Page 55 of The Rule Breaker
I haven’t spoken to her since that night. The night she pressed into me, her hands clutching my jersey like she was desperate for me to pull her closer. The night I kissed her, like Icouldn’t stop myself, like I’d been starving for it. And the night she kissed me back like she’d been waiting for me to make that move since the day we fucking met.
And now? I don’t know where we stand.
I haven’t texted her. She hasn’t texted me—except for that one message. The one I ignored.
The second I woke up the next day, I did what I always do. I grabbed my phone. Muscle memory. Habit. Call it whatever you want. I wasn’t even fully awake when I saw the notification.
Isabella:
Hey.
I stared at it, my thumb hovering over the screen like an idiot. Didn’t open it. Didn’t answer. Just sat there, staring at that one word.
I told myself I’d answer later. That I was too tired. Too busy. But that was bullshit.
I didn’t answer because I had no clue what to say.
How do I even talk to her now?
How do I look at her without thinking about how her breath hitched when I slid my hands down to her hips?
Without remembering the sounds she made when I kissed her?
Jesus.
I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to focus on something else, anything else. But it doesn’t work.
I still hear her.
I stillfeelher.
My brain is fucking useless.
And apparently, so is my reaction time, because the puck zips right past me before I even see it coming.
“Jesus, Ryan,” Logan mutters from across the rink, shooting me a look as he chases it down. “You playing in your sleep or what?”
I roll my shoulders, grip my stick tighter, and try to shake the distraction off. “I’ve got it.”
“Doesn’t look like it,” Cole chimes in, skating up beside me. “What the hell’s up with you today?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, letting out a harsh breath.
Cole arches a brow. “You’re acting like a damn zombie out here.”
“Is your shoulder still acting up?” Logan asks.
The guys won’t let up about last week’s game, like I’m some fragile fucking rookie instead of the captain. They’ve been on me all week. I know it’s their way of checking in, but I don’t want to talk about it.
I shake my head, trying to focus, trying to make the next pass smooth, but I’m off—way off. The puck skids awkwardly across the ice instead of finding its mark.
Cole narrows his eyes at me. “What the hell was that?”
I scowl, frustration bubbling up. “Nothing. Just missed the angle.”
Cole isn’t buying it. He shoots me a look, his brow furrowing. “Missed the angle? Or still hung up on the game?”
I clench my jaw. “I’m fine,” I repeat, more harshly than I intended. “I’m over it.”
