Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
I sighed heavily. “So, since I’m going, she’s staying?”
He pushed his brows together, looking aggravated. “She is not here legally. If I call the police…”
“Maybe a free ticket home wouldn’t be bad,” I said gently. “She’s in a bad situation here.”
“And a worse one there. She would be dead within a few hours.”
Sawyer pulled up and I gave Kon a sympathetic look. “I trust you. I just…don’t have the headspace for this right now. It’s been a hell of a day.”
He nodded, looking resigned. “I understand.”
Sliding his coat from my shoulders, I passed it back to him and walked toward Sawyer’s car.
“I’ll talk to you later,” I said.
He nodded again, his expression somber. I got in Sawyer’s car and closed my eyes, eager to be anywhere but here.
“Cross-check,” Sawyer muttered. “But of course, no call, because Cruse is the darling of every ref in this league.”
We were in the first row at the Mavericks game, nothing but the glass separating us from the action. Sawyer refused to watch the game from a suite, because he wanted to be close to the action. It was my preference, too. Anytime he got our mom and me tickets to a game, they were close to the action.
Kon stretched during a break in the game. I’d never paid much attention to a goalie before now, and it was a harder job than I’d realized. Every time the puck was near his net, I was on the edge of my seat. His blocks were timed perfectly. One puck had slid past him and he’d yelled something in Russian that, from the sound of it, was one-hundred-percent profanity.
The Mavs were up 3–1, though. And the guys had all acknowledged Sawyer. This was his first game since Annie’s death. No matter which side of the glass he was on, it was progress.
“You hungry?” Sawyer asked me.
I shook my head. “We can eat after this. Don’t go back to the concession stand or you’ll never make it back.”
We’d gotten in line for slushies before the game started, and within a few seconds, the first fan recognized Sawyer. An actual mob had formed. People were pushing and yelling, trying to get autographs and photos. I’d held on to Sawyer’s arm, my heart pounding in fear of someone getting hurt, when security guards had come and helped us get out. An usher had delivered our slushies.
“I can have stuff brought here,” he said. “You want anything?”
“I wouldn’t say no to some popcorn and a bottle of water.”
He nodded and typed out a text on his phone.
After we got home from Kon’s last night, I’d gone straight to bed and slept for twelve hours straight. I felt better, though my face still hurt and I didn’t have much of an appetite.
It had taken a lot of makeup to cover the bruise on my face, and there was nothing I could do about the swelling. I was wearing a Mavericks hat pulled low, hoping to conceal my face as much as possible.
Sawyer leaned closer to me and said, “I vote we go out for dinner after the game. We have a lot to talk about.”
I cringed inwardly because he was right. This morning, I’d told him I wasn’t up for talking. Not only did he want to know what my text about the manilla envelope beneath my dresser meant, he wanted to tell me about Svetlana.
Though I’d hear him out, Svetlana was not someone I wanted to talk about. Kon had texted me this morning to ask when he could see me, and I still hadn’t responded. I’d felt his gaze on me as he skated toward the goal earlier, and I liked it.
I liked him. A lot. And since I wasn’t planning to stay here long term, I shouldn’t have cared about his down-on-her-luck ex showing up and asking for his help.
I cared, though. Seeing her in his T-shirt had brought on a wave of jealousy like nothing I’d felt before. She was sending me a message: I have a history with him, and you don’t.
“Where do you want to go for dinner?” I asked Sawyer.
He was out of the house, living life again. So whether I felt like talking or not, I would. We’d go out for dinner and discuss things because that’s what adults did. I couldn’t very well tell my brother to stop hiding behind booze and face up to his shit if I wasn’t willing to face up to my own.
“There’s an Italian place the team likes to go after games sometimes,” he said. “But I don’t know. We won’t be able to talk if there are other people there.”
“We can talk on the way there,” I offered.
His expression turned serious. “You need to tell me everything, Luce. I can’t help you if I don’t know what we’re up against.”