Try-outs. Right.
“Last time I was on the ice, I was suspended indefinitely from the league,” I remind them. “Has that been lifted?”
Cally must’ve forgotten the charity game, but Ronan remembers. “Yeah. I spoke with the refs — it’s beer league. They told us to, ‘control our dog’ or they’d take us out of rotation,” he explains.Their dog. Nice. Fuckin’ dicks.“I told them you’ll be on your best behavior. Right?” He lifts an eyebrow, expectantly.
“Yeah, Greg and I are,” I pause, thinking about the night of the party, and chuckle. Fuck, what a mess. “We’re fine. Best of friends. Can’t wait to play them again.”
My friends stare at me. They know I’m being facetious, but they don’t press me for details. There’s a knock on the door, and I groan, “Now, what?” I move to the door, pull it open, and scare the shit out of the teenage delivery guy standing there with a tray of coffees.
Behind me, Ronan perks up and pushes past me, “Coffee!” He reaches out, taking the tray and pushing a twenty-dollar bill into the kid’s hand.
I leave the door open, turning to face my unwanted guests, and demand, “Out. Leave. I will see you at try-outs. But please, for the love of fucking god, go away.”
Cally sighs, and Ronan rolls his eyes, but they both step past me into the hall. The delivery kid is still standing there, looking shell-shocked. Ronan and Cally turn toward me, and I reach for a coffee on the tray, but Ronan pulls it out of my reach.
“What the fuck, Ronan? You have four of them,” I bark at him.
He laughs, nods as if he just realized he bought one for everyone, scans the cups and picks one up and holds it out to me, and says, “This is for Lex. It’s a vanilla latte. Bitches love vanilla lattes. You, Mr. I’m Too Good for My Friends, don’t get one. Fuck you. See you Wednesday. Bring the girl.”
With that, they turn and head down the hall, dragging the poor, stunned delivery guy with them.
Lex
I don’t miss the way he presses his thumb into my wrist and holds on a little too long. That part of me that rebels against control screams at me to rip my hand from his grasp. Instead, I smile sweetly, let him verify I’m still alive, and nod. I feel the weight of three sets of eyes as I walk to the washroom and close the door, locking it behind me.
Inside, I lean against the counter and take a deep breath, trying to center myself. Everything aches. My lungs, throat, and every muscle in my body feel battered and bruised. It takes every ounce of strength not to sink to the floor.Will I ever not be tired again?
Outside, I hear their voices, and IfeelAdrian’s presence. It pulls at me like gravity, like he’s the fucking sun and I’m destined to orbit around him. The low timbre of his voice vibrates through me when he growls, “Stop.”
It confuses me, until I hear Ronan, loud and clear as day, “Oh. My. Fucking. God. Your dream girl! In your fucking apartment! Adrian Liberty, you fucking dog, you!”
My cheeks heat, and I can’t even call whatever’s happening in my belly butterflies. It’s too chaotic. Too intense. It makes my head spin, so I lean down, pressing my forehead to the cool counter, and focus on what I can feel. I’m breathing throughmy grounding exercises when I hear Ronan’s voice again. This time, he sounds further away when he says, “Bitches love vanilla lattes.”
My hand flies up to my mouth in an attempt to stifle the laugh I can’t contain. I rise, taking in my reflection, my eyes settling on the way Adrian’s shirt hangs off my frame. No one would ever think this was mine, but somehow, it still looks like it was made for me. Like I was made to wear it. That thought makes my knees go weak, and I turn on the cold water, trying to cool the flames that burn in my cheeks.
I open the drawer to grab the pink toothbrush Adrian purchased for me, but before I do, I stare at the two toothbrushes lying side by side. His toothbrush is blue and well-used. The bristles are frayed from use, and fuck if my heart doesn’t react to the fact that he went out of his way to buy me a goddamn toothbrush, and that he got it in a color I’d clearly know was for me. Pink. I hate pink, but I love the gesture.
Nope. Don’t fall for him.
My eyes drop to my finger, the only one that still wears a ring. The delicate-looking band of thorns twists and winds its way around my index finger. Because ‘it’s not a fucking engagement ring.’ His harsh tone plays in my mind, and it’s the reminder I need that this guy is far from good. Momentarily forgetting the toothbrush, I reach for the hand soap, pumping too much of the slimy liquid into my hands and using it to coat the ring. Once I’m sure it’s as good as it’s gonna get, I twist. Sharp pain erupts through my finger, causing me to hiss.
I turn the cold water on again and stick my hand under the stream, trying to pull. When it won’t budge beyond my knuckle, I get angry and pull at it with as much force as possible until the water runs pink with drops of blood. Without thinking, I cry out, “Fuck!” and slam my hands onto the counter. He musthave been stationed right outside the bathroom door, because instantly, there’s a soft knock.
His voice is insistent when he calls my name, “Lex? Everything okay?”
Yeah. Everything is great. You’re out of your mind, and I’ve trapped myself here with you, but I’m excellent.
I sigh, turn around, and unlock the door. His brows are pushed together, and I can’t bring myself to force a smile. My tone is thick with irritation when I say, “I’m fine.”
His eyes move over my face, down my body. When he reaches my wet, soapy, and bloody hands, his gaze lingers a moment before returning to my eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I rush out, grabbing the hand towel and wiping my hands clean. “Was going to brush my teeth.” I spin and grab the pink toothbrush. As I scrub my teeth, I avoid the mirror, avoid his stare. I don’t need to see him move, I feel him step closer, heat radiating off him. A chill runs down my back.
He reaches over my shoulder, grabs my hand, and pulls it toward him, examining the ring and my now swollen finger. My toothbrush hangs out of my mouth, but I can’t bring myself to move. With his other hand, he twists the ring, and I suck in a breath.
“We can cut it off,” he says calmly, as if he weren’t the one to force it on in the first place.
I bite back a sarcastic comment — not because I want to keep the peace, which I do, but because the idea of cutting it off has my stomach bottoming out. I want to remove it; I don’t want someone else to take it from me.
