Oh, for the love.
I drop my fork to my glass plate, and Xavier jumps.
“You’re right, Mom,that’sthe most important conversation of the night. And I think I’ll leave now to work on it. Come on, Xavier.”
His jaw drops. So does my mom’s.
My dad chokes. “Treat my daughter right,” he wheezes, offering up his two cents—literally, that is all it’s worth—as a father.
Xavier still hasn’t moved, so I round the table and grab his hand. He’s too stunned to fight. My mother must be as well because her lips clamp shut and stay that way until we are out the front door. I’m going to need to remember that one for later.
The second the door closes behind us, Xavier rips his hand out of my grasp and takes a giant step away from me. “I don’t know what your family wants from me, but I am not about to start a family with a murderer.”
I guess my “I promise I’m not a sociopath smile“ didn’t really sell it.
“Whoa. Dude.” I hold up a hand before he calls the cops. “I didn’t hurt anyone, and I’m sorry. I don’t want your babies. I was just trying to get us both out of there in one piece.”
A mixture of emotions flit through his dark eyes. “Thanks.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Is it okay if I don’t call you?”
“Perfectly.”
He spins and walks toward what I’m assuming is his mom’s home. The poor guy is pretty rattled. I hope he makes it home okay. I’d offer to walk him, but I’ve already done enough.
Lyndi’s words unwillingly float into my mind. I scare men away. My mom helps, but I do a pretty good job of it on my own.
I’m too tired to process that information and drive home to the melancholy tales of Taylor Swift. She can’t keep a man either. I guess we’re kindred spirits. Though I probably won’t be writing any songs about them.
Chapter 11
Maddie
When I pull up to the high school the next Tuesday, I don’t freak out and hide under my steering wheel, even when the loud bang comes again. And I certainly don’t wait in the parking lot long enough for Connor to catch up to me.
I bypass the classrooms, which are all empty, and head for the gym.
Well, in the direction I assume the gym should be. After five wrong turns and two very “helpful” teen boys, I finally locate the court.
There is already a group of girls gathered in the corner, talking and stretching. Their mouths are getting a good stretch, at least.
I’ve missed the buzz of the overhead lights, the squeak of tennis shoes on the wood floors, the anticipation in the air. I take a deep breath and immediately gag on the ripe BO. Nope. Don’t miss the smell.
The door slams shut behind me with a startling thud and the conversations stop. All eyes snap to me.
I gulp. Why am I nervous? Because teenagers are terrifying. That’s why. If I face plant right now, I have no doubt I’ll end up as an embarrassing gif by tomorrow.
The girl in the middle stands, her posture and attitude pronouncing her the ringleader.
“You the new coach?” Her eyebrows arch as she inspects me.
I discreetly peer over my shoulder to make sure someone more authoritative didn’t enter without me knowing.
“Yes?”
No wonder I couldn’t make it as a lawyer. I can’t even stand my ground with teen girls.
She studies me, and I do my best not to cower under her intimidating glare. Geez, where did she learn that?
“I suppose you’ll do. For now,” she says. Then, like she’s in charge, “‘Kay ladies, get those nets up. We don’t have much time.”
