Page 163 of Jaded

“Ha. Right.” But why does my stomach feel fizzy? “You know that I’m the one who’s here to say nice things, right?”

“I’m not hearing that many nice things?” He tilts his head, one brow lifted.

“Jerk.” I catch his cheek against my palm and pull him close, so our foreheads touch. “Just when I thought you were being nice.”

“What about me haseversuggested anything nice?” The faintest hint of a smirk turns the corner of his mouth upwards.

That does something to my insides that I can’t decide if I love or hate. So I let my fingers slip from his cheek and my gaze turn out into the pattering snow. Invisible fingers clench my ribs in sudden tightness.

My eyes feel way too wet and I’m blinking way too hard and what is happening here? “I didn’t mean it. I think you’re nice. Well, sorta nice. Well, I like you, and I guess maybe that doesn’t mean anything, but like . . . I’m sort of a nice guy and you’re sort of a nice guy.”

He groans. “You’re making it worse.”

“My specialty.”

We stand there, tilted against the wall, in the snow, holding each other. Breathing in sync, hearts beating in sync. The faded afternoon light filtering through the snow in fits and starts grows greyer as the sun drops beneath the ragged skyline.

I’ve almost forgotten what we were talking about when he speaks again. “You want to know the worst part?”

“What’s that?” My words dodge snowflakes on a bitter breeze.

“It was entirely preventable.” His words slide out slowly, like children tiptoeing through a sleeping house, afraid to disturb even a mote of dust. “The fight. Getting kicked off the team.”

I tighten my arm around his ribs, letting him know I’m still here, not going anywhere.

“I was completely fucked up,” he says. “I knew it was going to be a big game—biggest of my career. Scouts, agents . . . everybody . . .” He trails off. “Couldn’t tell you why I did it, except that I’d been slipping for months. Just like everyone expected me to.”

“Maybe it was easier,” I murmur. “To just give up and be what everybody expects you to be. Whatyouexpect you to be. Rather than always trying to fight it.”

A sad little huff of laughter escapes. “How do you always understand me so well?”

“I’m telling you. Nat Taylor sixth sense—”

“No, see it is creepy—”

“Shut up.” I smack my open palm across his chest. “Finish thestory.”

“Which is it? Do I shut up or finish the story?” His brows arch in twin peaks of innocence.

Why is that so freaking adorable? God, Olls, get it together. “Finish the story.”

His brows relax into sobriety, and the lines of his face harden. I almost regret making him finish, except that I want to know. And I know he needs to talk.

“I cracked. And now . . .” He shakes his head, dislodging snowflakes. “I can’t reopen that dream and all those possibilities—for good and bad. I can’t break like that again. I can't lose faith in myself like that again.”

“That’s why you don’t want to do the tournament,” I realize. “Because you’ve stopped believing that you belong on the ice.”

His green eyes glow. “Is that how you feel on the dark days?”

My lungs shudder on an in breath. Release it. Struggle to pull in another, and I realize it’s because my throat’s too tight, an almost panicky choke tugging my chest closed, turning my breath ragged.

“It’s how I feel on most days. But the dark days, I can’t talk myself out of believing it. On dark days, that’s my truth, and it consumes me.”

Nat’s arm tightens around me. Pulls me flush against him so there’s no space between us, so we could be one person, one being, sharing a body as much as a soul. And heholdsme. Holds me together, just like I’m holding him.

“This isn’t forever,” he murmurs against my hair. “This thing you’re feeling right now. It won’t last.”

“Maybe not,” I concede against the soft skin of his throat. “But it’s a cycle—and I’m afraid that’s forever.”

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