Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
The burning in my stomach moves to my chest and up my throat. I feel sick.
“Oh. Well, Anna, Tyson rarely gets into any trouble. That’s Carson’s purview, usually. Though I think playing with the pros has cured him of that.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s Astrid’s influence,” Tyson answers.
“Perhaps. Maybe that’s why they sent a pretty girl to mind you, Ty— they figured that having one around worked for Carson,” Mrs. Slate jokes. Despite the fact that it’s a compliment, I feel sunken from this entire conversation. Not being called his girlfriend I could handle, but to be reduced to an assigned keeper and nothing more?
I blink a few times to keep tears from welling up, and smile again at Mrs. Slate. I can’t look at Tyson— I’m afraid I’ll see something in his eyes that makes me unable to contain my hurt, or, worse yet, see nothing in his eyes at all. Don’t be ridiculous, I berate myself. He never said you were his girlfriend. He was clear, in fact, that you aren’t. You were okay with that. You are okay with that. The whole minder thing is just a story to make it easier. What did you expect, that he’d introduce you to his mother as the girl who he fucked for six hours straight last night?
We finally enter the courtroom, and despite the high stakes nature of the hearing, I have to admit that I’m too caught up in my own emotions to pay close attention, especially considering the fact that I don’t really know all that much about the case. From what I do hear, though, the fact that Carson Slate has retracted his alibi means Dennis is more or less screwed. Without an alibi, the defense’s case is built around character witnesses and little else. It’s a quick affair, and soon we’re being shepherded back out into the hallway. Mrs. Slate is talking animatedly with the lawyers while Tyson watches, waiting for a moment to say goodbye to his mother.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he mutters to me when the silence between us becomes deafening.
“Sure,” I say immediately— politely. “I mean, it was for the team, after all.” I mean it as a joke— I even try to chuckle as the words leave my mouth. But it isn’t a joke, and Tyson’s eyes flit to mine so fast that I know he hears the pain in my words.
“Anna—“
He’s cut off by his mother calling his name, and the massive team of lawyers ushering him over. He gives me a “one minute” sort of glance, and heads their way. They talk in hushed voices, circled up just like a football team before a big play. Tyson begins to shake his head; his mother smacks him on the arm, first gently, then harder. Then she begins to cry.
“Why can’t you do this one thing? After all he’s done for you! Your entire college career— your future professional career! It’s all because of that man, Tyson,” she says, voice shrill. One of the lawyers puts a hand on her shoulder, the gesture begging her to lower her voice lest the prosecutors hear. She brushes the hand off, though, and continues shaking her head at her son, her mouth a grim line. I hear him mumble something in response, something apologetic, but it clearly doesn’t soothe her. Mrs. Slate glares at Tyson, like she’s been betrayed on the deepest of levels, and then turns sharply on her heel. It’s as if she’s slammed a door in his face. Tyson watches her go, body stiff and uneasy. One of the lawyers says goodbye to him, but I’m not sure Tyson hears him.
It’s been a solid five minutes before he really moves again, turning his head to me, his eyes landing on mine immediately, like he knew I’d be waiting for him to look over. I don’t know what to do, what to say— I don’t even know how to move. Should I shrug? Give a pitying smile? Wave him over so we can leave? I can’t decide, and so I do nothing, waiting for him to walk toward me, then brush past me. He touches my arm lightly as he does so, signaling for me to follow him, and I do.
“So,” I say quietly once we’re back in the car, sitting in silence in the parking deck— he hasn’t even put the key in the ignition. “What was that about?”
“They wanted me to testify as a character witness. The fact that Sebastian and Carson have washed their hands of the whole thing is bad, so they’re desperate to get me to speak on his behalf. You know— talking about what a great father he is, how he taught me to play football, how he’s a great role model.”
“And you wouldn’t do it?”
“I said I would do it, but that I wouldn’t omit anything. The lawyers weren’t exactly saying I should lie under oath, but they didn’t want me to bring up anything that might look bad. So…nothing about the time he locked me and Sebastian out because we’d collapsed during suicide runs on the field. Nothing about him telling Carson that he’d rather not have a middle son at all than a son who couldn’t throw a solid pass.”