Page 96 of Puck Your Feelings
Becker's eyebrows shoot up. "Could have fooled me."
I sigh, trying to organize my thoughts. How do you explain a lifetime of complicated love and resentment in a few sentences? "He just... needs to feel in control, I guess. We both do."
Becker doesn't push, just watches me with those too-perceptive eyes. The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. It's patient.
"Twenty years ago, when he was at the peak of his career," I finally continue, swallowing hard as the memories surface, "my mom passed away. Nothing sudden, she was very sick at the end. But I think... I think all that time he thought he would be able to save her somehow. He wasn't."
My voice cracks a little on the last word, and Becker's hand finds mine under the thin blanket, squeezing gently.
"He stopped playing after that. Right after winning his first Stanley Cup. Went into media, never played again." I take a breath that shakes more than I want it to. "I think I get it after him, you know?"
Becker's brow furrows. "What?"
I let out a self-deprecating laugh that sounds hollow. "The need for control. We both need it, I guess. I control my surroundings. He controls me."
The words hang in the air between us, heavier than they should be. Becker's hand moves to the back of my neck, fingers working small circles into the tense muscles there.
"I'm sorry," he says simply.
I force a smile. "Don't be. I've learned to manage."
We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, just existing in the same space, breathing the same air. His eyessearch mine like he's trying to read a language he doesn't quite understand yet.
Then, the question I've been dreading:
"Why'd you pull away, Jayden?"
There it is. The moment of truth.
Except I can't give him the truth. Not if I want to protect him. I need to handle things on my own.
So I lie.
"I guess I just..." I look away from his searching gaze, unable to meet it directly. "This is new to me, you know? I've never been with a guy. Never even thought about it. And now, it's all happening so quickly."
When I force myself to look back at him, the understanding in his eyes makes me want to confess everything. But I don't.
"That's okay," he says, his smile gentle. "We can take it as slow as you want. There's no rush."
I let out a sigh and move to cuddle in his arms, squeezing my eyes shut against the burn of unshed tears. His arms wrap around me, strong and sure, and I hate that he's so understanding.
I hate that he believes me.
I hate myself for lying.
Becker deserves better than this. Better than me.
But I hold him tighter anyway, greedy for whatever time I have left before it all falls apart.
CHAPTER 25
Becker
MY LUNGS ARE screaming.
Actually, screaming is too gentle a word. They're staging a full-scale rebellion, complete with pitchforks and demands for oxygen that I'm currently not providing because I'm forty seconds into holding my breath underwater.
I surface with all the grace of a drowning walrus, gasping and coughing up what feels like half the lake.
