It hurt her on every level to have to type in the short, hateful words. He’d come after her, and she had to push him away again. She handed the phone back to him, loathing herself for it.
Sebastian didn’t get up and leave, though. He started to type again. A curious sort of anxiety built in her stomach, to where she couldn’t even watch the bout as it began. It was noisy, but not so loud that they couldn’t talk anymore. And yet, she was silent, just watching him type into his phone. Eventually, he handed it back to her and waited.
You really should learn to answer your phone, Elsie.
Elsie? Was that one of his horrible nicknames? A giggle rose in her throat, and she couldn’t resist texting back her own snappy answer.
Maybe I didn’t want to talk, Basty.
He typed, then gave it back.
It could be worse, I suppose. You could have called me Nugget.
A horrible giggle escaped her throat.
She returned: I would never.
He sent back: And that’s why I love you.
When he handed the phone back with that, she started to cry again. Damn it, she’d told herself she wasn’t going to weep and blubber like a baby over a man. She was strong and independent. She was Chesty LaRude, badass derby diva. A survivor.
But right now? She would have given anything to be a snuggler instead of a survivor. To let Sebastian envelop her in his arms and let her know everything was handled. That it was cool. That she was safe, and she was his, and he loved her, and nothing would ever separate them again.
But that was a dream, of course. Reality had shit all over that.
Upset, Chelsea stood up and handed the phone back to him. She had to get away. Fumbling, she pushed her way through the crowd and exited the stands. She knew he was following her, but she didn’t care. She’d retreat to a bathroom, or to a locker room—somewhere, anywhere—that she could get away from him.
This event was packed and she wasn’t familiar with the venue. She looked around in vain for a bathroom, and then just ran out the front of the building. At least there she’d have fresh air to clear her head. Chelsea ran, wishing she had her skates on. Life was so easy to escape when you had your skates on . . .
Was that what she was doing? Escaping? The thought made her reel, and it hurt.
Was she being a coward after all?
Outside, the night air was crisp and slightly cooler than inside the venue, and she sucked in lungfuls of air, relieved. Her head ached. Her heart, too. The sound was muffled, at least, and for that, she was thankful.
“Chelsea?” Sebastian called behind her. “Are you okay?”
“I just need a moment,” she said, not looking back at him.
“Is it me? Am I frightening you?” The remorse in his voice made her heart ache. “You know that’s the last thing in the world I’d ever want.”
She turned around for that, because he deserved to know that she wasn’t afraid. “I’m not scared of you, Sebastian. It’s just that . . . this is hard.” A huge knot formed in her throat.
“Then let me make it easier for you.” He strode toward her, and god, he was so beautiful, all dusky skin and dark, curly hair and those piercing green eyes. He was dressed in a pale khaki sport-shirt that brought out the warmth in his skin and the perfection of his jaw, and jeans. This was probably Sebastian’s version of dressing down, and a miserable half-giggle escaped her.
“You being here makes it hard, Sebastian.”
“Is it because you don’t want me here?” He came to her side and lifted his hand, as if he wanted to touch her cheek, to caress her jaw. Instead, he just brushed a few curls of her wind-blown hair back.
“It’s too hard,” she whispered again. “It makes me want things I can’t have.”
His thumb brushed over her lips then, and he cupped her jaw, tilting her head up so she’d meet his gaze. “Then let me tell you why you’re wrong, love.” He leaned in and gently brushed his mouth over hers. “I love you. I don’t want you to leave me.”
Protests sprang to her throat, that he couldn’t be here, that she was protecting him, that—