Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Me: He’s fixing your toilet, isn’t he?
Sully: No, Charlie is. The only thing Brod had to do was go get the tools, Charlie drew the other straw.
Me: Oh.
Sully: Anyway. If there’s anything I can do lmk.
Me: k. Thanks. I’ll remember that, but like—he’s just not that interested…
Tossing my phone onto the bed, I sigh, running a hand through my hair in frustration.
Then.
I do what any girl in my situation would do:
Throw myself on the bed and scream into my pillow.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BRODIE
Lizzy bought herself a can of pink paint.
I glide across the ice, working the puck, back and forth, back and forth, tapping it with the tip of my stick the same way I do every day of the week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
From behind me, a teammate approaches, and I use my body as a defense so he can’t steal it from me.
Lizzy bought herself a can of pink paint, and she wants me to help her in her room.
Glide, glide, tap.
Glide, glide, tap.
I lift my gaze, find someone to pass the puck to, and launch it across the ice toward Palmer Parker, an East Coast silver spooner with a mean chip shot and an entitled pedigree.
He takes off with it, skating toward the goalie. Takes aim.
Shoots.
Scores.
Circles the net and comes out the other side to slap me a high five.
And so it goes for the next ninety minutes, and practice is finally at an end.
I collapse onto the bench when we’re back in the locker room and begin unlacing my skates, breathing an audible sigh of relief as they come off, first one, then the other, as the locker room fills with my teammates.
It goes from loud to louder as they file in, talking shit and telling jokes.
I set my skates aside and unhook my body armor. Remove the shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Shin guards. The long shirt beneath it all clings to my body even though it’s supposed to have moisture wicking and keep me dry.
Nothing but marketing bullshit.
I stand, pulling off my shorts, socks, and briefs, walking toward the showers, and grabbing a towel on my way in, not bothering to wrap it around my waste.
Holy shit, the hot water feels good.
I know I should take a dip in the ice bath, but damn—this is too, too good…
It sluices down my body, and I close my eyes, tuning out the echoes of my friends in the background. The laughing. The exhausted, loud banter.
Our bodies are exhausted, but we’re jovial. The game we have over the weekend is one we’re confident we’ll win—so we give ourselves permission to crack jokes, give each other shit, and be dicks. Say things we normally wouldn’t say on a normal day.
That’s what guys do.
Lizzy bought herself a can of pink paint, and she wants me to help her and has been messaging me like we’re fucking pen pals since she spent the night at my house.
It makes no sense.
We’re not friends.
We’re not pen pals.
She went out with Sully even though she’s clearly not interested in him.
I try to tune out the noise—from the locker room—attempting to shut off my brain and concentrate on the running water, the heat, the rhythm of it.
Find it impossible.
I shut the shower down abruptly, not bothering to shampoo or condition my hair, preferring to do that once I get home.
I can’t think in here.
Can’t escape.
I towel off before stepping out of the shower stall, wiping down my legs, waist, cock and balls—and go to my locker to dress. I’m still damp when I pull the long-sleeve T-shirt over my head and the gray sweatpants up my legs, tying them so they don’t slide back down my hips.
Slide my feet into a pair of athletic sandals, and off I go.
“Dude, where you going?” Charlie calls out to my back, not even close to being dressed, standing in the center of the aisle with his hands up.
“Home.”
“But some of us are going to Davidson’s for a barbecue. You’re not comin’?”
I shake my head. “Naw. Go on without me. I’m tired.”
I half expect him to argue—Charlie almost always does—but he nods, pulling a hand down his face and massaging his jaw. He must have taken a stick to the face earlier. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be rubbing it.
Helmets are great, but not if you get whacked in the face hard enough.
I walk home, welcoming the cool air, lugging my duffel filled with dirty clothes that need to be washed. I don’t mind that my clothes are damp or I’m not wearing the right shoes for a long walk.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I root it out, palming it so I can see who it’s from.
Lizzy: Should I wear my lavender sweater tomorrow for my speech or wear a blazer with jeans?
I stare and stare at that message, confused.