Page 143 of Jaded

The urge to talk builds on my tongue. And yet the words catch in my throat.

“Look how well I’m handling my life.” I huff a dry laugh. “This is why I play here, Olli. Not with the Dingoes. Because I belong here. I don’t want my damn daughter to see me like that. To know—”

My voice breaks.

But I continue anyway. “To know how much of a fuck-up her father is.”

“I get it,” Olli murmurs, looking down at his own hands. Flexing his own long, smooth fingers. No scars on those hands, no ink. “Trust me, I get it. When I get stuck in my head . . . you really think I want the whole world seeing me like that?”

The soft words halt any others. “No.”

“No. Nobody wants to show the world they’re broken. Ja—” Olli’s voice breaks, forcing him to start again. “Jaded. Damaged goods. Irreparable.”

I focus on his words. On my breath. On my hands dangling over my knees.

“But at the same time, we’re drawn to the people who reflect our darkness. That’s why the crowd loves you—because they see themselves in you.”

Why is breathing so much more difficult when he’s around? His words from before drift back to me.You are the representation of Day River.

“I can’t . . . ” I sit back, putting space between us. “I can’tbewhat everybody expects me to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t be this . . . thishero of the people.” I tilt my head back, close my eyes. Looking at him makes me want to shatter. “That was my dream so long ago, and it broke me. And I can’t go back to that.”

“But that’s the thing,” Olli says, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s not the same dream. It’s not the same expectation. It’s not wearing a mask—it’s showing the world what you really are. Broken and beautiful. And letting them love you for that.”

A huff of breath escapes my lips, something that might be laughter. “And what about you, Olli? Will you do the same?”

“It’s not the same,” he says, his voice suddenly small, lost. Like maybe he’s not the sturdy Aspen after all—maybe he’s the Mouse and I’m just the asshole that made him feel so small.

A new wave of guilt floods me. Ever the asshole. “I . . . didn’t mean that.”

“No, you’re right.” He offers me a tight smile, one that barely turns the corners of his lips. “It’s instinct, to hide our darkest, most broken pieces. I get that better than anyone. But at the end of the day, don’t listen tomeor tothemor anybody else.” His hand rests against his chest, over his heart. “Listen toyou.”

He leaves me with those words. Alone, reeling.

I toss my skates into my bag. Stand. But by the time I leave the locker room, Olli’s already long gone. Still, I follow his ghost into the night.

It’s probably best if Idon’tknow whether Jesse won the Ice Out tonight.

Chapter 35

Olli

Natisn’tatpracticethe next day.

I know he’s around, because I see him on the Zam cutting the ice before, but he doesn’t pop by the locker room to shoot the breeze or ask about skates.

Something’s off. Call it that Nat Taylor sixth sense—maybe honed from all the time and energy I spend trying not to look at him and think about him—that unique and acute ability to read his aura. Mom would love that.

Regardless, I know something had him riled before he stepped out on that ice last night, and I wish he’d tell me what it was.

Which, naturally, leads to Classic Olli Overthinking™. Should I say something? As his friend—but we’re not just friends, are we? Not anymore. And that puts a different kind of pressure on the situation.

We don’t worry about pushing our friends away with concerned curiosity, not in the same way we worry about coming on too strong to lovers. Not that we’relovers—

Cut it out, Olls.

---