It was like being stabbed in the heart and the gut at the same time.

She spun around to face me, her dark chocolate eyes probing me from over the top of her pink mug. “You do look pretty tired.”

Given that I’d been hit by the breakup bus, I was sure I looked more than tired. I probably looked like a troll.

“Uh, not exactly.”

She took a sip of her coffee, raising her eyebrows. “Where is Luke, anyway? Is he still asleep?”

Another stab.

“He isn’t here.” But he should have been.

“Oh.” Her forehead crinkled, mild confusion registering. “Did he have to train this morning? I thought Paul said they didn’t have dryland today.”

“No,” I said. “He dumped me.”

Amelia froze with the petal-pink mug halfway to her mouth. “What?” Her eyes snapped up to mine.

“Yup.” I looked down at my plate and took a bite of soggy whole-wheat toast. Since the alternative to eating was discussing the breakup, my appetite had suddenly returned. Amelia stared at me, wide-eyed. I wished I’d printed out a pamphlet I could distribute instead of having to relay every painful detail. A news bulletin of sorts.

I swallowed and added, “He said we should ‘take a break.’ And then it turned into a breakup.”

Part of me still didn’t believe it was real, but another part—a bigger part—was resigned to it.

“Sweetie.” She set down her cup and walked around the island. Sitting on the stool next to me, she scanned my face with concern and touched my arm gently. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“What happened? I don’t understand.”

Neither did I, but that didn’t matter. And now I had to relive this horrible breakup conversation over and over again with all my friends and my brother, as well as with my parents. Breaking the news, witnessing their shocked reactions, and enduring their awkward pity. I didn’t want sympathy. I didn’t want hugs. I didn’t want to talk about it—at all.

“We grew apart, I guess.”

“Still, you must be devastated. I feel terrible for you, B.”

Amelia and I had lived together for over six months and got along fabulously, swapping clothes, sharing makeup, and binge-watching bad shows on Netflix. But we’d met because Paul and Luke played together, which meant that her life, like mine, all but revolved around the team. Now she was looking at me with the level of shock and horror one would expect at the news of a death.

Was she really concerned for me? Or was she worried that she and Paul would be next? Would they be next? Like Luke, Paul was a third-year with NHL aspirations. Maybe they all had a pact to dump their girlfriends and live it up for their last year of college.

Or maybe I was the only dead weight.