Page 168 of Power Play

I wanted him to fight for me while I continued finding reasons not to fight for him.

My chest constricted again, and I lowered myself to the kitchen floor before my legs made the decision for me. The tile felt cold beneath my thighs. I pressed my back against the cabinet and tried to draw air into lungs that kept refusing to hold enough of it.

I couldn’t call Ryan and ask him to talk me down. I couldn’t turn his concern into another way of avoiding what I needed to do.

Instead, I held the Spanish notebook against my chest and stayed on the floor while the panic moved through me. It didn’t disappear because I ordered it to. My heart kept racing, my hands continued trembling, and several minutes passed before each breath stopped feeling like something I had to drag through a locked door.

I remained there until the room settled around me.

The coffee table was still messy. My mother was still upset. Ryan was still in Chicago, and I was still scared.

None of those things had killed me.

The realization was small, but it was enough to help me stand.

I grabbed my phone and opened the Frost schedule before I could lose my nerve. The game started at seven thirty, and there was no possible way I would reach Chicago before puck drop. If I left soon, though, I could get there afterward. I didn’t know how long the team would stay or when they would leave for their next stop, but I had already wasted three days waiting for the perfect opportunity to be brave.

That opportunity clearly didn’t exist.

My hand hovered over Ryan’s name.

I almost called him. If I told him what I was considering, he would ask whether I was calm enough to drive. He would want details. He might explain that the team had practice, travel plans, or some schedule I didn’t understand. Worse, he might make the choice easier by telling me he wanted me there.

Ryan had asked me to choose him.

This time, I wanted the decision to belong to me before I knew what he would say about it.

I checked the route again. The estimated arrival time was late enough to make my stomach drop, but I could still reach Chicago before midnight if the roads cooperated.

“I can do that,” I told the empty apartment.

My voice shook, but the words remained true.

I showered faster than I ever had in my life and dressed without turning the process into a negotiation. I chose jeans, a soft gray shirt I already knew I liked, and sneakers because I had hours of driving ahead of me and nobody with any sense wore heels for that.

I dried my hair enough that it wouldn’t soak my shoulders, twisted the front pieces away from my face, and applied only enough makeup to make myself feel awake. When I reached for the foundation, I stopped with my fingers against the bottle.

Ryan had kissed me in a robe with no makeup before.

He would probably do it again.

The thought steadied me for several seconds before anxiety surged at the idea of reaching Chicago and seeing him after everything I had said. My stomach rolled, and the mirror immediately became cruel beneath my attention. The gray shirt looked too tight. Then it looked shapeless. My face appeared swollen from crying, and the jeans suddenly felt wrong against every part of me.

I reached for another shirt.

My hand stopped halfway to the closet.

“No.”

The word sounded strange when I said it to my own reflection.

I had liked the shirt before I started imagining what everybody else might see. That had to be enough.

I left it on.

Before heading out, I filled my water bottle and stood in the kitchen debating whether I needed anything else. I hadn’t eaten much that morning, and the thought of stopping somewhere alone made my anxiety tighten again. Ignoring it would be easier, but Ryan had already made it impossible to pretend I didn’t understand what I did to myself whenever fear took control.

I put a granola bar in my purse without promising myself I would eat it. For the moment, taking it was the most I could manage.