Page 148 of With the Assist

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“Maybe tonight will be like closure or something," he adds, taking a swig of his beer.

My stomach churns because closure means settled. It means it’s over for good. She looks like she’s already gotten whatever closure she needs. She’s clearly not stuck in the part of this that I am.

Grayson whistles low. “You could go say ‘Hi.’”

I shoot him a look that manages to shut him up for once. The last thing I want right now is his responsible, wise perspective.

The space between Wesley and me feels intentional. She’s not avoiding me exactly. She’s just existing in a way that doesn’t account for me at all, even though I’m aware of her every move.

Becca squeals when she sees Liam and me, launching herself into a group hug that smells like tequila and perfume. She thanks everyone for coming. Someone buys shots, and the party commences.

At some point, it becomes unavoidable.

We end up in the same loose circle, friends overlapping, conversations bleeding into each other. I’m suddenly very aware of where my hands are and how close I’m standing to her. My heart rate has picked up as if I’m finishing a shift on the ice.

She notices me at the same moment I stop pretending I haven’t been looking.

Her smile falters a fraction before she smooths it back into place and turns toward me. My hands start sweating.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey.”

There’s a beat where neither of us speaks. Music thumps behind us, the bass vibrating through my ribs. Avery says something to Becca that makes her laugh, but the sound feels like it’s coming from another room.

I clear my throat. “Uh. Sorry if… if me being here is awkward.”

The words taste like pride swallowed sideways.

Her eyebrows lift slightly. “What? No,” she says easily. “Of course not.”

Of course not. Great.

Maybe she really did pretend the entire time.

“How was the camp last week?” I ask because silence feels worse. “Did Florida treat you okay?”

“It was good. Really good, actually.”

I nod, even though I’m numb. “Yeah?”

She nods back, a little more animated now. “I played well. The feedback was solid.” A pause. Then, quieter, like she’s letting herself have it for half a second. “I’ve got a real shot.”

There it is. The thing that mattered more than us.

I should be proud of her. I am proud of her. That’s the problem. Pride mixes with something bitter and ugly before I can stop it.

“Glad you got what you wanted.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I know they're wrong.

They’re sharp and laced with something I’d been trying to bury deep. But the words are already out there, implying everything we’ve left unsaid.

Glad you got what you wanted, and it wasn’t me.

Her face stills, and I’m surprised by the hurt that crosses it. It’s blatant but quiet, as if my words cut deeper than either of us knew was possible.