Page 70 of Holiday Interference
I stare at the wall across from me. At the crooked little painting I bought last spring from a local artist’s market. The one I told myself made the apartment feel more like home.
“Well, Noelle, you wanted a sign,” I whisper to the room. My voice feels too big in the silence. “Guess this is it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cal
The locker room’sa blur of noise and motion—sticks banging, guys yelling, music thumping under the fluorescent buzz.
Riley and Finn are chirping over some stupid bet they made about who could land a date with a country pop star who’d never be caught dead with either of them.
I’m barely tracking any of it.
My hands move on muscle memory—tap, pull, wrap—taping the blade of my stick like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground.
It’s been ten days. Ten days of pretending I don’t give a shit when I do. Of trying to forget how it felt to wake up next to her.
Of seeing her everywhere she’s not.
I don’t even realize I’ve zoned out until Riley’s voice cuts across the room.
“Hey, isn’t that the event planner chick from the holiday party in the stands tonight? The hot one in the red coat?”
My head snaps up like it’s been yanked on a leash.
Riley’s leaning over by the skate dryer, squinting toward the hallway monitor that’s cycling through the live crowd feed. “Yeah, that’s her. Damn, she’s even hotter from this angle. She smiled at me at the party. Think she’ll remember me?”
Finn snorts. “Pretty sure she was looking at the shrimp tray, not you, bud.”
“Whatever. She’s back. That means the Vipers might actually throw another decent party this season.”
I don’t say anything.
I can’t.
My fingers go rigid around the tape. The stretch pops against the blade. My jaw locks so tight it aches, and I’m suddenly burning under my pads even though the rink’s a meat locker.
She’s here.
She came.
And somehow that makes it worse.
I haven’t seen her or heard from her. Not that I expected to or had a right to.
We didn’t even exchange contact info. It was like I didn’t just give her every piece of me in the span of a weekend.
I didn’t stop her when she walked out the door to get in the car that took her away. Didn’t ask for her number.
Didn’t fuckingfightfor any of it.
Because I told myself it didn’t matter.
But it does.
It matters like hell.
I drop the roll of tape, flex my hands, and grab my helmet. My stomach twists, hard and sharp like I’ve taken a hit under the ribs.
