“Bye, Sean,” I say softly.
*
Twenty-four hours after my heartbreaking encounter with my ex-boyfriend, it becomes glaringly obvious that Dean is giving me the silent treatment.
I texted him after I left the coffeehouse, asking if he still wanted to meet up.
No answer.
I texted again later to ask if he went out with Beau.
No answer.
I texted to say goodnight.
No answer.
I texted to say good morning.
No answer.
Now, as I sit on my bed, home alone on a Saturday night, I’m finding it hard to cut Dean any slack. Last night, I was fully willing to take responsibility. Of course Dean had assumed the worst when he found out I was with Sean, and I don’t blame him for getting pissy about it. A few hours of sulking is a perfectly reasonable reaction to thinking I might’ve gotten back together with my ex.
But twenty-four hours? That’s bullshit. If Dean is mad at me, fine, let him be mad. If he’s done with me, fine, I guess he’s done. At least have the balls to tell me. Ignoring someone until they get the “hint” is downright insulting, and I don’t have patience for that.
I grab my laptop from the nightstand because I desperately need a distraction right now, and nothing is more distracting than watching adorable videos on YouTube. Hopefully there’s a baby giraffe out there that decided to cough, or a baby hippo that felt like splashing around in a pond.
Somehow I end up on Twitter. And gee, look at that. Dean is alive. Now he can’t use “I was dead” as an excuse for why he’s snubbing me, because a Briar student is live tweeting tonight’s home game and just mentioned a “Di Laurentis” goal.
I close the browser and hop off the bed. Maybe I’m a masochist, but seeing Dean’s name makes me want to see Dean. I want answers, damn it. I want him to look me in the eye and tell me if the fling is over.
It takes me nearly thirty minutes to walk to the arena, which is on the opposite end of Briar’s huge campus. At the ticket booth, I flash my student ID to get the discount rate. The student teller says, “Standing room only” as she slides a ticket under the glass.
A minute later, I’m in the area reserved for standing patrons. The second period just started.
I peer at the ice trying to remember Dean’s jersey number. My mind draws a blank, so instead I scan the names on the back of the black-and-silver jerseys. Dean’s surname contains so many letters it should be easy to spot, but nope, I’m not seeing him on the ice. Maybe his line isn’t playing right now? But he doesn’t seem to be sitting on the home bench either.
Weird.
On a whim, I open Twitter on my phone and search for the profile I was following earlier. Maybe @BriarBryan38 tweeted some updates when I was walking over. I skim the most recent posts until one catches my eye.
My heart promptly lurches to my throat.
Dean was thrown out of the game.
20
Dean
I sit in the empty locker room, head down, shoulders hunched. Valiantly trying not to grab the nearest item—which happens to be my helmet—and hurl it at the wall. The knuckles of my right hand are cracked and bleeding thanks to the violent uppercut I unleashed at the St. Anthony’s forward, but I press my palms against my thighs and let the blood soak into my hockey pants.
I despise those fuckers from St. Anthony’s. Our teams are long-time rivals, so whenever we play each other, tension and smack talk are to be expected. But the hostility has gotten worse over the past two years. And a couple weeks ago, a bunch of St. A’s guys had messed with one of Grace’s friends, taking away her phone and refusing to let her leave their seedy motel room.
Tonight, I’m the one at fault. There was the usual trash talk in the face-offs, aggressive skating, overly physical hits on both sides. But I was already hot-tempered going into this game, and when that asshole goaded me into taking a swing, I just lost it.
They tossed me out for unsportsmanlike conduct. Yeah right. If the refs heard even half the filth Connelly was spewing about our mothers, they’d throw that fucker out too.
As is stands, I’m the only ousted player. One punch thrown in an already heated game probably won’t get me a suspension from the team, but now I’m stuck in the locker room, prohibited from leaving until I get the obligatory tongue-lashing from Coach Jensen.
Or maybe he’ll delegate again and let O’Shea deliver the lecture. Lucky me. That would mean two lectures from that bastard in the span of twenty-four hours. He’d called me into his office last night when I was driving home from the Hurricanes game. Add to that Allie’s admission that she was with her ex, and it’s no surprise I ended up getting trashed with Beau.