“I’m not sure if I should be happy for you or pissed off, quite frankly.”
I shrug. “Same, dude.”
This is how things go in hockey. You grow close with a group of guys, and it seems like nothing could shake that. But then you blink, and someone’s getting traded, or someone’s hurt and can’t play, or someone’s retiring from hockey altogether. It’s just the nature of the game.
“What did Aubree say?”
I sit on the edge of my bed, my gaze still glued to the TV screen. “I wouldn’t know. We broke up yesterday.”
“What? What the hell happened? You guys seemed so solid.”
I grab the remote to turn off the TV and begin pacing my room. The weight of her betrayal stings all over again, as though I’m still standing in that office hallway, watching her boss shoot me a pitying look.
“It just . . . didn’t work out.” I force out the words.
“Fuck. Hey. I’m sorry. Do you want me to come over? Or we could meet up and grab a beer?”
I glance at the clock. “It’s ten in the morning.” I shake my head. “And, no, it’s . . . well, it’s not fine, but it is what it is.”
He scoffs. “I’m coming over. You want coffee or what?”
I hesitate, then decide it’s easier to just give in. “Yeah. Sure. Thanks, man.”
While I wait for Owen to arrive, I glance at my phone. Aubree’s been texting me since yesterday. I haven’t replied to any of them. But I scroll through the dozen or so texts again.
Landon, can we talk?
I’m not taking the promotion. I told David to offer it to someone else. I’m not going.
I know you’re hurt, and I’m so sorry. This is my fault, but will you please talk to me?
Did you see my message? I’m not going to Vancouver.
Well, I am. After that sour thought, I keep scrolling.
Are you there? I really want to talk this through.
Please don’t shut me out. I know I messed up. And I’m truly sorry.
Are you okay?
And the hardest one of all to read?
I miss you.
Fuck. Reading those words is like getting kicked in the balls with a hockey skate. I ignore the sharp, painful sting in my chest and delete all the messages without replying.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve gotten dressed and ordered a new phone online by the time Owen buzzes my apartment. I buzz him in, and a few minutes later, my front door is opening.
“Hey, hey,” he says, carrying two large coffees and a greasy brown paper bag.
“Thanks,” I say, accepting one of the coffees. “What’s that?” I nod toward the bag as my stomach starts to growl. I missed lunch yesterday. And dinner. Because I was too busy sulking and drowning my bad mood in whiskey.
“Oh, dude, tell me you’ve never been to Tito’s before? Their breakfast sandwiches are the best in the city.” He reaches into the bag and hands me a foil-wrapped sandwich.
“Never been there, but thanks.”
He nods and unwraps his own sandwich. “I still had so much to teach you about Seattle, and now you’re moving on.”
“I know. Crazy, right?”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. He was right; this is the best breakfast sandwich I’ve ever had. Too bad that’s still not enough to make up for my sour mood.
When Owen’s done, he wipes his hands on a paper napkin and throws his trash inside the bag. Then he leans back against my couch with a sigh. “So, let’s talk this out. You and Aubree . . . I thought you were happy.”
“I was.”
His dark brows pull together. “So, tell me what happened.”
“She got promoted at work.”
He gives me a confused look. “Okay, so that’s generally a good thing, right?”
“It is, except for when she hid it from me for the past two months, and her new job is in, well . . .” I chuckle dryly. “Vancouver, of all places.”
He makes a low sound. “Well, if that’s not a sign from above, I don’t know what is.”
“It’s not a sign, Owen.”
“The hell it’s not.” He scoffs. “It’s fate, dude.”
I roll my eyes.
After a few minutes of silence, Owen lets out a long sigh. “Seriously, why is it so hard for hockey players to admit they have feelings?”
Setting down the cup of coffee, I give him an annoyed look. “I admit it, okay? I caught feelings. Big fucking deal. You happy?”
“Not really. Because you’re clearly miserable right now, dude.”
I shrug but don’t deny it, because he’s right. This whole thing has me shook. “Yeah, but . . . there’s nothing I can do about that now. Aubree is the one who lied to me, not the other way around.”
Which means she should be the one to fix it. Only I have no idea how she can fix this. Because, fuck.
“Take a deep breath for me,” Owen says, his grayish-blue eyes narrowed on mine are filled with real concern.
I release a slow exhale and force a grin onto my face. “Better?”
He rolls his eyes. “Not really. I’m gonna call the guys. We need to take you out, get you drunk.”
Maybe this is how dudes handle breakups, I have no idea, since I’ve never been close enough with a woman for it to hurt when it ended. But this empty feeling inside my chest, I’m guessing this is what getting your fucking heart broken feels like. Good times.
He scratches at the stubble on his neck. “So, wait, you guys finally played bury the salami, right?”
I crook one eyebrow. “I thought it was called hide the salami.”
He shrugs. “Just answer the fucking question. Did your salami get some lovin’?”
I chuckle. “No comment.”
“Rookie,” he deadpans, unamused.
I forgot he wasn’t standing on the villa patio listening to me and Aubree that morning after his wedding like everyone else. But I guess as the groom, Owen had bigger things to worry about than the status of my virginity.
“Fine.” My mouth lifts in a crooked grin despite my shitty mood, because there’s no denying things in the bedroom with Aubree were A-fucking-plus.
“Damn. About time, dude.” He reaches his fist out to bump against mine. “So, how was it?”
There aren’t words for how I feel about that night with Aubree. Our first time was . . . off-the-charts incredible.
Owen chuckles, reading my silence for exactly what it is. Speechlessness. “That good, huh?”
“Better,” I murmur, letting out a sigh.
“Just call her. Talk to her then.”
I shake my head. “Be real. The whole thing was doomed from the start. I’m the only idiot who thought it could work.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he says on an exhale. “But I saw how the two of you were together.”
“Yeah? And how were we together?” I say bitterly.
“Well, for starters, you were in love.”
I shove the rest of my uneaten food into the bag and carry it into the kitchen. I have no idea what to say to that.
Am I in love with Aubree? Maybe. Probably. But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
Just tell that to the achy feeling in the center of my chest—which can go away anytime now.