Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
“Mom?” I say as loud as I can when I finally find my voice.
“911, what’s your emergency? Hello? 911, what’s your emergency?” The phone is on speaker.
“MOM!” I scream, pushing the airbag off, ignoring the pain that slices through me with each movement. The operator speaks again. I take my seatbelt off and fight with the airbag searching for my mother. The operator speaks again.
“Mom!” I scream when I’m finally able to see her.
She’s slumped forward. I start screaming, crying, and shaking uncontrollably. I say, “Mom!” more times than I ever had in my life, as if that will resuscitate her. I don’t know how I know she’s dead, but I know. When move her head back to assess the damage on her head, I scream louder. There’s a chunk of glass lodged into her left eye, the cut so deep it goes into her skull and cheek. I scream again and again. I can’t stop screaming.
The hospital is a blur. I hear my father wailing in the hall. I repeatedly apologize—to him, to the empty room, to anyone who has come near me, including the nurses. They tell me to get some rest and give me something to help me sleep. I don’t want to go to sleep. I’m terrified I’ll have that dream again. I don’t dream, though. I haven’t dreamed since.
CHAPTER 45
LYLA
I watch as Lachlan lowers my phone and looks up at me slowly.
“Fuck, Lyla,” he whispers. “We have to tell the cops.”
I shake my head. That’s the logical thing to do, of course. It’s the first thing Mom thought of doing, the first thing Luke thought of doing. I know better, though. I know going to the cops will only lead to trouble. Last time, it led to death before we even made it to the precinct. This is the first time Lach’s hearing this, so of course, it’s his first thought. I’m sure seeing me lose my shit at my therapist’s office didn’t help. I wait a moment before I speak.
“I’m going to go back to the beginning. My dad was signed with the Mets back in DR, but he moved here when he was eighteen and went to the minors. He started playing in the major leagues, six months later, and that’s when Mom came over. They were both nineteen, and back home, Mom had been studying to be an ophthalmologist, so she enrolled at Fairview to continue.”
I bite my lip, pausing for a moment. Lach sets his hands on mine. “That’s how they met David Jameson.”
Lach’s hands tighten on mine. “No.”
I nod and try to swallow, but it hurts.
“No,” he says again, his face ashen, like he’s witnessing a nightmare all over again. I watch as he processes this — see him go from disbelief, to hurt, back to disbelief, and finally, anger. “He did this to you?”
I nod.
“He. . .you think he put us in the hospital?”
“I know he did.”
His eyes are still wide when he lets go of my hands and covers his face with them. He drags them down and shakes his head as he looks at me. “He was there, every day. At the hospital. He was talking to my agent about different things we could do. He spoke to my mother. . .”
“He fucked you out of those contracts,” I say. “Toronto? Boston? Jameson knows those coaches. Some of them were once his coaches. I don’t know what he told them, but I know he’s at fault for this.”
Lach is still just staring at me.
“I really wish I’d let Marissa and Prescott talk to me about you” I whisper, looking down. “I could have told you. Or told them to tell you. I’m sure it crossed their minds, but they’re also scared. I could have. . .”
“Stop.” He grabs my hands again; his eyes are hard now. “None of this is your fault. I was a fucking idiot to blame you.” He brings my hands up and kisses them.
“Do you want me to keep going, or will it be too much for you?”
“Keep going.”
“My parents were having this party when I was fourteen,” I start. He stiffens. “Mom made punch. Jameson served me some and was around all night, which I didn’t think was too weird. He was my godfather and always looking after me.” I purse my lips at that. “The morning after that party, I woke up in my bed with my shirt pulled up to my neck, the skirt I was wearing, and no underwear. I was still wearing my socks, still had on my jewelry, and I was. . .” I clear my throat. “I was sore and had some dried blood between my legs.”
“Fuck,” he says, his voice so low I barely catch it, but the rage on his face is unmistakable.
“I genuinely didn’t know what happened. My friends hadn’t started having sex yet, so it’s not like we talked about what it was like. I didn’t really think anything of it,” I say. “I thought I must have been extra tired and passed out. Maybe I’d gotten my period or something. I was naive. Stupid.”