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)
Just.
That single word lands wrong.
It implies that he is, but there is a but.
“But?” I whisper.
“But, it’s possible he actually thinks you’re cool. But anger pushed him to do things he wouldn’t normally do,” Garrett admits. “You’re Declan’s sister. Dating you might feel like a direct hit.”
A direct hit.
My pulse roars in my ears.
“A direct hit?” I sound like a moron, constantly repeating myself, constantly needing clarification. Brain cannot compute.
“I don’t mean it like that.” He’s talking too fast now. “I mean—Declan implied it was deliberate. And then, you know…”
He makes an explosion gesture with his hands.
Boom.
Bad to worse.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” He rushes to apologize, stepping back when my face falls. “You need to talk to him. Not me. I’m clearly not helping.”
No.
He’s not helping.
Still, the damage has been done.
My phone vibrates on the desk, and I don’t know if I’m brave enough to look at it.
Aaron?
For the first time since he and I started talking, I’m not excited to see his name.
I’m terrified.
“Are you going to be alright?” Garrett says. “I should probably, you know… get going. Practice starts soon.”
Right.
Practice.
How lovely to go about one’s day with your life intact.
I swallow, forcing a nod. “Yeah. I’ll be good.”
Lie.
Lie, lie, lie.
Garrett lingers a few seconds longer, like he wants to say more. Like he might apologize for detonating a bomb in the middle of my cubicle.
He doesn’t.
He stuffs his hands in the pocket of his athletic pants, reticently backing out of my cubicle. “Don’t let this bother you, ’kay?”
Too late, Garrett! I’m bothered.
I am so far beyond bothered I feel physically ill.
My stomach churns, acid creeping up the back of my throat. My ears ring. The fluorescent lights suddenly feel too bright, like they’re buzzing directly against my skull.
Don’t let it bother me?
He casually suggested to me that the man I’m—What? Falling in love with? Sleeping with? Risking my job for?—might be using me to get back at my brother.
But sure!
No big deal!
I cannot sit at this desk, pretending to care about policy language from corporate, while players in the locker room are gossiping about my relationship with details I don’t have.
I want to throw up.
I want to cry.
I need to leave.
I grab my phone first, fingers clumsy around it. Then my purse. My laptop bag. The zipper snags, and I nearly lose it right there, jaw clenching as I tug it free.
“Hey,” Garrett says, alarm creeping into his voice now. “Jules—”
I shrug past him.
Literally shoulder him aside, checking him on my way out, mind already trying to solve the riddle before the pieces have finished falling, words ricocheting around my skull like loose pucks, slamming into the boards, rebounding, coming at me from every angle.
Dick swinging contest… Revenge… Get back at your brother… Direct hit.
Aaron would never. Would he?
I pursued him.
Didn’t I?
If Aaron is using me—
If this has been some sick, twisted revenge plot—
I don’t know which would hurt more: losing him…
Or realizing I never had him at all.
TWENTY-EIGHT
AARON
There’s a knot in my chest that will not loosen.
It’s small but manageable, brought on by self-reproach and, yeah, okay—shame. Guilt.
My phone sits face-up on the bench beside me while I lace up my skates, and for every minute that passes with no reply, the knot tightens.
Three texts sent.
Zero responses.
No read receipts, no bubbles from typing.
You need to tell her all this before someone else does…
I squash Sutton’s cautionary warning down because, hours from now, I may be sitting across a table from Juliette, her hand tucked in mine, finally telling her everything.
How I walked in on her brother and Bailey; how filled with fury I was. The thoughts going through my mind, none of which I’m proud of. Confess all my transgressions and hope she sees the irony in it—that the thing I meant to use as leverage became the only thing I actually care about.
I’ll tell her that somewhere between our teasing texts and the late-night conversations—between the first kiss and the sex and way she says my name—and how she makes me feel…
The way I make her feel.
Everything changed.
Christ, I honestly don’t have a fucking clue what I’ll do if she—
No.
She won’t tell me to piss off.
Not Juliette, she’s way too caring.
She loves me, I can see it in her eyes.
She’ll be hurt. Maybe embarrassed.
But she’ll hear me out.
Because what we have isn’t fake.
You need to tell her all this before someone else does…
My knee bounces as I pull my socks up, and damned if I don’t have to rest a hand on my thigh to make it stop. Then I grab my tape, start wrapping my stick tighter than necessary because… Jesus, what the hell is my problem?
The locker-room door swings open, and I don’t glance up. It’s that time of day where bodies are filtering in before practice. We all have a job to do, and everyone here takes it seriously.