Page 17 of Checking All Her Notes
“Had a lot on my mind.”
“About the game?”
“About everything.”
He stops walking. Runs a hand through his damp hair. Stares at the wall like it holds answers. “Maybe we should slow down.”
The words land like a puck to the ribs. Hard and unexpected and stealing all my air.
“Slow down?” I repeat, not sure I heard him right.
He exhales hard. Won’t look at me. “You’re sunshine, Soph. I’m not built for that.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out what’s happening. Trying to understand how we went from kissing in the tunnel to this. “Is this because I was cheering? You think I don’t get how intense it was out there?”
“No.” He shakes his head, jaw tightening. “It’s not you. It’s me realizing what this looks like.”
“What what looks like?”
“This.” He gestures between us. “Coach’s daughter. The perfect girl in town. Everyone loves you. And me?—”
“You?” I whisper, my throat tight.
He looks down at his hands. Those scarred, huge hockey player hands. “The guy everyone calls a bruiser.”
The word sounds different now. Heavy. Wrong. Like it’s grown teeth.
I reach for his arm, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “Jude, that was a nickname, not a label. I didn’t mean?—”
“I know.” His voice is rough. Strained. “But you don’t get it. You walk into a room and people light up. Kids adore you. Your dad’s proud of you. The whole town thinks you’re perfect.”
“I’m not perfect.”
“Close enough.” He finally meets my eyes and there’s something broken in his gaze. “I walk into a room and people brace for impact. They see the guy who fights. Who hits. Who breaks windows and probably breaks everything else too.”
“That’s not fair,” I say quietly. “You’re not who you think you are.”
For a second, just a second, I think he believes me. His expression softens. His shoulders drop.
Then something in him shutters closed. Locks down tight.
“Maybe,” he says. “But I don’t want to find out I’m wrong by wrecking you first.”
He starts to walk away.
I grab his hand, holding on even though I can feel him pulling back. “You’re not wrecking me. You’re making me feel?—”
“What?” His voice cracks on the word.
“Everything.”
That freezes him. His whole body goes still. I can see his throat work as he swallows.
Then he gently pries my fingers from his wrist. One by one. Like he’s being careful not to hurt me even while he’s breaking my heart.
“You’ll thank me later,” he says quietly.
I laugh. Can’t help it. But the sound cracks halfway through, splintering into something that’s dangerously close to a sob. “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said.”
