Page 108 of Playing Dirty
"You're so pathetic," I say, still catching my breath. "I can't believe I gave you this much power over me. Years of believing I had to earn affection by never being a burden. Two weeks of hiding from the best person I've ever met, trying to get perfect enough to deserve him. Because of you."
"I don't know what you're on about," he mumbles, looking defensive. "I came here to help."
"You don't care about me, and you don't regret what you did. You only regret that you got caught and lost your security blanket, and you're just as slimy as you've always been." And then I stop, because I don't even care about going further.
I always imagined I'd want to deliver the 'big speech' one day. The one that detailed every hurt and every wrong, the closure I'd drafted in the shower a hundred times. The one that would finally set the record straight.
But standing here now, I simply don't care. I'm not wasting another second of my life on this man. All I want is Cillian.
"Get the hell off my porch," I say, and he actually looks stunned by the dismissal.
"What?" He gapes at me, taking a tentative step forward. "Margot, let me explain. I still care for you, and seeing you with a man like that, knowing he could break your heart?—"
"Cillian would never do that, so you can retire the performance of fake concern," I say, shaking my head, feeling a strange sort of wonder that I ever found him impressive. "He's more of a man than you'll ever be. You'll never build anything real, because there is nothing real inside you. Now get the hell away from my house."
He tries to step closer. "Listen, if you'd just stop being so?—"
I slam the door in his face.
I'm finished being gracious, finished drafting his excuses, and finished being polite while he insults my intelligence. I'm so fucking done.
I march through the cottage to the muffled sound of him mumbling at the door about texting me later, as if I won't have him blocked before he reaches the driveway, and push out onto the back porch, pacing the length of the boards with my blood still humming.
The game coverage is on the TV, and the camera is already panning the crowd in a slow sweep. I spot his family in the stands, all four sisters looking tense and expectant. There's an empty seat beside them. I don't know if it's actually mine, but my heart hammers against my ribs like it is.
What am I doing?
Why am I allowing this fear to dictate my life? The anxiety, the old scars, the what-ifs. How am I letting a ghost from my past push away the person I love just because I'm terrified of the dark? I'm so tired of being scared and choosing exile over happiness. I'm tired of poisoning my own well.
I spin in a frantic circle, trying to decide what to do first, and move to close the back porch door when my eyes catch on Gilbert, his little leaves bright and green, perked up and sprightly again after two weeks of neglect nearly did him in.
"Gilbert, buddy, I think it's time we stopped hiding."
He doesn't answer, obviously, but I like to think he's rooting for me. I pull the door shut and glance at the clock, pulse racing. If I leave right this second, I can still make it. I'll miss the opening puck drop for sure, but not the whole thing. Not the part that actually matters.
Cillian is about to play the biggest game of his entire career, the one he crawled out of a year of wreckage to reach, and if I'm not in that building to see him win it, I will never forgive myself.
His jersey is still hanging on the back of my closet door, pressed two weeks ago for a game I never made it to. I yank it over my head as I run through the bedroom, snag my keys, and tear through the cottage. I throw open the front door and sprint down the steps.
Jason is just reaching his car when he turns, his brow furrowed. "Wait, Margot, what are you?—"
"Move!" I shout, shoving past him with a force that nearly sends him into the gravel. I scramble into my car and fire the engine and pop my head out the window. "And if you ever contact me again, I'm getting a restraining order! And I'm telling Chelsea exactly why you came here tonight, you pathetic prick!"
He stands there slack-jawed, watching me reverse out of the drive with gravel spitting under my tires, and I don't look back. Because I finally know exactly what I want, and I'm so fucking done letting fear run the show.
32
Cillian
Brennan comes tearing down the wing with the puck and I meet him at the boards with every ounce of strength I have left, the glass rattling with the force of the hit as we both slam into the partition. He tries to pin me with his weight, but I shove off his chest and the puck pops loose into the neutral zone. Jonesy chips it out toward safety, and the shift finally ends.
The arena is a wall of sound, a full house tonight vibrating with a mix of cheers and boos. Somewhere in the din, Whelan is shouting instructions, but I barely hear him. Brennan slides away with a smug grin I can see even through his cage, his entire posture practically radiating a challenge that reminds me of everything I stand to lose tonight.
"O'Rourke, you're finished," he barks as he passes our bench, his voice jagged with a confidence that grates on my last nerve.
Game seven of the Stanley Cup Final. Tied series, three wins each, and whoever takes tonight takes everything.
We're down a goal, because midway through the first Brennan threaded a shot through traffic that Sam never had aprayer on. He celebrated to the crowd, basking in the glory while I felt the pressure mounting. Being down early is only making the climb feel harder, the weight of the moment beginning to settle in my gut.
