Page 97 of Breakaway Goal

No, I tell myself resolutely. We both agreed that we have to buckle down and study these last two weeks to do well on our finals.

Frankly, some of our coursework has slipped since we got back from Thanksgiving break. Rhys and I have been sowrapped up in finally being able to be together, out in the open, that it’s pulled our attention from our studies.

Not catastrophically so, but enough to make our finals even more important if we’re going to close out the semester with the kind of grades we want.

“Come on, get your books,” I command, stepping to his door.

“Fine,” he whines, before adding deviously, “You know, I like it when you’re bossy.”

I’m cozy in the nook of his arm while we walk to the library. As I look around campus, I’m struck by how different everything is compared to one year ago.

I’m studying something I love, living with my best friend, and dating the love of my life. One year ago, I couldn’t have even imagined how good things would be right now.

I look up at Rhys, and a heady feeling of expectation fills me to the brim.

I know that as the years pass, and Rhys is by my side, things are only going to get even better.

EPILOGUE

MADDIE

When I bump into someone from behind for the third time today, I realize I’ve become everything I’ve always hated: the kind of person who walks around with their eyes glued to their phone and absolutely no awareness of their surroundings.

But right now, I can’t help it. I can’t believe the way my notifications are popping off.

A couple months ago, Rhys encouraged me to make an Instagram account for my art. I did, and I’ve been uploading each new piece I complete. For a while, I’d get a couple likes or comments here and there.

I don’t know what happened, but over the last three days, it’staken off.

I’m getting hundreds, even thousands, of likes and comments. I’ve had dozens of messages from people asking if I have works available to purchase.

It’s surreal.

It’s my senior year, and I’ve been anxious about what I’m actually going to do once I graduate. Rhys, with his NHL career, never tires of telling me that I don’t have to do anything. And it’strue that he makes more than enough money for the both of us—many times over—but I want to have my own career.

I’ll never regret studying art, but it’s no secret that a guaranteed ticket to a stable career isn’t one of the benefits of an art degree.

I’m lucky to avoid bumping into anyone else—not to mention getting hit by a car while crossing the street—as I still can’t pry my eyes away from my screen until I approach the tiny off-campus house that Jasmine and I are renting together.

Once I’m inside, I’m finally able to bring myself to close out my Instagram app. But when I do, my eyes flit to my text message icon, and seeing that it still displays zero unread message notifications makes my chest sink in disappointment.

I texted Rhys this morning, and he still hasn’t responded. It’s not like him at all.

I roll my eyes at myself. I don’t want to be clingy and demanding. After all, things are crazy for Rhys right now. He’s knee-deep into the season, and he’s just been promoted to the first line of his team. Not only is he getting used to his new role, but he had a grueling stretch of back-to-back away games last week.

He has a couple days off now, so I was selfishly hoping he might try to make it up to visit. I know he needs to recover, and that his next game is in Tampa, so it’s not exactly convenient for him to stop by.

But I really, really want to see him. It’s been too long.

I breathe out a sigh and head up to my room. I think for the rest of the day I need to just zone out with cheesy, comfy movies. Between missing Rhys and being overwhelmed by the recent response to my art online, I’m wound way too tightly. I need to relax.

But when I open my bedroom door, relax is the last thing I do.

My bones almost jump out of my skin when I push the door open and see a figure lying in my bed—and a split-second later, my heart starts to gallop when I recognize it’s Rhys.

“Rhys!” I exclaim, my breathing ragged. I draw my hand up to my chest. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Rhys laughs, leaping up from my bed and tilting his shoulders. “Couldn’t resist.”

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