Page 108 of Rule 1: Never Accidentally Marry Your Teammate
“Is he with you or isn’t he?” Cole asks.
I inhale a shaky breath.
“It’s okay, Noah,” Cole says, his voice kinder than I expect. “You’re rich. People can be unsavory. I’ll do my best to clean this up. Get him sent back. You won’t have to see him again.”
“No!” I exclaim. “Noah stays. I don’t want him to go. Not because of me.”
Cole inhales sharply. “Are you certain?”
“Of course. Besides, he was moved to the second line. He’s more valuable now.”
“Okay. You’re right. He scored that goal too. That was something.” Cole clears his throat. “I mean, the time for him to leave was after that terrible entrance. I’m sorry, Noah. I thought you were a greatcouple.”
“I did too.”
Cole ends the call, and I stare into my bedroom. Was everything fake?
Then I shake my head.
No. Of course not. I’m the person who failed Noah.Again.
My heartbeat swerves unsteadily, and I sink to the ground and burrow my head in my hands.
Noah is gone, gone, gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Noah
People in designer suits march toward the Financial District as I exit Finn’s apartment, swinging glossy Italian briefcases and purses. I don’t belong here. I never belonged here.
I’m supposed to be helping my parents at the gas station until I take it over so that they can retire, because God knows, they won’t have much savings after they spent every extra penny on my hockey classes. I’m not supposed to be living with Finn.
I’m not sure when Finn came to that realization, but I can’t even blame him for doing that. I mean, I wouldn’t have fallen in love with a man who lacked all sense.
I wish I wasn’t the piece in his life that didn’t make sense.
Today is an optional training day, and when I find myself outside, eyes stinging, lips pressed together to avoid the instinct to wail, I head to the arena.
I stroll past gray and red brick buildings until Seaport ends. Dull gray water slices through the city, and I cross the bridge to Boston’s historic district, passing Boston’s Tea Party Ship and Museum. A few people dressed in colonial clothes talk to a swarm of tourists, and I suddenly wish I’d taken an Uber to the arena.
“It’s Noah Fitzpatrick!” someone exclaims.
Hoards of groggy-eyed tourists snap pictures at me, though a few people, thankfully blink at me in confusion, wondering why a guy in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, is getting more attention than the wooden, old timey ship.
I don’t blame them.
I do a half-hearted wave.
“Where’s Finn?” someone shouts.
I pretend I don’t hear and quicken my steps. The air is chilly around me. I’m not dressed any different than normal, but normally we go to the arena in Finn’s car. I feel foolish and pull the hood of my hoodie over me.
Leaving was the right thing to do. Absolutely.
My chest might reverberate with pain, but this isn’t about me. It’s about him.
I’m thankful when I arrive at the arena. I want to lose myself in training, because the other option, wandering Boston with a broken-hearted expression and waiting for paparazzi to snap pictures of me and post them around the nation isn’t optimal.
