Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I don’t move, but Joy replies for me. “And the day I give a knick knack, frick frack, good goddamn fuck what you want is the day I’ll let you dictate who I date.”
“I’m trying to protect you, Joy,” Shepherd tells her, peering into her eyes earnestly as he not-so-subtly tells her that she needs protection against me.
She steps closer to him, and though I hate to, I let her go.
There are multiple issues here. One is me and Shepherd, and we’ll have to fight that out. It’s gonna be ugly, likely involve more fists and blood, and hopefully end with us drinking a beer. But another is between Joy and Shepherd, and only they can settle it. I have to let them do it themselves.
“And I’m telling you I don’t need protection from him. If anything, he needs it from me because I’m the one who fucked everything up. Us”—she points back over her shoulder at me, and then at herself and Shepherd—“and us. This is all on me, and I’m sorry.”
Shepherd looks past Joy, meeting my gaze with hard, cold eyes. “One thing,” he reminds me.
I nod, acknowledging the reminder. “I’m sorry, man. I love her, but that doesn’t change the betrayal.”
“Again, that’s my fault, so put that all on me,” Joy insists, putting herself smack in the way of our stare down and raising her hand in case Shepherd doesn’t know who to blame. “Dalton’s wanted to tell you for months. I’m the scaredy-cat who told him not to. He was respecting my wishes.”
It’s a valiant effort on Joy’s part, but it’s not enough to balance out all the lies I told my best friend.
I’m tired.
Going to the gym.
Not seeing anyone.
Focusing strictly on hockey.
All things I’ve told him over the last few months when he wanted to get together, asked how I was doing, and basically was being a good friend to me. And all the while, I was falling in love with his sister behind his back.
I hate to admit it, but I’m not sure there’s any coming back from this for us. I hope there is, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to him, but this might’ve cracked the very foundation of our friendship beyond all repair.
“Barlowe! Days! Get your asses into my office!” Coach Wilson yells. He’s standing in the doorway, his face tomato-red and white spittle piled up in the corners of his mouth from the screaming he’s been doing during the last period of the game.
Shit. The game fiasco kinda fell out of my focus with everything going on with Joy and Shep, but Coach’s words bring it back into crystal clear sharpness.
Shep tries to walk away, but Joy grabs his arm and says, “Before you leave, find Mom and Dad. Give them a signed jersey. It’s a long story, but I promised one to a kid and I need you to make me not a liar.”
He stares at her like she’s asking for the keys to his truck or his ATM PIN, not the sweaty shirt off his back. He doesn’t answer, just strides past her with a huff of disbelief, but I’ll make sure it happens if he doesn’t. I don’t know why Joy needs it, but if she does, she’ll get it.
“Go home. I’ll be there as soon as I can so we can talk,” I tell Joy. I place a quick kiss to her lips and nearly shove her toward the door so she’s not hit by any shrapnel from Coach’s attack. This is gonna be ugly.
She places her fingers over her lips, but I can see the lift at the corners as she smiles. “I love you,” she whispers as I turn around to heed Coach’s call. I throw one more look her way, and smile before turning my face to stone and my spine to steel.
“Coming, Coach,” I say.
Chapter 29
Joy
In the hallway outside the locker room, I see the one person I don’t want to see. You’d think that’d be Mollie, but as much of a lying, calculating bitch as she is, in the big scheme of things, she’s barely a blip.
Who’s not a blip?
Steve Milligan himself, standing there in a golf polo, khakis, and freshly waxed boat shoes, looking every bit the old-school country club asshole he is.
“Can’t say I’m surprised. This is why women don’t belong in the locker rooms,” he tsks, shaking his head as if he’s sad about tonight’s turn of events. “You get emotionally involved, whip the players up into a frenzy, and ultimately, it ends up hurting the team. They had a good shot tonight . . . until you.”
“Fuck you, Milligan.”
Is it the smart thing to say? Nope. It’s not even the smartest response to his accusations, but it’s what spits off my tongue instinctively.
He chuckles, seeming shocked by my language, though I know he’s said and heard worse. “And so ladylike. Some advice, little girl? Maybe consider reporting the weather instead of sports. People like it when a pretty thing in a tight skirt and low-cut blouse tells them about the sunshine and makes the rain seem less drab. You’d be good at that.”