Page 102 of Rookie Moves

But the parking lot is filling with people, some with cameras as they take photos to immortalize this special day. And I refuse to risk outing Colby just to satisfy my own need.

Colby’s eyes search mine, and he must be able to read my inner turmoil on my face because he gives me a pained smile.

“We can’t,” he whispers, the two words coming out like they’re being dragged over broken glass.

“I love you,” I profess.

“I love you too,” he replies, then opens the door.

My hands drop from his arm, and I can’t do anything except watch him get out of the car without looking back. The door slams shut, and I flinch.

Then I just sit there, numb, as I stare out the window. People walk by as they return to their cars, smiling and full of joy.

Blissfully unaware that I’ll always remember this day as the day my world fractured into pieces.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

COLBY

My phone vibrates from where I’ve left it on the couch cushion beside me, lighting up the screen to display the long list of notifications I’m ignoring. There are emails requesting interviews, and messages from my teammates wishing me luck for the combine.

The latest one is a reminder that I need to pack my bag because I’m leaving for Buffalo tomorrow with my mom.

I’m sure for everyone else, attending the NHL draft combine is an exciting thing. A milestone moment knowing you’re one of the top 90 draft-eligible players and will get the opportunity to make a lasting impression on scouts and teams as you undergo various medical and fitness tests, along with being interviewed by teams.

But me? I don’t feel excited, or nervous, or, well, anything.

All I feel is numb, and that hasn’t changed in two weeks since I last saw Tyler at his graduation.

The thing is, I’m not even mad at him. I wasn’t expecting it to be as simple as him telling his dad that he doesn’t want to work for him anymore. The guy is a major asshole, and based on the brief interaction I saw, he seems like a textbook narcissist. So I’m not surprised that Tyler’s head was a mess, but I am surprised by the way he shut me out.

And while I understand what he needs to do and why he needs to do it, it still hurt.

A lot.

I finished the rest of my semester in a blur, and then I said goodbye to Stassie before my parents picked me up and brought me back home to Maine.

I’m pretty sure they know something’s happened because of the way I went all quiet and red-faced when they asked me on the drive home about Tyler. They’ve never asked me point-blank if he’s my boyfriend, but they also aren’t easily fooled. They would’ve been able to see when Tyler came for lunch with us in Tampa. But luckily, they haven’t pressed me about it.

They’ve left me to do my own thing, which consists of three workouts a day in the gym my dad set up in the garage and molding the couch cushions to my exact measurements in between.

My sister, on the other hand? She’s been home for four days, and I’m starting to sense she’s had enough of me trying to become at one with the couch, especially when Callie walks into the living room and stops at the edge of the couch.

Keeping my eyes fixed on the TV, I don’t move a muscle. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her cross her arms over her chest, and then she lets out a disgruntled huff.

“Come on, Colby,” she whines, picking up a cushion and throwing it at me. I still don’t move when it smacks me in the face. “I can’t handle your sad puppy face anymore. We’re going out.”

“I don’t want to go out,” I grumble.

“I don’t care,” she argues.

Rounding the couch, she lifts the cushion off my face and gives me a stern look. I’m sure it makes the people she works with back in New York bow to her every word, but the bossy side of Callie’s personality has never had any effect on me, much to her dismay while we were growing up.

“I haven’t taken time off work to watch you mope around. So, come on, you have five minutes to change, otherwise I’m dragging you out in these ratty old pajamas,” she orders, and I grunt when she smacks me on the head with the cushion again.

“Fine,” I mutter, holding my hands up when she raises the cushion to hit me a third time. “Put the cushion down, or I’m going to tell Mom you were the one who broke her favorite vase because you thought it would be a good idea to sing into your hairbrush on the dining table.”

Callie gasps. “You would never.”