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)
“What are you gonna do if she’s moved on?” Fitz asks, brows shooting up in reaction to whatever he sees on my face.
“She hasn’t.” I grip the stick tighter.
I would kill the motherfucker she’s moved on with; that’s what would happen, but I know she hasn’t. If I haven’t been able to move on, she hasn’t either. There is no moving on from this.
“What will you do when you find her?” Nolan asks, looking as concerned as Fitz. “Every time you talk about her, it looks like you want to fucking kill her.”
“He’s not wrong,” Nolan adds.
I look at both of them. I don’t need a mirror to tell me what my expression must look like. “I’m going to make her life hell.”
With that, we start skating toward the goal, passing the puck between each other. The way we’re perfectly synchronized is insane. I’ve never played with anyone like this. Not right off the bat, anyway. It happens when I play with Mason, but that's because we’ve been playing together for so long. This shit is different. The moment the three of us get on the ice together, it’s fucking magic. We’re like fucking Jordan, Pippen, and Rodman. Wade, Lebron, and Bosh. Fitzgerald, Astor, and Duke had a pretty nice ring to it. Maybe in another life. For everyone’s sake, I hope in that life, I’m not this fucking bitter.
CHAPTER 22
DELILAH
(FORMERLY KNOWN AS LYLA)
“Come on! Pass it! Pass it!” Wade shouts from the other side of the pitch.
Before I get a chance to turn around, I cover my mouth and laugh. God, I hope no one saw me. The last thing I need is to deal with some parent’s bullshit today. It is funny, though, how Wade talks to them like they’re already playing serious soccer. They’re freaking five, for crying out loud. One of them already scored a goal for the opposite team. Another one is sitting down next to the goal because she’s tired.
“Come ON, RIGBY!” Another shout from Wade.
Rigby just stands there, watching the ball roll right past him and closer to the opposing team’s goal. I really shouldn’t laugh, but this is my source of entertainment. It’s what I do for fun on the weekends, when I’m not training teenagers and working at Tackle Sports Center. Saturdays are training days, but since I had the day off, I said yes when Wade called and asked me to help referee the little kids. If I hadn’t, I’d be helping Marissa with her smoothie shop (the one beside her flower shop) or at home doing laundry. My life revolves around those things now. For the past three years, it’s revolved around medical school, and on Saturdays, my internship at Tackle, but now that it’s over, I’m left adrift before I start my specialty training.
I’m dreading the time off already. Maybe I’ll help Marissa out full-time or tell the facility to throw more training sessions at me. Anything to not stand around for too long. Standing around leads to thinking, which leads to depression, which leads to numbness, and I’m finally starting to let myself feel things — trying to, anyway. Thank goodness for therapy, I guess.
Therapy is the only contingency Prescott put on keeping my secret from Lachlan. It’s also the only way I got him and Marissa to agree never to mention him to me. Forced or not, I can’t lie and say therapy hasn’t been helpful. It absolutely has, but in working out my grief, I’ve opened myself up to emotions I don’t want to have. It has taken me five sessions to start opening up, and even now, I only do it through hypnotherapy. It’s intense.
I have the therapist record my sessions. I’m not sure why, since it’s not like I’m going to break out a bucket of popcorn and watch myself relive my trauma. I want to have it, though. My therapist is big on “showing your emotions,” so she’s had a field day with me. I still don’t show my emotions often, but I’m pretty sure I was like this before everything caught fire. I don’t know anymore.
Every night, I sit down, shut my eyes, and do breathing sessions to help me relax and replay scenes of the past. It hurts, of course. I’m a fucking glutton for pain. I think about Mom, Lach, and Luke. Since I don’t let my friends talk about him, it almost feels like Lach died. Somehow, it hurts much more than when I lost Luke. It’s a shitty thing to admit, but Lachlan is just different. He found a way to my heart when no one else could. He made me feel when no one else could. Sometimes, I want to call him just to hear his voice and wedge the knife a little deeper into my chest.