Page 122 of The Puckable Playbook

“Me neither,” I tell him. His teammates call again, and guilt rises up. “Look, you should go.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

I shake my head. “Not tonight, Zaiah. I’m proud of you, though.” My voice catches. “I’m really proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you,” he echoes, eagerness lacing his voice, but I can’t shake the thought that I had to wrangle the compliment out of him. It’s as if I had to tie a rope around his focus and pull it toward me to draw it out of him.

“See you later,” I tell him.

“Hey, Len. We’re good, right?”

“I… I think so,” I answer honestly. The area behind my eyes heats, and I have to get out of here before he sees me cry. I can’t take him away from celebrating tonight. That wouldn’t be cool. No matter how much I want him to come back and hold me all night, I can’t keep him away from this moment. “Have fun, okay?”

Turning, I walk away. His teammates call again, angrier this time. The first tear falls, wetting my cheek in a trail that leads all the way past my chin, clinging to my throat.

It hits me how wrong this is. Everything about it. I had a win tonight, too. Instead of going out with my friends, though, I’ll spend it crying into my pillow.

And the one person who could make it right went off to celebrate his win. A fact I can’t even get mad about.

Maybe I need a real dating coach because this shit is confusing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Zaiah

The bed smells like…me.

I push my head deep into the pillow and sniff. No hint of Len’s shampoo. Or her body spray. Her scents have disappeared over the last few days. Dejected, I flip to my back and stare at the ceiling.

I already know what I’ll find when I walk out into the suite. If she’s here, she’ll be perfectly cordial. She might even kiss me on the cheek. When asked, she’ll say nothing’s wrong, but something is. She’s checked out. The beginning stages of zombieism or something. There’s none of the banter, or the laughs, or anything even close to a genuine smile.

She’s going through the motions, and I did that to her.

I throw the covers off and pull on some gym clothes. The weight room has been my friend lately. That smells awful, too, but at least it doesn’t feel like this. Like I somehow broke her. If there was a button I could push, a switch to toggle, I’d make sure it was in the right position.

After realizing she was right, I tried to tell her I’d do better. The day after our infamous win, I tried to have a heart-to-heart, but it was one-sided. At least at the gym, when something weighs heavy, I get some resistance. Some push back.

The aroma of burnt toast greets me as I walk into the kitchen. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

I bite the inside of my cheek. The excuses she’s given me for treating me like a roommate ring through my ears. She’s tired. She’s busy. She’s a thousand other things, but what she never says again is how I let her down. How I took her trust in me—the person she thought I was—and ruined it.

“Did you get something to eat?” I ask, only for something to say.

“Toast. Are you going to the gym?”

“Mm-hmm.”

She gets up and places her dirty dish in the sink. “I have some homework.”

“It’ll be nice when that’s over.”

“Yeah.”

She waves before turning to head to her room. She freakingwaves.

If she was another girl, I’d think she’s giving me the cold shoulder on purpose, maybe even sleeping around and feels guilty enough to avoid me. But with Len, that’s not the case. I doubt she even realizes she’s pulled away to where I can’t reach her.