Page 95 of Relationship Goals
My hand goes to my heart, and I stare down at the card, my eyes filling with tears at the sincerity of the sentiment.
I can do this. I will do this.
I have a whole team of people supporting me, cheering me on, and I’m finding my way with their help more every day.
My phone vibrates—probably Jean wishing me luck—and I shove the card back in the pretty envelope before tucking it into my purse.
The text isn’t from Jean, though—it’s from Luke, and I laugh out loud when I read it.
Luke:Don’t forget to focus on your anus today
I send him back a stream of peach emojis, and set my phone to airplane mode, feeling light and confident.
And if I do a couple Kegels in Lauren’s honor for good luck? I think she’d be proud.
Chapter Twenty-five
Luke
I hate Vegas.
It’s too loud, too many people, and too many fucking things everywhere.
Even though we don’t stay on the strip because the stadium is on the outskirts of the city, there’s no getting away from the constant cacophony of slot machines that seem to be in every fucking business.
“You look like more of an asshole than usual,” Marino tells me cheerfully, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
“You should be in a good mood,” Marino continues, ignoring the death stare I’m leveling at him. “You are living the dream. You have a beautiful woman. You get to play with your balls for a living.”
“That’s not—” Tristan starts, shooting me an amused look from the other side of Marino as we walk through the overloud lobby. “That’s not the right word.”
“I know.” Marino smirks at me. “I said it on purpose.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose just as Gold breaks into a laugh. Marino, pleased his joke finally landed, takes off for the elevator before it closes, leaving me with Gold and the annoying chime of all the gambling machines.
“How are you holding up?” Gold asks, and there’s a world of meaning in the question.
“Fine.”
“Still crazy about the Hollywood girl?” he asks.
I glare at him.
“Right.” Gold purses his lips, narrowing his eyes at me. “Still feeling shitty about it?”
“Fuck off,” I tell him, an equal opportunity champion of the directive.
“That’s a yes,” he says, but he doesn’t laugh or make fun of me. “So you haven’t told her,” he continues.
“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss. The last thing I need is anyone to overhear anything about me and Abigail. I like most of the guys I play with, but do I trust them not to tell someone who would turn right around and sell it to the paparazzi?
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
“Listen, man, I don’t care if you tell her or not. I do care if you let your personal shit affect the way you play tomorrow. You’ve been off at practice, and more people than just me have noticed it. You think another team is going to want you if you fall apart? You think we will? Some of us do give a fuck about things other than ourselves.” Gold, for the first time I can remember, looks genuinely angry with me. “I’ll take the stairs.”
With that, he slings his Aces duffel over his shoulder, jogging for the double doors that will take him up to his room.
