Page 121 of Stealing for Keeps
“You love it just as much,” I say. I know he does. You have to at this level. Coach rides us, the pressure is intense, and it eats up a lot of time we could be playing video games or partying.
“Sure, but not in the same way. For me, it’s about the team. You guys are family. My parents are never around, and I’m an only child who’d rather not sit at home bored.” He grins, but again, I wonder if there’s more to it than that. “You should have talked to him,” Rowan says. “He would have been pissed, and he probably would have made your life hell at practice for a while, but then you wouldn’t be sitting around feeling like shit. He’s your friend, and you lied. You gotta own that part. The rest is on him to get over or not.”
He’s right. I feel awful about not telling Vaughn. I can tell myself time and time again that I didn’t owe it to him, but that’s not why I didn’t tell him. I kept it from him because it was easier than dealing with the fallout. Because I cared more about my spot on the team than I did my friend. Because he is my friend. We started as teammates, became rivals, and then somehow friends.
My actions have a prick of guilt spreading through me. One more shitty emotion to pile on what a jerk I’ve been. Maybe Claire was smart to get away from me.
I put my head in my hands. “I really messed things up.”
Rowan pats me on the back, laughing lightly. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. There are mistakes that you can’t come back from, and there’s this. You’ll be alright.”
I hope he’s right.
After Rowan’s gone, I climb the stairs back up to my room. I pull out my phone to text Claire, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as I try to figure out what to say. I miss her. I’m sorry. I miss her. Fuck, do I miss her.
I lock my phone and set it back on the nightstand. I don’t want to add more complications to her life, and right now, my life feels like one big complication.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Claire
For the past five minutes, I’ve been pacing outside the local skating rink. Young girls walk by me with their skate bags over their shoulders, boys with hockey sticks, and parents carrying more gear. They’re all just going about their everyday routine. That used to be me.
A little girl follows behind her mom. She looks back at me, grin showing off two missing front teeth, and holds the door open in invitation.
“Thanks.” I hesitate, but then my feet are moving. Forcing a smile back at her, I finally step into the rink.
The smell halts me. I close my eyes and breathe in the ice, feel the coolness in the air against my skin. Emotions swirl in my stomach. Not for the first time since I pulled into the parking lot, I wonder if this is a good idea.
Pulling my bag higher on my shoulder, I move forward. The guy at the front desk nods his head to me and smiles.
“Hi, Warren,” I say. He’s worked here for as long as I can remember, and seeing him is like nothing has changed. Except everything has. “Is the ice open?”
“For you? Always.” He motions with his head to the left. “A couple of skaters are just finishing up. I’ll have them clear the ice for you when they’re done.”
“Thanks.”
The closer I get, the faster my pulse races. The sound of skates gliding over the ice is drowned out by the music, but each time a skater lands a jump, I can hear it. My chest tightens. My brain screams at me to leave, but my heart pushes me on.
I stop at the last row of chairs and change out of my shoes. As I’m lacing my skates, Zoey is coming off the ice. A huge smile spreads across her face. “Claire!”
“Hey.” My voice is quiet.
“Is this your first time back, or have I been missing you?” She puts on her skate guards and takes a seat next to me.
“First time,” I admit.
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” A lump has worked its way into my throat.
We stare out at the ice together. She doesn’t push me to say anything. I think she must realize how hard this is.
“I’m sorry I never texted back,” I say when I can’t stand the silence. “It was too hard.”
“I can’t imagine what you were going through,” she says. “I probably could have made more of an effort too. I didn’t know what to say or do. I still don’t.”
“You don’t need to say anything.”
