Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
He suddenly becomes very interested in his stick tape. His gloves. The floor. Literally anything that isn’t me.
More buzzing.
Bailey: I need five minutes of your time.
Five minutes?
To explain away over a year and a half?
That gets me. Has me tapping away at the letters and hitting send.
Aaron: You’ve already had more of my time than you were worth.
Harsh, I know, but I’m pissed.
Across the room, Storm is laughing about something, helmet under his arm, hair still damp from the shower, as if he’s the centerfold in a men’s cologne ad. Someone flicks a towel at his ass.
He dodges it.
Laughs and tosses a T-shirt.
Bailey: NOT WORTH IT? That was so rude. That actually hurt my feelings, you asshole.
Of course I’m the asshole here. Somehow, I am the villain.
Bailey: You don’t get to talk to me like that after everything we shared.
Shared?
Like she didn’t also share herself with my teammate, then act surprised when the math stopped mathing? I knew she was delusional, but I didn’t realize how crazy she was.
Aaron: I don’t??
Aaron: But like, are you going to beg me to forgive you? Why the hell would I EVER do that?
Bailey: It wouldn’t kill you to be a decent person about this.
Aaron: It wouldn’t? ’Cause from my perspective it would LOL.
Bailey: I made one mistake and you’re going to make me pay for it for the rest of my life?
That almost makes me laugh out loud. One mistake?
One, but it was a fucking doozy.
Aaron: You made a choice—and you were my girlfriend. It’s not like you were my wife. We were never going to make it, so…
Bailey: Now you’re just being cruel.
Aaron: No, that’s the reality.
I’m halfway through typing something I’ll probably regret when my phone buzzes again.
It’s Juliette.
My last message to Bailey is glowing below Juliette’s message. Angry and bitter, the unfinished business hijacking my entire afternoon.
I rub a hand over my face, already tired of this version of myself—a man who lets emotions get the better of him and speaks to people who do not serve my well-being. That is not who I am.
But I am someone who finishes what he starts.
Aaron: We’re done. Don’t text me again.
Send.
Then I open Juliette’s message.
Juliette: GOOD LUCK at your game tonight! Don’t let Storm trip over his own skates.
Her message is harmless; thoughtful in a way that feels sweet and, based on what little I know about her, I guess she probably attempted to text me forty times before hitting send on that one.
I imagine she’s in her bitty cubicle, fiddling with her phone instead of doing whatever they do in the player engagement office. Meanwhile, I’m surrounded by dipshits who’ve lost half their teeth and have gashes in their skulls and concussions to match.
The contrast isn’t lost on me.
Aaron: No game tonight. But I will be at the arena, just getting changed. Then I have to look at a game tape.
Juliette: OMG that’s right. I keep forgetting what day it is—this was the longest day ever, sorry.
Aaron: You’re one day early. Game is tomorrow.
Juliette: This makes me sound terrible at my job. I’m rolling my own eyes so hard I spaced on the game schedule when I work in the building? Someone take away my promotion. Eek!
Eek?
She is so fucking cute.
Adorable in a way that makes me feel like a goddamn ogre as I sit here glowering on a bench in the locker room, waiting to go into the team room to watch the film.
I roll my shoulders, the ever-present ache settling deep in the joints. Sweat cools on my skin, turning sticky and unpleasant beneath my pads. Glancing down at my hands, I squeeze my knuckles to inspect where they’re split. They’re raw, tape peeling at the edges.
I palm my phone, staring at the screen.
Aaron: You’re not terrible at your job. I never know what day it is. Easy mistake ha ha.
Juliette: You’re saying that to be nice.
Aaron: ME?? NICE? Stop, you’re saying that to be nice ;)
Juliette: Somehow I doubt you’re feeling all mushy right now.
Aaron: Wow. The disrespect.
Juliette: I grew up down the hallway from a professional athlete. I’m a very good judge of character.
Little does she know how far off the mark she is on that.
Aaron: And here you are texting me.
Juliette: I’m trying to get through the hard candy coating to your ooey gooey middle…
Little chance of that happening.
Aaron: My ooey gooey middle? LOL
I type while standing now, peeling my practice jersey up and over my head, sweat-damp fabric sticking for a second before coming free. I catch Declan’s eyes flicking to my hands and raise my brows at him.
“Boo.”
His presence is like a fart—rank, annoying, and persistent.
I go back to ignoring him. Set my phone on the bench so I can bend forward to untie my skate, pads half off. I tug and tug until they fall to the floor, then pick my cell up and type out a reply.