Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 52975 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52975 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
“Just tell me you’ll think about it,” he says. “That’s all I ask. This is me being completely serious. It’s not really about Shane; it’s about you and what you deserve.”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”
He sighs heavily, looking aggrieved. “If you want me to apologize to Shane, I will. You shouldn’t have to drive to Columbus every weekend all summer in a car with no air conditioning.”
I smile, surprised he humbled himself enough to even offer. “It won’t be every weekend. He has to work a lot of weekends in the summer and he has video game tournaments sometimes.”
Pursing his lips, he slides Bruce off his lap and gets up from the couch. “Just a sec.”
He walks over to a chair with a decorative pillow on it. Adjusting the pillow so it’s flat on the chair’s seat, he then bends with one hand on the arm of the chair.
His arm muscles cord as he drives his fist into the pillow—hard—about half a dozen times. I’m surprised the pillow doesn’t burst open. Bruce watches him, unfazed.
What the hell is he doing?
He stands upright, takes a deep breath in and out, and comes back to the couch. Standing with his hands on his hips, he says, “Sorry, I just had to get that energy out.”
“Okay, but...why?”
“You. Are. Settling.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And as someone who cares about you, it’s painful to watch. I don’t want you to end up miserable.”
“Bash—”
“If you were my girl, and we were two and a half hours apart in the summer, you can bet your ass I’d be on your doorstep by seven thirty every Friday night, and I’d be getting up before sunrise to get back to work on Monday morning so I could have an extra night with you. If he wanted to, he would, Lane. And Shane doesn’t want to.”
If you were my girl. I can’t even take a full breath as I replay his words in my head. Why? Why would Bash say something so thoughtless and cruel to me? He doesn’t mean it. He’s tearing down Shane, an average, everyday man, and making himself out to be the ten I could have if I only dumped Shane.
It’s not realistic. And it hurts. It really, truly hurts my heart that he thinks it’s okay to toy with my feelings this way. He wants me to dump Shane and be alone just so he can feel like he is right.
I clear my throat, pulling out my ponytail holder so I can hide my face behind a curtain of hair. Bruce jumps down from my lap as I start to stand up.
“You know what, my stomach’s bothering me again.”
Bash sighs heavily. “Lane, don’t go.”
“I need to. I think I just need to rest.”
I rush up to my room, relieved when I finally close the door behind me. Just in case he comes up to see if I was lying, I go into the bathroom and close and lock the door.
I’ll take a bath. Maybe it’ll relax me a little bit. I’m not pissed off this time. I’m just so hurt I can hardly keep from crumpling up on the floor to cry my eyes out.
This is where I have to live for the summer, but it doesn’t mean I have to spend much time here. I’m going to try just sleeping here and avoiding Bash because anytime we talk for more than five minutes, we end up arguing.
I’ve already had enough stress to last the entire summer.
Chapter Nine
Bash
* * *
How the hell is it only two thirty p.m.? I got an early start today, meeting up with Isaac for breakfast and then training with Carter and Leo. Then I had to get some photos taken and short videos shot by the Comets’ PR people.
They’re trying to keep fans engaged by following players in the offseason and checking in with short videos about what we’re up to. They came to my house and took some videos of me and Bruce and I told them about my offseason training.
I didn’t mention that I have a raging hard-on most days or that my roommate might drive me over the edge before the next season starts. Figured those things aren’t great for the team’s image.
Lainey has been avoiding me for six days—since our conversation on the couch. She breezes past me in the kitchen every morning, refuses to make eye contact, and gives me a perfunctory wave after grabbing her water bottle. If I ask her questions, she tells me she’s in a huge hurry.
Lie. She comes in late most evenings with a bag of ultraprocessed carryout in hand, bypassing the healthy meals I prepare. I feel like a fucking scorned housewife, standing there by the meal I worked to make, or at least heating up if my chef made it, and being ignored. All I need is an apron and some dishpan hands.