Page 57 of Puck Fest
Noah’s face hardens, his professional mask locked in place. “The game’s over, Alex. You should head back to your hotel.”
“Just having a friendly conversation with Masterson. It was atough game tonight. I just wanted to get an inside scoop. For my article.”
“Yes. It was rough.” Noah looks at me, a questioning look in his eyes. “You okay?
No. I’m not okay. Haven’t been okay since he kissed me and then shoved me away.
“I should go,” Alex says. Still smiling. What a colossal prick. “See you both around.”
He leaves, and it’s just us left in the parking garage.
“Are you alright?” Noah asks again.
“No.”
“Masterson—”
I stalk toward him. “I played like shit tonight because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About us. About Alex watching us like he knows something.”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
“He suspects something. You saw him tonight. He’s digging, and the more we hide, the more suspicious it looks.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. Stop pushing me away. Stop pretending you don’t feel anything. Stop making me feel like I’m insane for wanting something you won’t admit you want too.”
Noah’s quiet for a long minute. “You should go home. Get some rest.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What else can I say?” he says, his voice a low growl that makes my body hum because I can feel that he’s dancing on the knife edge of control right now.
“Anything. Something real. Something that isn’t you hiding behind your bullshit walls.”
“I can’t?—“
“You can. You just won’t.” I twist away from him. “Fuck this.”
I walk to my truck, get in, and slam the door. My fingers wrap around the steering wheel as I sit there, trying to breathethrough the anger and frustration and the fact that I just cost my team a game because I’m pining for a guy who gives more of a damn about optics than he does his true feelings.
Noah stands by his car, watching me.
I should leave. I need to drive home, go to bed, forget about this. Forget about him.
I let out a sigh and scrape my hands down the front of my face as Noah drives past me, heading for the exit.
It takes me a split second to decide.
I follow him out of the parking deck, letting other cars get between us once we’re on the road. I stay just close enough to keep his taillights in view. We weave through the downtown area, onto the freeway, and into the neighborhoods north of the arena.
He finally pulls into the driveway of a house that matches him…the kind of place that screams “I have my shit together.”
I park across the street then watch him get out and grab his stuff. He turns toward the house and catches a glimpse of my truck. It stops him cold.
I jump out and walk up the driveway, my hands in my pockets.
“What are you doing here?” he says, a look of genuine shock settling into his expression.
