Page 4 of Ruthless Edge

"Emma." Across the table, Knox's easy grin has dimmed.

He looks genuinely disappointed. Not offended, not irritated, just disappointed. I can see it in the small lines between his eyebrows and the way his smile doesn’t seem genuine any longer. He's looking at me like I've said something unexpected, which tells me everything I need to know. He expected me to be happy about this. Knox Carter volunteers for something and people are grateful. He walks into rooms and people are glad he's there. The idea that someone might actively not want him to be on the committee clearly hasn't crossed his mind.

That's not a surprise. It would only be a surprise if he'd ever spent a single minute thinking about what I might want, and the evidence on that subject is well-established.

"I appreciate the suggestions," Dr. Neely says warmly, "but the decision has been made. We need hockey team representation at the co-chair level, Knox volunteered, and frankly—" she smiles at both of us, "—this is a real opportunity for cross-organization collaboration. I have complete confidence in you both."

The meeting runs another twenty minutes. Twenty minutes where I think about why the hell we need a hockey team/SAB collaboration. Twenty minutes where I wonder if I really need my participation on the SAB committee to pad my resume to get into a good grad program and become a psychologist.

The meeting ends. I'm the second person out the door.

I've got my bag over my shoulder and I'm already mapping the fastest route home to change as I think about the shower I've earned today, and the ice cream I'm going to consume while pretending this afternoon didn't happen. The March air hits me when I push through the building's exterior door and I take one deep, calming breath of it, just one, because I'm allowing myself exactly that much.

There are footsteps behind me.

I don't turn around. I know those steps anywhere. Knox Carter unhurried and certain, and I've spent enough time in his vicinity to have that particular sound memorized, apparently, even after three years of trying to forget everything else.

"Hey." He falls into step beside me like it's something we do. Like we're people who walk places together. He's cheerful about it, naturally. Knox is cheerful about everything, because he’s a golden boy who has nothing to be unhappy about. "So. Co-chairs."

I keep walking.

"We should probably set up an initial meeting pretty soon. I know we've got each other's numbers from freshman year, so we can⁠—"

I stop.

I turn.

I look at him, at all six-foot-four of him, standing on the sidewalk in his team jacket with his face in its usual open, friendly, completely unbothered configuration, and I think about a white-linen table with two water glasses and my gala dress. Three girls laughing. Laura's sad face looking at me while the laughter went on. The three blocks of walking before I let myself cry.

Three years of building a version of myself that nobody is going to laugh at anymore.

And here he is, the same as always, cheerful, easy, already talking about next steps, with the same grin he had freshman year when he dropped into the seat beside me and said, "but I'm here, aren't I?"

"Go to hell," I say.

I say it clearly, evenly, without theater. Then I turn back around and keep walking.

Behind me, Knox says nothing.

I don't look back. I keep my eyes on the elm trees, the students crossing the quad, the afternoon light on the grass. I walk past all of it. I turn the corner onto my street and my building comes into view and I dig in my bag for my keys and find them on the second try.

The skirt is still wrong. The stain is still there. Knox Carter is going to be my co-chair for the next eight weeks, and Laura, his girl best friend, who just so happens to be a beautiful girl, will be somewhere nearby the entire time with her hand on his shoulder and that face ready, and I’m going to have to sit across from him in rooms on many occasions and be a professional adult about it.

I can do that.

I've done harder things.

I make it to my front door before my vision goes blurry with tears. I get the key in the lock on the third try.

It's fine. I just need to get inside first.

Chapter Two

Emma

I’m showered, changed, and heading to meet my friends to grab some food. I should be feeling better.

I’m not.