Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

“Sixteen days.” She gulps in air, her words rushing out. “I’ll be gone for a year—or longer.” Her blue eyes water.

“So years?” I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Her chest rises, a slow nod coming from her, dread etching her face. “Possibly. I . . . I didn’t know how to tell you.” She places her hands to her eyes, then drops them. “I wanted to tell you a hundred times, but I just couldn’t.”

She just couldn’t . . .

An important life decision that affects both of us?

A turning point in our relationship?

Days, weeks, months, years without her in my arms.

Our eyes lock, the windows to our souls clinging.

“I love you, Giselle. I fucking love you. And you . . .” My hands clench as I shake my head. Her eyes glisten, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“I love you too,” she whispers.

She doesn’t. She doesn’t.

I’m nothing to her, a blip on her way to Switzerland, useless and unwanted.

Haven’t I seen it enough now to know?

They come. They leave.

Same fucking shit.

“I’ll be home for a few days at Christmas and two weeks in the summer,” she says in a small voice.

I bark out a laugh. “I’ll be in LA for a game. Merry Christmas.”

She flinches. “We can make it work long distance, Dev. We can chat online and fly back and forth, and when I get back, it will be as if I never left . . .” Her breath hitches as her face scrunches, fear shining in her eyes. Even she knows those words are a lie.

Years. Years.

She’s killing me slowly, piece by piece.

“Don’t,” I say, my voice low and tight. “You can’t stop the clock on us and expect things to still be the same when you decide to come back.” Still not able to believe it, I fall back on the couch, shoulders bent as I try to tackle my emotions and get them under control. Every time we kissed, every time I made love to her for the past five days, she lied to me. She knew we were going to end. I clench my teeth. I was worried about what was wrong with her and if her strange behavior was my fault?

What a joke.

What a fucking joke.

Would I have tried to change her mind if she’d told me? Grimly, I realize I would have. I would have cajoled and begged—hell yeah, because I’m greedy and hungry for her, my need fucking embarrassing. But . . .

CERN is her dream, a nagging voice tells me. You knew it.

She wants to go, and I can’t . . . do this.

I stalk into the kitchen. “What do you want most in the world, Giselle?” I just need to hear her say it’s CERN, and then, maybe then, I can handle the aftermath.

The air thickens, damn near suffocating. “I’ve messed up before, with decisions, and I want to make the right one . . .” Her voice trails off.

“What do you want?”

Her lashes flutter. “I don’t know.”

She does know. It’s not me; she just can’t say it.

She rubs her eyes. “You mean everything to me. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Since the moment I saw you on TV, I wanted to know you, to discover who you are. You’re part of me, and somehow in this crazy world, fate brought us together. We’re connected, and it’s . . . killing . . . me . . .” I hear the desperation in her voice, the brokenness, the deep sadness.

My eyes shut, and I let out a long exhale, wrestling for control. My shoulders dip, and I sit down on a stool, just breathing, breathing, in and out, low and slow. I will my heart to slow its fast pace. Steadily, a desolate calm sinks into my bones, sticking and adhering to my body, giving me strength as I methodically take my raging emotions and pack them away. I need to say the right things. Treat her the way a good guy would. I’ll take care of my bumps and bruises later. “Giselle,” I say and wince at the wreck my voice is, need for her scratching to escape from my raw throat. “What we have is incredible. We had a . . .” Baby, you’re the best fucking thing in my life . . . “Good time.”

She whimpers, and I steel myself, hands tight on the edge of the counter, anchoring myself.

“And now you have an opportunity to go to CERN.” My chest aches to crack again. Not yet. Wait until she’s gone. “I wish you’d talked to me. I wish you’d trusted me. I wish you’d let me in.” I suck in a shuddering breath. “I would have freaked out, yes, but it’s your dream . . .” I can’t finish.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll . . .” Be devastated, ruined, inconsolable. “Be okay. Don’t worry about me. I want you to be happy.”