Brommy found me a while later. “Aw, hell, Luc.”

“Please don’t say ‘I told you so.’” I rested my head in my hands as he took a seat next to me.

“I won’t say that.” His shoulder pressed into mine. “All right, Oz?”

“Fuck you.”

“So . . . no?”

A weak laugh escaped, and I ground the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. My head throbbed, a low-level pulse that I knew would grow into a full-on flare-up soon enough. “I’m so fucking stupid.”

“Told you that weeks ago.”

I glared at him balefully out of one eye. “I thought you weren’t going to say ‘I told you so’?”

“I don’t believe I used those words.” He grinned, but his gaze was sympathetic. “Talk to me, Oz.”

“All this time, I thought if I just had hockey again . . .” I trailed off with a slight shake of my head.

Brommy nodded but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

“I thought it defined me.”

“I hope to God that the whole of my existence isn’t reliant on hockey,” Brommy said darkly but with a tinge of humor that made me smile tightly.

A wave of loneliness and longing rushed through me. “Emma tried to make me see it. She told me I was worthy without hockey. But I clung so tightly to this fucking illusion . . .” I ducked my head. “Fuck, Brom. I hurt her. I killed something good between us. And she . . .”

“She loves you.”

The word struck through my heart and had me flinching.

We’d never said we loved each other. There were times I thought she might love me the way I loved her—all-encompassing, with my whole soul. But she’d never uttered the words. Then again, I hadn’t either; it had been too raw, the wrong time, given that I was leaving her.

I left her. And she let me go, let me slip away. Because that was the choice I made. Not realizing that without her, life was nothing more than flat days and empty nights. I should have valued her over a dream that was nothing more than pride and fear. I needed to respond to her text. But what I had to say had to be done face to face.

I stood and rolled my shoulders to ease the tight ache in them. Oddly, my body felt lighter and easier than it had in weeks. Brommy wore a smug smile as he watched me.

“You gonna miss me, Brom?”

He laughed. “Naw. You aren’t out of my life. You’re just going home.”

Home.

That was exactly where I was going.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Emma

Life was . . . fine. It was fine.

I had a career-making role, meaty and intense. A cast and crew that worked well together. I had a beautiful home that was all mine. It was perfect. Filled with light yet cozy and secure.

Technically, I had a boyfriend, whom I loved. Even if that boyfriend was in another city, off on a job that could . . . I sucked in a sharp breath and curled up on my bed.

I didn’t want to think about Lucian. I would only end up crying. And I’d done enough of that.

It had been my intention to break things off with him. But I couldn’t do it. Hockey was twined so tightly with his sense of identity that he was lost without it. Would I have done any differently if given a chance to get back an intrinsic part of myself? How could I hold that over his head?

I loved him. And if it meant letting him follow his dream, even if it left me behind, then that was what I would do. So I had let him go, holding back any pleas to make him stay. Whenever I was with him, I treasured the moments we had instead. But inside, I was crumbling.

Worse, he hadn’t seemed to notice we were drifting apart. He hadn’t responded to my texts. God, that hurt. I’d probably freaked him out. Or maybe even pissed him off.

Well, too fucking bad. Was it too much to expect a reply? Even if it was something as simple as a thank-you? I’d have settled for that. Shit. I didn’t want to settle. For anything. I shouldn’t have to. The painful truth was staring me in the face; I had to end it with him. I couldn’t go on like this.

With a sigh, I sipped my wine and stared blankly at the Moorish-style ceiling that stretched overhead. It was really quite beautiful. And I couldn’t enjoy any of it—not the house, not the role, not my life.

Night had fallen, the weather crisp, but not too cold to prevent me from leaving the double doors leading to my balcony open. In the distance, light reflecting off my pool created wavering blue shadows on the walls.

I closed my eyes and tried not to think of him. It didn’t help that Édith Piaf began to sing about no regrets. Because I had oceans of regret when it came to Lucian. The music swelled and clutched at my throat with bittersweetness. Trumpets blaring in an insistent charge, strings soaring with hope.