddle of slush. Finally behind the wheel, I start the engine and pull out into traffic, driving on autopilot while my mind churns.
Bailey showing up threw me off balance. That’s what I tell myself, but it’s a weak excuse.
The truth is simpler and uglier—I wanted her too much to think clearly.
Years of fantasizing about what it would be like to touch her again, to kiss her again, and when the opportunity presented itself, I grabbed it with both hands like a drowning man clutching at driftwood.
Will she ever even talk to me again after this? Or have I ruined the only opportunity I had to see if we could start over, be what we should have been before?
At home, I climb the stairs to my apartment, each step heavier than the last. The space feels suffocating the moment I cross the threshold. The walls press in, the air too thick, too still. The silence screams at me.
I can’t stay here.
My running shoes are by the door where I kicked them off this morning—a lifetime ago when today still held promise. I lace them up with shaking fingers, swap my heavy winter coat for a lighter running jacket. The door slams behind me with more force than necessary.
The neighborhood spreads out before me, houses glowing with warm yellow light against the darkness.
Through windows, I catch glimpses of other lives—a family gathered around a dining table, someone curled up on a couch with a book, a couple washing dishes together, laughing at something on the small TV mounted on their kitchen wall.
Every scene is a reminder of what I don’t have. What I threw away once and managed to destroy again in the span of five minutes.
My feet pound against the pavement, finding a rhythm that does nothing to quiet my thoughts.
What was I thinking? The question loops endlessly.
I should have been patient, careful. Should have let the kiss end naturally instead of escalating like my life depended on it.
But no—I was greedy. Weak. Thinking with my dick instead of my brain like some rookie who’s never been around a beautiful woman before.
The nausea hits suddenly, violently. I barely make it to the gutter before my stomach empties itself onto the ice-slicked street.
Beer and bile burn my throat as my body heaves with the force of it.
When there’s nothing left, I collapse onto the curb, not caring that the ice immediately soaks through my pants.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, the taste still acidic and wrong.
My stomach continues to churn, but I can’t tell anymore what’s physical and what’s emotional.
How did I become this person? This pathetic shadow of someone who used to have his life together, who used to know how to be with someone without destroying everything he touched?
If I’d just controlled myself, we might be sitting in that pizzeria right now.
Sharing stories about our days, laughing at something silly one of my players did.
Her hand might be resting on the table where I could reach for it, tentative but welcome.
Instead, I’m sitting in the gutter—literally—with vomit on my shoes and the taste of regret in my mouth.
I push myself to my feet, legs unsteady.
Niall’s house sits at the corner, porch light on, living room window flickering with TV light.
For a moment, I consider knocking, spilling everything to my friend.
But what would I say? That I ruined the best thing that happened to me in years because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself?
No. This shame is mine to carry.
I turn away from the warm lights of inhabited homes and head back out into the darkness for another mile.