Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
But it was his fault that he wasn’t there for you when you needed him most, the voice in the back of my mind whispers.
No, I’m not going there today.
Today is going to be a good day despite the fact that it’s started off crappily.
I’m going to fix up my hair, and then I’m going to find a shirt to wear.
Dumping my damp bag on the counter, I pull out my hairbrush and a hair tie.
I brush it through as best I can and then tie it up into a makeshift bun. I drop my hairbrush back in my bag, and clutching it to my chest, covering my peekaboo bra, I head out of the restroom and go in search of a storeroom or somewhere they might keep spare shirts. But I need to be quick before people start arriving.
I wander for a few minutes and stumble across the locker room.
There’s got to be a shirt in here somewhere.
I open the door, letting myself in, and—holy shit, this room is huge. It’s bigger than my apartment. Well, most places are bigger than my apartment. But, still, it’s massive.
I let the door close behind me.
There are team shirts hanging on hangers at each player’s station. Multiple shirts.
I could borrow one from one of the players, then find where they keep the spares, and replace it; no one would be any the wiser.
I walk into the locker room, scanning the names on the placards above each station as I pass them.
Kelly…Maxwell…Thompson…Kincaid.
Ah, Ares Kincaid. The star quarterback. The one they call the Missile because he throws the football with the effect of a heatseeking missile. He never misses his target.
I might not know much about football, but I do know who he is.
The golden boy. Mr. Perfect.
The guy who paid for his younger siblings’ college education. I know this because my dad told me once.
“He’s responsible, that one. Got his head screwed on.” This was all said with a pointed look at me.
I wasn’t responsible. I didn’t have my head screwed on. I could barely look after myself, let alone be responsible for anyone else.
I still can’t.
My dad thinks the sun shines out of Kincaid’s butt.
I know my dad loves all his players like they’re family—probably loves them more than his own family…well, me because I’m all he has left—but I’m pretty sure my dad thinks of Ares Kincaid as the son he never had but always wanted.
And who could blame him? Kincaid would never get in a car drunk and drive it into a wall.
Nope, that’s all me. The screwup.
I reach out, fingering one of Kincaid’s shirts.
I have this sudden urge to know what it feels like to be like him. To not be a screwup. To be someone people admire. Look up to.
Maybe, if I put on one of his shirts, some of his goodness might rub off on me.
Okay, that just sounded really dirty.
But it can’t hurt to try, right? Wearing his shirt to try to soak up some of his good sense…and that just sounded gross.
I’m going to quit while I’m ahead. Or not.
I kick off my damp heels, drop my bag to the floor, and begin unbuttoning my wet shirt. I peel it off my skin, letting it fall to the floor with a wet thud, and it feels like heaven. The air is cool, drying my damp skin.
I really, really want to take my bra off as well, but I can’t have the girls coming out to play. My chest isn’t huge, so jiggling boobs wouldn’t be an issue, but my nipples do have a tendency to play peekaboo at the most inopportune moments. Not that my bra is exactly concealing much in its dampened state.
God, what a day, and it’s still early.
I really need to not screw up today.
Please let today go well.
Needing to find my calm, I place my hands on my hips and lean my body forward, slowly letting my hands slide down the sides of my legs until they’re resting on the floor, and my chest is pressed to my thighs.
I hold the pose and breathe in. Then, I exhale.
I’ve been practicing yoga since I got sober. My therapist suggested it, and it really helps me.
I know it might seem strange to pull a yoga move here, in the locker room, but I need a moment to relax and find my focus, and this is how I do it nowadays. The old me would have just done a shot.
“Ahem.” The sound of a deep, timbral voice clearing behind me has me shooting upright and spinning around.
And, oh dear God, no.
Ares Kincaid.
He’s standing right there, across the room from me.
And I have no shirt on.
Crap.
“Oh Jesus, shit, fuck!” I wheeze out in complete horror, my arms clamping over my chest.
“That’s a lot of expletives for one sentence.” Ares’s head tilts to the side, a look of amusement on his face.