“If you keep drinking hot chocolate at the rate you are, it’s scientifically proven that you’ll turn into an asshole who breaks his girl’s heart,” Beaumont tells me from across the plane aisle.

I’m pretty sure there’s no evidence to back up that particular theory, and I don’t bother to correct Andre on the fact that Gwen was the heartbreaker in this situation. Her pain is hers, however, and I’m not the sort of guy who goes running at the mouth and tells the entire world someone else’s personal baggage. It’s easier to let my best friend and the rest of my teammates believe that I’m Douchebag Numero Uno.

I haven’t seen or spoken to Gwen in two weeks. Christmas and New Year’s Eve went by without a word. I’d promised myself that I would give her the space she clearly needed—nothing good ever comes from pushing a person toward something they aren’t ready for yet. But, damn, it’s been hard to keep my distance. Even harder not to show up at her apartment and demand she see me. If I manage another twenty-four hours without reaching out to her, I’ll consider it a win.

You could use the excuse that your phone was stolen.

Yeah, I could totally do that. Just a little text to let her know that if she needs me, she’ll need my new number since my last phone was swiped from the locker-room after a game last week. A reporter, maybe, or someone from the cleaning crew. For what it’s worth, it seems I have shit luck with phones lately, considering my first is still with the police department.

The only good news to happen since Gwen walked out of my life is that Dave and his crew were caught, thrown in jail, and my career is still rolling onward like nothing ever happened.

There’s a reason I pay big bucks to my lawyer and publicist. Within a week of the tabloids circulating that I was one foot out of TD Garden, they changed their tune. Now, the magazines are discussing my childhood since it’s all been aired to the public. According to my publicist, it was the best way to go about it. Since his plan worked, I gave him a massive Christmas bonus and told him that he’s stuck with me for life.

But even knowing that my professional life is better than ever, it’s been at the expense of my love life.

I drain the rest of my Starbucks hot chocolate, just to shut Beaumont up.

And yes, I’m aware that drinking hot chocolate from Starbucks makes me out to look like a lovesick idiot. Everyone knows I’m a diehard Dunkin Donuts fanatic.

“Hey guys,” my best friend announces, “anyone wondering where America’s most charming hockey player disappeared to? Pretty sure he died the night of my engagement party.”

“Fuck you,” I growl, dropping my hand to our makeshift table on our flight from Los Angeles back to Boston. We wrapped up our road games on a high note against the Kings, and overall kicked ass for three out of our four games. “Deal the cards already.”

We’re playing Go Fish like true adults, mainly because none of us feel like losing money tonight with poker. And poker’s no fun without money riding on the line—according to Jackson Carter, anyway.

Beaumont shuffles the deck for longer than necessary before they disappear beneath his drop-down tray.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Putting the cards where I know you aren’t about to reach for them,” he replies darkly.

“You wouldn’t.”

His hands come up, not a single card in sight. “You want to play cards, you’re going to have to reach into my pants for them.”

The guys all groan.

“Fuck you, Beaumont!” calls out Carter from two rows ahead. “I was up next, you asshole.”

“Should we burn it?” Bordeaux asks from beside me. “I’ve got a lighter.”

“Christ,” Harrison mutters from on the other side of Beaumont, “no one is lighting Beaumont’s dick on fire. You all want to see Zoe pissed off?”

Everyone shakes their heads—no one even bringing up the fact that a lighter on a plane is a bad idea—and the game plan ensues as to how to steal back our only form of entertainment.

Everyone, that is, aside from Andre Beaumont.

His black eyes track me, and I know he’s trying to pick up my thoughts like some sort of Jedi master. Good luck to him. The last two weeks have been filled with only one thought—how the hell do you convince someone that they are worth everything in the world and more?

“You’re a moron.”

I glance up at my best friend. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You’re a moron for even agreeing to that bet, and you’re even more of a moron now for letting Gwen walk away.”

“Newsflash,” I snap, “I’m aware that I fucked up.” Because I did fuck up—I should have told Gwen about the bet long ago. That goes without saying.

Bordeaux elbows me in the side. “Women say that: it’s fine, it’s okay.” He waves a hand in the air. “They get over it, if they love you.”

If they love you.

The words cut deep, nearly as deep as the memory of Gwen admitting that she had given me her heart before realizing she couldn’t commit. As for the bet . . . I shove my fingers through my hair, tugging at the strands.

I was there when that asshole, Adam, told her that she’d been nothing but an easy lay. Although it hadn’t been easy for him—Gwen didn’t jump into bed with him for months. Then, when she finally had, Adam had informed the entire team of the “news.” By that point, no one had cared.

The bet had started on a drunken lark at summer hockey camp.

By the end of fall semester, the only two people who gave a shit were Adam . . . and me. Not because I wanted to win the bet, but because I’d grown to consider Gwen a friend. A friend who I wanted to date, sure, and definitely a friend I wanted to see naked.

Witnessing the moment when Gwen saw Adam kissing another girl had been gut-wrenching. Witnessing the way Adam turned to her and spouted out hurtful words about never wanting to date her, and how she’d only been good for “popping her cherry,” had incited a rage in me that I hadn’t felt in years.

The very next day, Adam walked into the locker-room with two black eyes, a cut lip, and the promise to never utter Gwen’s name again.

All of that, none of that, would make things right with Gwen now.

I never told her any of it, not once in six years, and that’s the problem.

I asked her for honesty; I didn’t give it to her in return.

And on top of all that, she couldn’t find it in herself to stick it out with me. It’s like something out of a soap opera—except that it’s my life.

Beaumont kicks me in the shin to gather my attention. “Go to her, man. Get on your knees if you have to. Beg. Do whatever you have to do to prove that you love her.”

I don’t have the chance to say anything before Harrison is piping in. “You love her. Don’t even deny it. You’ve loved her for years. You going to be happy when she permanently leaves your sorry ass and finds love with someone that’s not you?”

It sounds like my new version of hell—a special concoction whipped up just for me.

And even though I know that I should wait for her to make a move, if she ever does, sometimes the only person you can rely on to be bold is you.

I eye my friends. “Tell me what I need to do.”