Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
She studies me before lifting her chin and primly looking down her nose at me. “You may continue. And don’t leave out a thing.”
So I spill it, leaning close and talking in lowered tones so no one else hears. She attempts to look over at Locke a few times, but I nudge her back into submission.
I tell her everything I told Juno, and because she’s my best friend and I need the sounding board, I tell her even more.
“I really like him, Molls,” I lament. “And he’s so complicated, but he’s also a good man. I want this to work out. I really do.”
She covers my hand with hers, all forgiven now that she’s fully in the loop. “Then you go for it, bestie. You buckle down the way you know how to, and you figure out how to make it work. There’s nothing you can’t accomplish, Livvy, if you set your mind to it.”
It’s the exact pep talk I need—Molly’s undying confidence in my abilities. I reach out to hug her and she squeezes me back tight.
“You’ve got this,” she whispers in my ear.
“Yeah, I know.” And then my bladder starts speaking. “I need to go pee. Watch my purse.”
“Got you covered,” she replies.
I nab my phone and head that way, but a buzz has me turning it over to look at an incoming text.
From Grant. Please talk to me. I think if you could just give me an hour, you’d understand why I did what I did and we could work this out. I’m not trying to scare you. I just need you to hear me.
“What the fuck?” I mutter in anger, a small niggle of fear behind it.
My phone buzzes again and I stop in my tracks, reading the message.
Livvy… please don’t do this to me. It’s not fair and I don’t think I can handle this anymore. If you ever felt anything for me, please just give me some time.
I start to delete it but then another one comes in and says, Don’t do this to me.
A shiver runs up my spine and I turn off my phone, deciding not to delete the texts but keep them for… proof?
I start toward the bathroom but bump right into someone. It’s Locke, standing in my path like an immovable wall.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern etched on his face.
“How do you know anything’s wrong?” I ask, tucking my phone into my back pocket.
“Your face,” he says. “I’ve apparently gotten good at reading your emotions.”
I rub the back of my neck, glance around to see if anyone’s looking at us. Not that we’re doing anything wrong. Just two work mates having a conversation. My eyes go to his. “It’s Grant. Text messages begging for a chance. It is… unsettling.”
“Get the order of protection,” he says.
“We’ve had this conversation.”
“We’re having it again.”
“He’s in LA, Locke. I’m in Portland. That’s nine hundred miles and—”
“He showed up at the team hotel.”
“Because we were in LA.”
“He knows where you live.” His voice is level and somehow that makes it worse than if he were angry about it. “He knows where you work. He found your new number and your new address after you moved, and he showed up drunk on a sidewalk and put his hands on you.” He pauses. “Get the fucking order.”
I know he’s right. I know it with the part of my brain that does assessment for a living, the part I have been steadfastly ignoring when it comes to my own situation. I also know that if I take this seriously, it means I have to acknowledge the danger, which makes things scary.
As it stands, I have too much other shit on my plate to worry about.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
“Livia.”
“That’s the best I’ve got right now.”
He looks at me for a long beat, trying to decide whether to push. Ultimately, he nods his acquiescence. “Fine.”
Then he surprises me by stepping in closer, dipping his head.
“Do you want to get out of here?” I ask.
“Yeah… I do.”
The Willamette River moves dark and quiet with the city lights breaking across its surface. We’re on the esplanade east of the arena and without a second thought, my hand finds his as we meander. His fingers are wrapped around mine and it feels so right.
“What do you want to do after hockey?” I ask. “Do you have an endgame plan?”
His head twists to look out over the water, then back to me. “I’m not sure. I don’t really have any outside skills or education, but I’ve often thought about coaching.”
“I think you’d be great at that,” I say with a smile.
The corner of his mouth moves. “I don’t know. Given my history with authority, it’s probably an ironic choice.”
“I don’t think it’s ironic at all,” I say.
“No?”
“People who understand from personal experience make the best teachers.” I watch the water. “Any particular skill level?”