Page 16 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I leave the window and sink down onto the edge of the bed, absentmindedly pulling at my sweatshirt. It’s soft, worn at the elbows, one of the ones Jenna grabbed for me.
My thoughts spin as I pull my knees up to my chest.
Part of me knows I’m in triage mode, letting the emotional fallout of my fiancé’s betrayal hit me in small waves. Because the full tidal crash would break me in half.
But the idea of a practice rink, a quiet place in the stands, a little distance from the wreckage of my almost-marriage…
It doesn’t sound so bad.
It’s just practice. A place with strangers who don’t know me, who won’t ask questions or look at me with pity. That feels like a gift.
I think about the way Jackson looked at me tonight. Not like I was broken. Not like I was a burden. Just… like hesawme. And maybe didn’t mind having me here.
The covers rustle as I slide under them, pulling the comforter to my chin. I close my eyes, but my thoughts don’t follow. They’re skating ahead, fast and unpredictable.
It’s been more than twenty-four hours since I ran from the altar. Since my entire future shifted, like a fault line beneath my feet.
I should be curled up in a ball somewhere, too heartbroken to breathe. But instead, I am in a warm, safe place, thinking about going to the Pittsburgh SteelClaws practice rink tomorrow.
And if I’m honest…
Maybe I just want to watch him skate.
The thought makes me laugh: quiet, breathless, and a little embarrassed.
What is wrong with me?
The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a single lamp, but soon my gaze turns back to my phone.
I don’t want to pick it up.
But I do.
It lights up the second I touch it, and the screen floods with notifications. Missed calls. Texts. Voicemails. All from the same names.
Brad (27)Mom (6)Greg (1)
I swipe into the messages, against my better judgment. A new wave from Brad has come in since this morning.
Ava, please just hear me out.
You’re blowing this way out of proportion.
It didn’t mean anything.
Why are you punishing me like this?
Your parents must be freaking out.
Please, I still love you.
Come home.
My chest tightens, and I press my palm to my sternum. The desperation in his tone is only rivaled by the guilt trips. I know this pattern. The whiplash of charm and manipulation.
And I’m not falling for it again.
I exit the message thread before I lose my nerve and click to call my mom instead.
