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They all sound like bullshit excuses, when the real reason I haven’t replied is that I’m a pussy.

But despite the lingering frustration from that night, mostly, I miss him.

I’d gotten used to our regular messaging. And while hooking up through a screen is far less pleasurable, I miss that too. The thrill of not knowing if the new message from him was just a quick line asking if I was having a good day, or a filthy video that was going to have me three seconds from coming in my pants.

I groan and throw my free arm over my eyes as I remember how I practically came the second he touched me.

I blame the two weeks of foreplay we had in the lead-up to that night.

If he knew the man on his knees before him was the one he’d been sexting, maybe he’d have had a similar problem.

The temptation to put off replying until tomorrow is high. But leaving it another day is only going to make things worse.

So, in the end, I pull up my big-boy pants and type out a message I’ll probably regret the second it’s delivered.

HotScore: I’m sorry for the silence. I…went to a party on Friday night and hooked up with a guy. I’ve been feeling weird about it because I thought about you the whole time.

“Fuck,” I hiss, putting my cell on silent and throwing it to the end of the bed to stop me from obsessing over whether he’s read it immediately or even already replying.

I ghosted him for days; he is well within his rights to give up on me.

The thought of him doing just that sends pain shooting through my chest.

Unable to lie here wondering what might happen next, I throw the sheets off me and walk out of my bedroom, wandering through Sienna’s living room.

This apartment is seriously sweet, but I completely understand why she went upstairs to complain to her neighbor about the noise.

It’s quiet up there now, but every time Calvin uses his home gym, it sounds like they’re having the session of all sessions.

I cringe at the thought.

I walk through the kitchen and pull a bottle of water from the fridge before walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows and staring out at the dark city beyond.

There’s so much possibility out here, I know there is. I just need to find it.

Although right now, I’m struggling.

Maybe next week will be the week I finally get my shit together, find my dream job, and restart my life.

I feel like I’ve hit pause on it, and while at first, I enjoyed the freedom, not having a purpose is starting to get to me.

I can only spend so many hours of the day watching hockey, messing around with my hockey models, and finding different patterns that allow me to predict how the rest of the league is going to play out.

I love watching to see if my predictions play out. And when they do, I always get a little rush. So many of the world’s problems and questions can be solved by studying trends and patterns if you care to dive in deep enough. It’s fascinating. And right now, it’s that and the messages with Nash that are keeping me going.

I force myself to stand there for as long as I can, but eventually, my need to see if he’s responded or not gets the better of me, and I find myself racing back to Sienna’s guest room and snatching my cell from the bed.

Nothing.

God damn it, Nash.

It’s another four days before I finally get a response.

I swear to God, when I see his message pop up on my screen, I’m pretty sure I’m at risk of having a heart attack.

Then reality hits. If it takes four days to reply, there’s no way it can be good news.

Of course, I’m aware that he’s away on a series of road games, so he’s been kinda busy. They’ve had a grueling schedule the last few days, playing back-to-back nights and traveling in between. But even with all that, we all know there’s always thirty seconds to send a message. He chose to wait this long, and that makes me nervous as hell.