Page 44 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“I…” I forgive you. That’s what I should say. Because he said it himself, everyone deserves a second chance. My words. The ones I said in the dark elevator and he held on to. Instead…“We were just kids. You didn’t know.”
It’s a cop-out. I know it. And I know he knows it.
He looks away, drags a hand through his hair. That’s not what he wanted to hear.
Suddenly, the silence between us is so loud it’s deafening. I almost can’t hear myself when the words slip from my lips. “Why did you do it? What did I ever do to you?”
And there it is—the real question that stands like a wall between us. Why? Why did it always have to be a competition between us? A fight for the right to be seen?
Beckett hangs his head, a heavy breath deflating from his chest. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Then why? You were such a jerk to me. Why did you tell me that my dad liked you better? Why tell me to stick to the stands? Why make me feel like I didn’t belong at my dad’s own rink?” He opened a door that should have stayed shut, and now I can’t seem to close it.
He drags a hand over the back of his neck, avoiding my gaze. “You were throwing off my game.”
I blink. My heart thunders in my ears.
Beckett’s head snaps up, his jaw tight as he goes on. “I had three scouts there the day you showed up. It was one of the biggest days of my life, and you were there. And every time I saw you, all I could think about was the last time we spoke—how you yelled at me. Told me it was my fault your parents were splitting up. And what I said to you that day. I was fourteen, thinking I was going to blow my shot.”
“So you decided to humiliate me and spray ice in my face.”
Beckett swallows, glances away, and he looks a little like I’ve slapped him. “Yeah.”
Okay, I’m a little undone by his admission—I mean, when he says it in that tone of voice, right? It’s like he poured cold water all over my hard-wrought steam. Don’t worry, I still have a little left in the bucket, although my voice is softer. “You made me feel like I wasn’t as important to my dad as hockey. And that I should just accept that. You made me feel like I didn’t belong in my dad’s life.”
“I know.” His voice comes out in a whisper. His gaze finds mine in the shadows. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Everly. All those years ago. I’m sorry I sprayed ice in your face. I’m sorry for what I said the day I found you crying on the ice. I’ve thought about those moments so many times the last seventeen years, and there’s no excuse. I’m so sorry.”
Shoot. I believe him. And even feel sorry for him. Oh brother.
Still, my throat stings, and I feel that familiar prick behind my eyes. “I forgive you.” It’s barely a whisper—a watery one at that—but it’s there. The weight that lifts from my chest is so sudden and so physical, I grip the side of the couch to steady myself.
Beckett lets out a breath, a smile finally cracking those lips. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry too,” I add.
He frowns.
“For drawing villainous mustaches on every sports magazine, newspaper, or ad I’ve ever seen you in. I’ll try to stop doing that.”
Beckett’s brows lift and he lets out a laugh, warm and deep, and it heats the whole room.
And then I’m laughing too. It’s cathartic. Healing.
I wonder, tomorrow, when the sun rises, will all of this have been a dream?
“We should get some sleep,” I say.
“All right, then.” Beckett takes it as an order and lies down, pulling his ridiculous paisley bedding up under his arm, facing me in the dim light.
I do the same, ridiculously thankful that I’m not alone right now.
“Good night, Beckett.”
“Night, Everly.”
He flips off the flashlight, darkness surrounding us, seeping into my vision. I close my eyes, will myself to sleep. Except that my mind is still reeling from everything that’s happened today.
Minutes pass before Beckett’s voice breaks through the quiet.
