Page 9 of Captured Love

Isla hesitates. “Are you sure? I don't want to leave you alone like this.”

“I'll be fine,” I assure her. “Plus, I need to finish up this reading anyway and we are probably going to end up making too much noise in the library if we keep this up. I’m glad you stopped by.”

She studies me for a moment longer, then sighs. “Okay, but text me if you need anything.”

“Absolutely,” I say, standing up to give her a hug.

Isla gathers her things, and I watch her walk toward the library's exit. The silence that follows is both a relief and a weight. I glance at my phone one more time—still nothing from Knox. Not that I was expecting anything, yet I’m still annoyed. Sighing, I open my textbook and try to immerse myself in the words, because right now, it feels as if it’s the only steady thing in my life.

4

KNOX

Isit on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone screen. Selene's name glares back at me, taunting me. My thumb hovers over the text message icon, debating. A few quick taps and I could pour out everything I'm feeling. But I can't. I won't.

With a frustrated sigh, I toss my phone aside. It bounces on the mattress and lands face down, her name disappearing from view.

Thank fuck.

This is all for the best even though I still can’t get the time we spent together out of my mind. It was supposed to be a quick fuck, nothing more than casual sex, yet I keep replaying the moment as if it were a movie.

The way she looked at me when I left my bed is burned into my brain. Something told me getting involved with her, even temporarily, was a bad idea. Yet I let it happen.

I rub my temples, trying to prevent the headache that is already forming. This is the last thing I need.

I get up and pace my small room, glancing at the poster of the hockey legends that cover the walls. I wish things were assimple as going out with Wilder when he asked. I’m sure he’s still out doing who knows what. I assume he’ll roll into the house in a bit, but I’m kind of jealous that he’s living the life I should be: uncomplicated, fun.

Fucking a, I'm starting to sound like an old man. My old man, nonetheless.

My phone lights up and I freeze. For a split second, I hope it's her. Maybe if she reaches out first, it'll be easier. But I can see from here that it’s just a notification from social media. I walk over and pick up the phone, turning it slowly in my hands.

She's not even my type. Too smart, too ambitious. Girls like Selene want more than I'm able to give. They want a future, or at least someone who can stick around long enough to see where things go. I have one and a half more semesters, and then it's do or die for my career. There's no room for a real relationship.

Plus, I refuse to let my heart get fucked over again.

But damn if she didn't make me laugh. And not just laugh—I felt something when I was with her, something deeper than the usual hollow satisfaction I get from screwing around.

I shake my head trying to clear the thoughts from my mind. I need to use this anger and confusion and turn it into something productive on the ice.

My duffel sits by the door, packed and ready for this early morning practice, but I can’t bring myself to leave just yet. Instead, I flop back onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s cracked in a few places, the kind of thing you expect to see with college housing. One of the cracks looks like a lightning bolt. Another like a hockey stick.

I imagine the stick coming loose from the plaster, floating down, and smacking me in the face. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into me.

What the hell am I even thinking?

A loud knock startles me from my daydream. I get up slowly, hoping it’s not Blaise. It’s rude to think that and I know he means well, but I’m not in the mood for a pep talk.

“Yo, Knox.” Blaise stands in the hallway with his own hockey bag in tow. His blond hair looks messy, but I’m sure mine looks the same. “You ready? I can drive us.”

I pause. If I tell him no, that I want to go alone, he'll know something's up. But if I go with him, maybe talking will help get my mind off Selene.

“Sure,” I say, grabbing my duffel.

His car is a couple of years newer than mine, but that comes as no surprise. His parents are pretty loaded, not that he flaunts it much outside of the sick computer setup he has in his room. He unlocks the trunk, and we toss our gear in before sliding into the front seats.

Blaise fiddles with the radio as he pulls out of the parking spot. He settles on a rock station, then glances at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, but it comes out too quick, too defensive. “Just tired.”

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