She shook her head, standing up quickly. “Don’t. I’m not saying this because I want you to—I’m just saying it because someone should. You’re not broken because she left. You’re just… looking for love in places that don’t know how to give it back.”
He laughed, hollow. “Grace? Yeah, I figured that one out.”
He pulled her down onto the couch. And when he kissed her, it wasn’t desperate or needy. It was the opposite of a mistake.
That’s what he repeated like a mantra at the start of freshman year, sitting on the worn couch in the Briar hockey house, a bottle of Jack in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling her Instagram like a masochist. The Mistake Vk Elle Kennedy
Then she smiled—small, crooked, the one she only ever gave him—and said, “About damn time, hockey boy.”
“You know what your real mistake was?” she said finally.
Logan’s chest tightened. He looked at her—really looked. At the small scar above her eyebrow from a childhood bike crash. At the way her fingers twisted the hem of her shirt when she was nervous. At the fact that she’d stayed. She shook her head, standing up quickly
Romi had always been there. On the sidelines of his games. In the kitchen at 2 a.m., making him grilled cheese after a bad loss. Rolling her eyes at his terrible jokes but laughing anyway.
Romi raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been moping for three weeks. It’s November. The season’s started. We have a game tomorrow. And you’re sitting here getting drunk alone while your teammates are at the party down the hall.”
“No.” She leaned forward, her voice softer now. “Your mistake wasn’t Grace. It was thinking she was the only one who could want you.” You’re not broken because she left
“I’m not alone. You’re here.”
She turned toward the door.
The mistake, Logan told himself, was her. Clearly. She’d traded loyalty for a loser with a neck tattoo. He was better off.
