Page 175 of Slapshot Kiss

“Sure.”

I take her hand and pull her toward an equipment room a few feet away.

No fucking way am I letting her leave again.

“What—?”

I open the door and tug her inside with me, pulling the door shut behind us. “You didn’t wanna do this in the hallway. Fine. Then we’re gonna do this here. I couldn’t give a fuck about where we talk. But you’re not gonna lie to me again.”

Quinn’s eyes flick down my body before immediately jumping back to my face.

The look lasts barely a second, but my body reacts anyway. Because I know that look. I’ve seen it right before she kisses me. Right before she lets me touch her.

That’s when I notice the room for the first time and how small it is. How close we’re standing to each other.

Under any other circumstances, I’d enjoy the hell out of that.

Right now, my chest just hurts.

There’s metal shelving taking up most of the space, with stacks of towels, practice jerseys, boxes, and random equipment crammed onto every available surface. A rack of sticks runs along one wall, several equipment bags are piled along the other, and the narrow strip of floor between them leaves barely enough room for the two of us.

“So.” I hold her gaze. “Tell me again why breaking up with me is the best decision for you.”

Her forehead creases, and I watch some of that uncertainty disappear behind the defensive look that takes its place. “I already did.”

“No, Peachy. You gave me some bullshit about how we got carried away. But I know that was never the reason.”

Something breaks across her face before she can hide it. It’s only there for a second, but I see it. The guilt. The hurt. The confirmation that I’m right.

“You lied to me.” I say it almost gently, because this is the person I care most about in this world. And she’s hurting. I can see it in the shadows under her eyes, in the way she’s holding herself so tightly, like if she loosens her grip for even a second, everything might fall apart.

“I—”

“You fucking lied,” I almost whisper.

“I had to!” Her voice is much louder than mine, filled with frustration and anger, and she takes a small step back as if she needs the distance. Her back meets the shelving almost immediately.

The sight does something extremely unhelpful to me.

But now isn’t the time to act on my body’s impulses. “Why?” I ask.

“Because you wouldn’t listen.”

“To what? I listened to every word you said.”

“You kept saying you didn’t care about what this could do to your career.”

“I never said I didn’t care.”

“You said you’d rather lose LA than lose me.”

“I would.”

Her lips press together, and for a second she just stares at me like that answer is exactly what she was afraid I’d give.

“Wyatt, that’s exactly the problem. You could lose minutes. They could trade you. Another team might not want you, and if that happens because of me—”

“Who the fuck gave you the right to decide that for me?”